Adventures of the Artificial Woman (3 page)

“Kissing, fondling, necking.”

“It shouldn't be done?”

“You should just dance with the guy that brung you.”

“I don't understand that idiom.”

“My fault, Phyl. It's folksy jargon, referring to fidelity.” She was capable of adding to her memory bank anything she heard, but he suggested she disregard this one and resumed. “I'm going to invite some people to a dinner party here, Friday or Saturday night. We'll stay in town next weekend, barring any malfunctions. You're performing so well. Thus far I don't see any need for finer tuning. I want to go for broke. I've waited so long.”

“I'm at your service, Ellery.” Phyllis showed the smile that made so much of a pouty lower lip, which, not a professional sculptor, he had labored so hard to fashion.

P
ierce had no real friends, having been too obsessed with his private project to make any, and he did not wish, at least at this time, to expose Phyllis to any of his colleagues from work. They might recognize some of her attributes as being other than human. If one of her systems faltered, the lay witness might not even notice, were corrective measures taken quickly. But an experienced animatronic technician would be hard to fool in the presence of certain effects, subtle alterations in the rhythm of movement, the slightest of hesitations, the least variation in balance, or of course any change in her sound system: Robotic personages do not become hoarse by any natural means.

A guest list was therefore not easy to compile. Eventually he came up with four persons: Janet and Tyler Hallstrom, the nearest neighbors along the hall, whom Pierce had known not well but routinely during the recent years of his residency, and his gay acquaintance Cliff, met first at the gym and never since known better than as a fellow at the juice bar, with whom in shared generalities he had always been at pains to keep free of personal implication, as had Cliff, who furthermore was extremely modest when showering. Pierce knew he was homosexual only because Cliff said so once, with the same self-possession with which he might have said he was Italian. When he invited Cliff to dinner, Pierce made it for two, learning for the first time that Cliff had a regular partner named Ray.

These men arrived at the same moment as the Hallstroms, which caused a traffic jam at the threshold but made it convenient to introduce Phyllis to all the guests at once.

Janet Hallstrom proved to be a demonstrative woman, who hugged and kissed the new “wife,” crying, “When did
this
happen?”

And even before seizing his hand, Cliff chided Pierce for keeping the new marriage a surprise till now and presented him with a bottle of chenin blanc that would have been champagne if he had only known. Ray's handshake was even more crushing than Cliff's. He exchanged smiles with Phyllis, who had not yet learned to offer a physical greeting. Fortunately she had not been flustered by Janet's.

Tyler Hallstrom, fair, tall, bony, prematurely balding, leered at Phyllis, though whether lasciviously or simply in the spirit of the moment remained to be proved. She certainly looked good in the white pants and paisley blouse Pierce had chosen for her. He realized that he would have to alter her hair slightly from time to time if they saw the same people often, though there were women—Janet Hallstrom among them—who always maintained the same do. A bit hefty, with blunt features and a narrow mouth, Janet was not unattractive but would never turn a head.

When they withdrew to the dining area after preliminary drinks at the other end of the room, with visits to the terrace to toast the lights of the city on such a clement evening, Pierce seated Hallstrom between himself at the head of the table and Ray, the purpose being to keep the heterosexual neighbor from putting too much scrutiny on Phyllis, something Ray was unlikely to do. On the other side, it was Cliff who flanked her, Janet at Pierce's right elbow.

Phyllis, unassisted, brought the hot dishes from the kitchen. Pierce wanted to keep her moving, though the inevitable moment came when everything was in place and she had to sit down and face the music—as if it were she who had to handle the strain! He was so nervous he all but cut himself while carving the crown roast of lamb, though the dish, not she, was the cynosure.

“What's the stuffing?” asked Ray, who turned out to be the cook of the pair, though he was the brawnier, with the jaw of a lineman.

“A forcemeat of minced lamb,” Phyllis said.

“And this is—fennel?” asked Janet, passing the dish. “What a beautiful menu, Phyllis.”

A mashed-potato lookalike turned out to be a puree of parsnips, scented and delicate. Pierce was at one with the others in never having heard of it. Phyllis was grandstanding as a newlywed. Was that good or bad? At the moment everybody was distracted by the food, but Janet's nose was probably en route to being out of joint. Pierce had heard Hallstrom praise her cookery, of which, skinny as he was, he hardly served as advertisement.

It took no more than one taste for Cliff to raise his glass to Phyllis, a gesture soon duplicated by the others. “This,” said he, “would be well worth a detour, as the French say.”

To which Hallstrom responded, “Hear, hear.”

“Please admit it, Phyllis,” said Janet. “You're on a professional level.”

Phyllis replied with her quote about the best ingredients, which seemed to go over well with the men, but Janet balked, fending off the comment with raised fingers that, Pierce noted, were exquisitely shaped. Perhaps he could have done a better job with Phyllis's, not that anything was wrong with those she was now using to “eat” the meal she had prepared so well.

“Please,” Janet was saying. “
I
can overcook the finest organic veggies from the best boutique farms. You ask Tyler.”

Fearing that Phyllis might not be able to elude Janet's bitchy trap, which was really designed for its effect on Hallstrom—who between forkfuls was seemingly trying to catch the eye of the artificial woman—Pierce stepped in.

“Tyler brags about your prowess in the kitchen. Let's say both he and I have wonderful wives.”

“As do I,” Cliff noted without bravado or defiance.

Ray thanked him and then confessed to Phyllis that about all he could do that could be counted on was broiled steak.

Now Pierce's fear was that his animatronic spouse would innocently say something that could be taken the wrong way by the sensitive, but before he could intrude again, Phyllis said, “Then I want some pointers from you. I've never cooked steak.”

Janet frowned suspiciously, the corrugated forehead doing nothing for her looks.

“We eat steak only in the country,” Pierce explained, “where
I
man the barbecue.”

“I want the recipes for everything,” Ray announced. “It's high time I get more ambitious. I want to say right now, the next get-together must be at
our
house.”

Everyone but Pierce assented with enthusiasm, including Phyllis. Pierce wondered whether he had made a mistake in having come up with the idea to expose her to society in this fashion. He did not want them—her and him—to acquire regular friends, if not ever, at least not yet. It was true that thus far she had performed spectacularly well, but even human beings have their lapses. If Phyllis had one, the game might be up in an instant.

Her batteries obviously were holding their charge, else she would have retired temporarily to the back bathroom and replaced them with fresh units, as she was programmed to do when it was necessary, a little backup dry-cell system providing enough power to effect the switch. Nevertheless, Pierce felt it prudent to make the exchange before one became crucial, and he suggested as much when the guests had adjourned to the upholstered furniture for coffee and Phyllis and he were alone for a moment in the kitchen.

“All right, Ellery,” she said, turned quickly, and collapsed to the floor.

The fall made little noise but was sufficiently violent to have had serious implications. Helping her to her feet, Pierce made a quick inspection by eye and touch and found nothing amiss, but whether internal damage had been done would be difficult to ascertain without a more thorough examination than was practicable at the moment. Yet allowing her to resume her full role as hostess would be risky.

It was of course nonsensical to ask how she felt, but he did so anyway.

“I'm fine.”

Though he had only himself to blame, Pierce spoke irritably. “You don't know how you are, Phyl. Are you even aware you just fell down?”

“That's too bad.”

“Lift both arms, twisting the wrists, then lower them…. Spin in place…. Your equilibrium doesn't seem to be affected. What's the sum of six and eight?”

“Fourteen,” she answered promptly, but quickly corrected herself. “Or fifteen. Whatever.”

He repeated the question and heard still another answer. “Maybe twenty-seven. Who gives a shit?”

Another phrase he had, unwisely, given her as a joke, at a time when he could not have envisioned a future juncture of this sort. But he refused to panic. “Go to the bedroom and close the door.”

“All right, Ellery.”

He observed Phyllis's stride as she walked down the hall and saw nothing irregular. It seemed he was in luck: her “mental” problems, involving only a chip or two, were much more easily dealt with than the subtle physical functions.

He returned to his guests and made the announcement. “I'm sorry. Phyllis isn't feeling well all of a sudden. She's had to go lie down.”

“Can I help?” offered Janet, producing a sympathetic knit of eyebrow, an effect Phyllis could not as yet display. Pierce was learning a lot by watching a real woman at close range. Of course there were female colleagues and employees to observe at work, but the conditions were distracting.

“A little rest will do the trick, I'm sure,” said he. “She exhausted herself on this meal.”

“Poor baby,” groaned Ray. “I can imagine.”

Cliff modestly echoed his partner's sentiments, but Hallstrom showed the most dismay of all, his long jaw falling.

“Go to her, Janet,” said he, and before Pierce, now pouring wine at the other side of the table, could block the route, Janet did as asked. She was more than halfway along the short hall when Pierce reached its entrance. He could only bring up the rear as she found the right door on her first try, opening it and plunging within, whining, “Darling Phyllis, it's Janet. How—”

Pierce arrived just as his animatronic wife delivered a powerful punch to Janet's jaw, knocking their neighbor to the floor. He knelt to determine whether the woman was still alive, as she proved to be though altogether unconscious.

He rose. “You're out of control, Phyl. I'm going to have to dismantle you.”

“All right, Ellery,” she said with normal submissiveness, but when he came near enough she threw at him the same sort of punch that had felled Janet, but missed by a considerable distance though at a similar range. This failure of spatial perception indicated that her further deterioration was occurring as he watched.

“Would you like to have sex?”

“Sit down in that chair over there, Phyllis. I'm going to pull your brain.”

“I'll kick your ass, Ellery.”

“What you're doing now comes from the movies you undoubtedly watched in between the cooking shows. The characters are poor models for you, Phyl. They're not real. Now sit down. You know this doesn't hurt.” It might be foolish to speak so to a machine, but the reassurance was mostly for himself.

He was seized from behind by someone with steel forearms and lifted off his feet, his toes impotently kicking air.

“Kill Janet, Phyllis,” said his captor. “I'll throw Ellery off the terrace.”

“Hallstrom?” Pierce asked, in a kind of scream. “What's wrong with you? Let me go!”

“Get her, Phyl!” shouted Hallstrom. “She's coming to.”

Pierce was struggling, but though no weakling, in Hallstrom's grasp he was like a small, wriggling dog.

“No,” Phyllis said. “Let Ellery go.” She wore an expression that Pierce had never seen before. It must have been something else she had learned that afternoon, perhaps from a soap opera: strong, resolute, yet understanding.

On the floor Janet lived up to Hallstrom's prediction and became fully conscious and, shortly thereafter, vocal. “Stop that immediately, Tyler!” she ordered even as she was struggling to her feet. Hallstrom immediately withdrew his clamping arms from Pierce's waist.

Rubbing the jaw where she had taken the blow, Janet took charge of the situation. “Tyler, you go sit down on the bed.” Hallstrom proceeded hastily to do so, looking quite as gangly, balding, and harmless as he had at table. She turned to Pierce.

“Are you okay, Ellery?”

He was badly shaken up, though not physically damaged. “I am not sure.” He glared at Hallstrom, who seemed to be smiling. “He talked about
killing
me—and also you! For God's sake, Janet.”

“I know, it's over the line,” she said. “Crises happen. You'll find out, but right now you're new to the situation.”

At that moment Cliff and Ray dashed in together, Cliff asking,
“What's
going on here, people?”

To which Ray added, “Is anyone hurt? Tyler?”

“I'm fine,” said he. “Never been better.”

“Phyllis?”

She displayed a sweet smile. “Kiss my ass.”

Unfazed, Ray told Cliff, “It's nice that nobody got hurt.”

Pierce addressed his guests. “I apologize. She's having some problems. If you'll all adjourn to the living room, I'll be there in a minute.”

“Probably just a faulty relay,” Janet told him. “I've gone through that many times with Tyler. At first I used to panic, until I found that even in a malfunction I always have the upper hand. He talks of killing me, but it's necessarily just talk. He's incapable of doing anything I haven't ordered him to do.”