Adventures of the Artificial Woman (2 page)

She had stopped and turned gracefully at the first word. “That would be nice.”

He watched the movement of her exquisite behind as she left the room, but as sculptor, not lecher. He could not have done better there, though perhaps improvement might still be made in that transitional area between the back-of-the-knee and the developing swell of the calf. Her stride was a fluid marvel, justifying the grief it had caused him.

He left the carrying case and hand truck where they were and followed her to the bedroom. Having had no further instructions, Phyllis stood facing him in the middle of the room, at the foot of the bed. She was lovely, if he did say so himself, but not gorgeous in the way that would on first sight enflame men and infuriate other women. She was more sleek than voluptuous. Even so, were her breasts a bit too full?

He weighed them in his hands. They were at room temperature, the heating element not having been charged since the day before, and he felt no desire while manipulating them.

“I think they're just right, Phyl, at least for now.”

“That's nice.”

“Elaine told me she once had an orgasm when the doctor did this at her annual exam.”

“Elaine was your first wife.”

“The doctor was a woman.”

“I see,” said Phyllis.

Pierce let go of her breasts. “Elaine wasn't a Lesbian. She said that only to insult me.”

“She,” Phyllis said smugly, “was not nice.”

“You,” Pierce felt enormous satisfaction in telling her, “will never need to be examined by any kind of doctor. You can't get sick, and you can't die. You will never have a menstrual period…. Don't say either ‘That's nice' or ‘I see.' Get something else from the bank.”

She nodded smartly. “Bite me.”

He whooped with laughter. “I forgot all about that one! I put it there as a joke. You're not supposed to say it to me, though.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” he said unthinkingly, as if he were being considerate with a human being. “You haven't done anything wrong. Now I'm going to dress you and then go to work. No more locking you up in parts all week. That had begun to depress me, even if it had no effect on you.”

Probably because of his negative reaction to her previous utterance, Phyllis remained silent, standing there naked at the foot of the bed, looking too much like a window dummy.

“Okay, Phyl, do something. It's too weird when you're like that.”

“What do you want me to do, Ellery?”

“Try to dress yourself,” said he. “Get your underwear from the top drawer of the bureau.”

He was pleased to see she could put one leg into the briefs while balancing on the other. Not only were her limbs satin-smooth and would never need depilation or know scars, but they would stay in that condition. If the skin was damaged in any way, it could be repaired with an invisible patch.

“Let's try something, Phyl. There are a couple of boxes on the floor of the closet. Go through them yourself and pick out something to wear at home all day. I'm going to leave you here when I go to work.”

In a few efficient moments she was wearing shorts striped in blue and a pink shirt and was shod in backless tan sandals, an appropriate outfit for the occasion and temperature, and though probably not what Pierce himself would have selected at this moment, altogether suitable. He was impressed by her ability to make a reasonable choice of this simple kind.

“You look very nice.”

An immediate difference between Phyllis and a real woman was her utter lack of interest in his approval of her attire. She nodded politely and said, “Yes.” With both his wives and all his girlfriends Pierce could by praising their taste in clothing sometimes win back at least some of the points he lost elsewhere. This was quite another thing than “How beautiful you are when you're mad,” which tended to infuriate, whereas he was convinced there were times when a man might find an advantage in saying, “You're a selfish bitch but I have to admit you have an eye for fabrics.” That this might sound gay could only help further.

His plans for Phyllis were founded on the wisdom of half a lifetime. “You should show modest pleasure when you are complimented. A thank-you and a smile will do it…. See that leather box over there? Get the string of cultured pearls from inside and put them around your neck. I like an elegant touch with a simple outfit. Earrings wouldn't look right.”

This was one of those times when speaking to her seemed no more than talking to himself, though her eyes were brightly fastened to his, her lips parted ever so slightly, her head tilted in the attitude of the intent listener. Nevertheless he went on. “Your skin is flawless. That might not be completely realistic but it's a personal taste of mine since I was a teenager and saw how the prettiest girls could be ruined by facial eruptions.”

Phyllis stared toward the window on the far side of the bed. “Look at the sunshine. What a nice day.”

He had lost her now, which was probably just as well. He did not need a collaborator on so personal a project, not even if it were his own creation. A Ferrari does not help tune its own engine.

 

When Pierce returned from work in the early evening, Phyllis was still seated in the basket-chair in which he had left her that morning. He would not kiss her hello, her lips having been without warmth all day. It would be unsafe to leave the heating system plugged in unless he were at hand. Though she might be instructed to pull the plug at the first sign of disfunction, placing complete trust in any machine would be at least as unwise as trusting any of his living women had proven. True responsibility was a rare virtue in life or laboratory. So, anyway, he believed it prudent to assume.

Phyllis was where he had left her, but she now wore the burgundy colored silk dress he had added to her wardrobe after scanning upscale catalogues for images that appealed to him. She had become more beautiful than he designed her to be, indeed than he thought he wanted her to be until he saw her now. She had done something to her hair that was difficult to define, pulling some of it back and piling some high, and had subtly altered her natural coloring, presumably through makeup though he had provided none.

She sprang up, kissing him with warm, moist lips that were another happy surprise. She helped him remove his jacket, and she hung it in the doorside closet.

“You plugged in the heater yourself?” He asked about the least of her accomplishments because it was the easiest to understand. She had, after all, seen him do it.

Phyllis whirled away to the little bar in the corner near the passageway to the kitchen. “Tell me if I've got the lime juice right.” She added ice from the bucket to a little china pitcher and swirled it vigorously.

“You're making gimlets?”

She brought one to him, holding her own aside until he tasted his.

“It's perfect,” said he. “Not too cold, and just right with the
gin
, not vodka. I hate vodka.” He savored a second sip, playing for time in which to decide how best to question her artificial intelligence without discouraging her, or it.

“So, Phyl, what kind of day did you have?” He sat down on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him. But she failed to get the message, or defied it, choosing a chair instead, in fact one on the other side of the plate-glass coffee table onto which she lowered her as yet untasted drink.

“I cleaned the apartment,” said she. “When I saw I had done a good job, I called the woman whom you hire and discharged her.”

“You
what?
”

“Yes, Ellery,” said Phyllis, nodding. “She would be redundant.”

Pierce felt a fearful premonition, brief as a momentary draft from a remote window, but moved aggressively to override it. “You take a lot on yourself, Phyllis.”

“I'll call her back.”

“No.” He took the last swallow in the shallow glass. “That's okay. Let's see how it works out. Meanwhile I'll pay Celine anyway. She's a single mother and needs the money.”

“She told me she was thinking of dropping
you
,” Phyllis said. “Her schedule's too full.”

“That's probably pride.”

“I can't identify pride. Maybe I'm spelling it incorrectly.”

“No,” said Pierce, pleased to find just the right excuse to make a telling point. “You will never understand that concept. You are a machine, Phyllis. You can't have pride any more than you can feel pain.”

“But I know what pain is, Ellery, even if I can't feel it. I am aware that
you
can feel it and that I am not to cause you any, even though I am stronger than you.”

“You're dreaming.” It occurred to Pierce to swap his empty glass for her full one, which it really made no sense for her to drink anyway. He was already getting the effect of the first gimlet. “You're
not
stronger than me. I can literally take you apart any time I want.”

She appeared to be deliberating. “You're right, Ellery,” she said finally, winking at him. “I wasn't serious. I was lying.”

“No, you weren't, Phyl. Machines have no sense of irony and therefore never joke and never lie. You were simply trying to take power. Automobiles try that from time to time, with sticking accelerators, brakes that fail, and so on…. If you don't want your drink, I'll take it.”

“Of course, Ellery.” She brought it around the coffee table to him.

“Sit down here, Phyllis.” When she did so, primly keeping her knees together, Pierce praised the first gimlet and drank half the second, then distended his nostrils. “I smell food. Did you phone for that, too?”

“Yes.” Her eyes looked as real as any could, though he had installed them with his own two hands helped by needlenosed pliers and tweezers, and they were attached within not to a brain but rather a compact computer, access to which was offered by a little trapdoor in her crown. “I dialed the numbers in your book: the liquor store, market, the drugstore.”

Pierce had quickly finished the second drink. He stood up with authority. “I'd better eat before I get too drunk on my empty stomach. I passed up lunch. We were testing a new servo motor, smaller even than the ones in you, Phyl. About the size of a thumb, but not very durable.”

“I want to hear all about your work, Ellery.”

They went hand in hand to the dining area, where, before she detached herself to enter the kitchen, Pierce asked, “How did you pay for the stuff you had delivered?”

“I signed for it. I took the credit-card numbers off the receipts in your desk.”

“What name did you use?”

“Phyllis Pierce.”

He frowned and asked, as much of himself as of her, “Are you my wife?”

“That was how you introduced me to the mailman. Was I wrong?”

“No, that's fine.” He was proud of the supple figure he had given her, as she stood in the doorway to the kitchen, looking gracefully back over a silk shoulder.

Seated at dinner, he asked, “Where in the world did you find a restaurant that makes pot roast?”

“Boeuf braisé,”
said Phyllis. “I followed the cookbook.”

“What cookbook?”

“French Cuisine for Dummies
, which I ordered from a bookstore that delivers.”

“This is first-rate, Phyl,” Pierce said, savoring the dark thick gravy's marriage with the buttery mashed potatoes.

“You can't lose with the best ingredients and care in their preparation.” Phyllis had filled a plate for herself but had not tasted of it.

“Are you quoting from somebody?”

“I heard that on the Food Channel.” She fingered the rim of her plate. “Would you like me to eat this?”

“I can't see the point in it. But you were right to fill the plate. It looks better that way.”

“I could empty myself, Ellery. You wouldn't have to see it.”

“Thanks all the same, Phyl. That system's for use only when we eat with other people.” After the preprandial drinks and several glasses of a hearty pinot noir, Pierce no longer thought it odd to thank a robot for an offered courtesy and to make an apologetic explanation. Thus far, in all the ways that counted, Phyllis was an admirable surrogate for a woman. Indeed she did a better job at it than any real one with whom he had associated, except of course his mother, one of whose many culinary specialties had been pot roast—and Phyllis's mashed potatoes were better. Her roasted baby carrots with thyme and frenched green beans with almonds were unique in his experience.

“I like to be with you, Ellery.”

“I enjoy just the two of us, too—uh, also.” He did not want to confuse her in matters of language. “But I look forward to our having a social life. My wives sooner or later ruined that. One always drank too much and picked a quarrel, if not with me, then with other women. And I once caught a girlfriend of mine making out with some other guy in a pantry off a kitchen.”

“Making out?”