WWW 2: Watch (22 page)

“Um, I have a hard time reading printed text,” she said to Matt. “Would you—maybe at lunch? Could you go over the problems with me?”

That deer-in-the-headlights look again. She felt her heart pounding as she waited for the response.

It was suddenly noisy. The other students were getting up, banging their chairs against their desks, and starting to file out—but the door was at the far end of the room, near the blackboard, and so they’d have a few moments of privacy before the next class started pouring in.

“Um, sure,” Matt said. “It’s a—” But then he stopped himself and started over, “I mean, I’ll see you in the cafeteria.”

Which would have been a perfect place to end their conversation, Caitlin thought—but they both had to walk up to the front of the room and out the door, and then head off to their next class, which, now that she thought about it, was English—and Matt was in that class with her, too. So they walked there without saying anything else, but she, at least, was grinning.

 

 

 

 

Barbara Decter called her upstairs study her “office,” but Malcolm Decter referred to his, on the first floor opposite the laundry room, as his “den,” a term his father had used for a similar room in his childhood home back in Philadelphia. He had delayed going in to PI this morning, waiting until his wife and daughter had headed out for the drive to school—after which Barb was going to pick up some much-needed groceries. He wasn’t alone in his den, though. Schrödinger was stretched out—in his superstring configuration, as Malcolm called it—on the black leather couch. On the wall above the couch was a framed printout of a quotation from Captain Kirk, in forty-two-point Helvetica:

Underneath that, in red Magic Marker, Barb had written, “Oh, yes you can, Honey!” And Malcolm had every intention of being brilliant later in the day. But for right now, he needed to do something that didn’t involve Ashtekar variables, the Kodama state, or spin-foam models.

And, yes, he
was
a geek; he knew that. He rather reveled in the notion, and had been quite pleased back when he and Barb were first dating that she had worn a button that said “I (heart) nerds.”

Indeed, it was the nerd in him that had been bothered thirty years ago when, in one issue of
Superman,
the giant yellow key shown outside the Man of Steel’s Fortress of Solitude had been drawn the wrong shape to fit in the giant keyhole in the Fortress’s door. That sort of spatial anomaly leapt out at him.

He’d carefully sketched various shapes that might have passed through the depicted keyhole, and outlined a series of transformations to the key that could have made it fit. He’d sent the whole thing off to DC Comics in New York, and had gotten back a form letter saying they weren’t currently open to freelance submissions. He’d been miffed—he hadn’t been looking for work but merely wanted them to get the geometry correct in future issues. It had been only one of many times he’d failed to communicate properly with neurotypicals.

Neurotypicals.
He liked that term, which was very much in vogue among autism activists. Malcolm, in fact, had noted a lot of parallels between how the militant part of the autistic community spoke about itself and the rhetoric used by blind activists. Neither group liked the majority to be referred to as
normal,
since that implied that they were abnormal.

The procedure Dr. Kuroda had performed in September had hardly been the first time they’d attempted to give Caitlin sight, and Caitlin, he knew, had taken flak over the earlier tries from some students at the Texas School for the Blind. To set out to
cure
blindness implied that there was something wrong with it—and, the militants firmly believed, there wasn’t. No, they said, the drives to eliminate blindness (or autism!) came not from those who possessed the trait in question but rather from the people around them. Sighted people were uncomfortable around the blind, and neurotypicals were—he’d heard it said often enough—creeped out by autistics.

Malcolm
did
understand intellectually how hard it was on Barb and Caitlin that he rarely showed affection, and even more rarely spoke about his love for them. But he had made
such
progress—if they only knew! He hadn’t said his first sentences until he was four, and had never looked at people (they were so uninteresting, with no angles in their construction); now, at least, he could make brief eye contact with his wife and daughter when necessary. He knew he’d never feel precisely what neurotypicals felt, but he had learned, at least to some small degree, to ape their behavior.

He crossed the little corridor, entered the laundry room, and put out some Purina Fancy Feast Gourmet Gold for Schrödinger, who appeared almost at once in the room. As the cat was eating, Malcolm had a sudden urge to pet it. He crouched down—which, given his height, was an effort—and stroked Schrödinger’s back between his shoulders. Schrödinger looked at him with an expression that might have said—were he any good at decoding such things—
We had a deal . . .

Malcolm recalled the comments Kuroda had made about theory of mind. Everything he’d said was no doubt true for neurotypicals, but he was
not
neurotypical. Indeed, many autistics—especially when they were children—failed to develop theory of mind, and they had particular difficulties with tasks requiring them to understand another person’s point of view or emotional state.

Certainly, that had been the case with him—and it still was, to a significant extent; he struggled with it every day. For him, that other people had minds was a philosophical point, rather than intuitively obvious. Occam’s razor said one should prefer the simplest theory, which clearly was that creatures that looked like him externally probably were like him internally.

On the other hand, Webmind might in fact be reasonably disposed to solipsism, believing that only he truly existed. After all, there simply were no other minds like his own, and so no reason for him to believe these others that it could only perceive indirectly were like him.

Malcolm straightened up, but he didn’t go back to his den; he had no instant-messenger programs installed on his computer. Instead, he headed on to the living room, and then went upstairs. His daughter’s room was on the right, and he entered it. The deep blue walls were still bare; perhaps he’d buy her a poster to put on one of them. The University of Waterloo bookstore sold a blowup of that famous Karsh photo of Einstein sticking out his tongue; he liked that, and so, by logical inference, he supposed she might, too.

He
was
always sad when he hurt Caitlin or Barb by failing to understand or respond to their emotional needs. But in this instance he thought he did have a handle on the matter: in a very real sense, his daughter loved Webmind. Malcolm felt no jealousy—but it was important to him that Webmind never hurt her emotionally, and to avoid that, Webmind would also have to learn to simulate human behavior.

Caitlin’s computer was off, and he’d never turned it on before. But he found the switch and waited while Windows booted.

He did wish he knew his daughter better. Barb had worked as a volunteer at the TSBVI, and so had spent most of her days, until recently, with Caitlin—but he’d always been busy with his work. Incredibly, she was sixteen now. All too soon she’d be off to college.

Caitlin had her instant-messaging program set to load at Windows startup. He clicked on the little icon in the system tray, and the chat window appeared. Among her buddies listed as being online was Webmind; of course—where else could he be? He clicked on the name and typed
Hello.

There was no response, so he tried again:
Are you there?

Still nothing.

And then he realized what, perhaps, the problem was, and he was pleased, even though it was by logical reasoning and not empathy that he worked it out: Webmind saw through his daughter’s eye; he doubtless knew that she was at school; he was therefore afraid he had been detected by an outsider. And so he wrote,
This is Malcolm G. Decter.

The response was instantaneous:
Greetings, Professor Decter.

Malcolm smiled; Webmind
had
paid attention while he and Caitlin were watching
WarGames.

Caitlin thinks you have emotions,
he typed,
but I suspect this is not possible, as you lack the evolutionary history that gave them to humans.

Webmind responded instantly:
You think that she thinks that I think that you think that she thinks that you don’t think that I have emotions.

Malcolm found himself smiling again, and wondered what algorithms one might employ to simulate a sense of humor.

He’d started to type “neurotypicals,” but backspaced over it.

Indeed,
said Webmind.
Do tell.

And so he did.

 

 

 

 

“You like
who?”
Bashira said, as they visited the girls’ restroom after English class.

“Matt,” Caitlin replied.

Bash feigned not having heard correctly. “I’m sorry. I thought you said Matt.”

They were standing by the row of sinks. “I did.”

“Guy you were helping in math? Matt—what is it? Matt Royce?”

“Reese, and, yes, that’s him—although he hardly needed my help. He knows almost as much as I do.”

“Um, Cait, babe, I know you’re new to this seeing thing, but . . .”

“Yes?”

“He’s not exactly good-looking.”

“He’s symmetrical.”

“Sure he is—that harelip bisects his face nicely.”

“I like the way he looks. I like his eyes.”

Another girl came into the room and headed for one of the stalls. Bashira lowered her voice. “I know when you fall off a horse, you’re supposed to get right back on—but they don’t mean an actual horse, you know. You can do
so
much better.”

“Better than someone who shares my interests? Someone who is kind?”

Bashira pointed at the long sheet-metal mirror above the sinks. “Cait, have you looked at yourself in the mirror?”

“From time to time.”

“You’ve got it going
on,
girl. You’re hot.”

“Well, that’s nice, I suppose, but—”

“You could have
anyone.”

“Is that all anybody cares about? How people look?”

“Well, no, but . . .”

“Besides, my mother and I were talking about this earlier. I get to choose who I find attractive.”

“You can’t just choose that,” Bashira said.

“No? What are you going to do when you get married? Your parents are going to arrange a marriage for you, right?”

“Well, that’s what they want to do, yes,” said Bashira.

“So, what if it’s someone you don’t find attractive at first? Are you going to go through life thinking he’s ugly, or are you going to choose to find him good-looking?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Bashira said. “I don’t think you can . . . can
program
yourself that way.”

“Oh, yes, you can,” said Caitlin. “You totally can.”

“But, anyway, it’s not just about what you think,” Bashira said. “It’s about what other people think about Matt’s looks. They’ll judge your stature by who you’re with.”

“It isn’t all about hierarchies,” said Caitlin. “We’re not apes, you know.”

“But, Cait, don’t you see? You could have
Trevor.”

“I don’t want him. Not anymore. I want Matt.” And then she added, unkindly,
“You
can have Trevor.”

Another facial expression Caitlin had never seen before, but she imagined it was what books referred to as looking crestfallen. “No, I can’t,” Bashira said softly after a moment. “You know that. My parents would kill me. I—I have to live vicariously through you.”

Caitlin was startled when the words
Join the club
flashed across her vision.

 

 

 

Caitlin had missed a lot of school already, what with the trip to Japan to have the implant inserted behind her eye, with the days she’d spent after gaining sight learning to interpret what she was seeing, and with the press conference to announce Dr. Kuroda’s success. But when she
had
gone to school, she’d always eaten in the cafeteria—and she knew that was where Trevor ate, too. And so when she and Matt rendezvoused outside the cafeteria’s doors, she said, “Why don’t we go somewhere else for lunch?”

He lifted his pale eyebrows. “Um, sure, okay. How ’bout Timmy’s?”

“What’s that?”

Matt smiled. “Right, right. You’re new to Canada. ‘Timmy’s’ is Tim Hortons. It’s, like, the number-one donut chain here—but they’ve also got good sandwiches, soups, and stuff like that. There’s one just a block away.”

Caitlin had heard the company’s commercials on TV, and, huge hockey fan that she was, she knew who Tim Horton had been: twenty-two seasons as a defenseman in the NHL, playing for the Leafs, the Rangers, the Penguins, and the Sabres.

They went by their lockers to dump stuff and get their jackets. Caitlin told Matt not to bother to lug his math textbook along, which made him smile—and then they headed outdoors. The sky was filled with clouds. As they walked along, Matt fell in on Caitlin’s right side, but that was the side she was blind on. Suddenly, stupidly, she didn’t want to explain that fact—she didn’t want to be anything less than perfect just then. And so she let him walk on that side, and she turned her head probably more often than was normal so that she could see him now and then.