"What do you mean, dear?"

  "I never got a gift from you. Not money or card, or anything. And now that I think about it ... I'm not sure you even lived in my home city...."

  "For what's it worth, I did visit once. But that was before you were born."

  "And I never mentioned you to my friends or lovers. Everything in my head ... I don't think it was there last year, or even last week." She slumped back against the seat, and with a soft, lost sob, she said, "I think I dreamed this story up yesterday. And believed it, somehow."

  "Is that so?"

  "I think I must be crazy," she muttered.

  Which for some reason made him laugh. Then he touched her for the first and final time, on the knee, the hand hard and warm and strong in the ways that a gardener's hand would be, patting her a few times before pulling away again. "No, you're not crazy. And the fault is entirely my own, what's happening to you. Nobody can wear the blame but me."

  * * * *

  The Three Laws protected humanity from the machines, and giving those Laws teeth were hundreds of legal refinements and thousands of wetware programs, plus an army of monitoring agents as well as one bureaucratic empire purposefully starved of creativity or the barest interest in changing the status quo. But more than just that impressive array of public resolve defended humanity. There were subtle, secretive tools at work too. One device was the brainchild of Jason Popper. Or perhaps more than one ... but he confessed to a single pernicious program buried deep in the workings of the first Thinker that Gillian had implanted into her skull.

  "This is my guess," Jason reported. "You've enjoyed a fine long life, and with time, you've grown accustomed to your augmented mind. But no complex system is perfectly static; no army of safeguards can forever defend every last one of your borders. Coming home to the Earth was the trigger, perhaps. Or maybe this would have happened on Titan. I cannot say for certain. But let's assume that familiar skies and the taste of this particular wind brought back memories of pre-Thinker days, and naturally you began measuring what you are today against what you used to be.

  "You're homesick, Gillian. Not for a place or even a time, but for that innocent young girl.

  "A little harmless longing doesn't matter, of course. Everybody does it. But that expression, 'Salad for two,' is a coded cry for help. And 'The machines take over,' has a much more transparent meaning. Together, those phrases should tell an informed observer that the organic portion of your consciousness is losing too much ground to its artificial parts. And even more alarming is this elaborate daydream of yours. Which isn't really yours, by the way."

  "Then whose is it?"

  "Mine, I suppose. There's a string of implanted partial memories that I created. They're inside you and millions like you, ready to be woven into anyone's life story, fragments of a narrative that each person will believe wholly and act upon accordingly. Should they ever be needed, that is.

  "What happened to you, Gillian ... quite suddenly you remembered having met me. You wove me into a long ago job, and your daydream told you that our relationship was close enough to be friendly. In the story are just enough clues to lead you to my home. Which is exactly what I intended. Everyone who embraced that first generation of Thinkers is similarly equipped. Each of you has a warning sign, and from that, the possibility of escape."

  Jason paused.

  Gillian stared at her hands -- at the backs of her hands and the long palms -- and then she closed her eyes, asking, "What do I do?"

  "There are quite a few technical fixes," Jason allowed. "But first you'll need to decide what is genuinely you and what that 'you' desires."

  "Can I have everything artificial removed?"

  "If that's what you wish."

  She offered several less radical options.

  "Everything is possible, Gillian."

  Panic took hold. Sitting in the warm shade, in air suffused with the odors of tomatoes and basil, Gillian began to shiver. "I don't know what I want," she confessed. "I have no idea what to do ... not at all...."

  Jason watched her with a measure of sympathy. But despite his patience and earnestness, she had the strong impression that he had done just this many times before.

  She asked, "Are there others? Like me?"

  "Of course," he allowed.

  "And do they come here, hunting for you?"

  "If they're on the Earth, they will. Eventually." He shrugged, adding, "But this is why I allow myself to be found. I'm a fortunate person, and I owe the world a great deal. And believe me, I feel an obligation to help where I can."

  "I want to talk to these other people," she said.

  Jason might or might not have expected that answer. But after another nod, he said, "That seems only reasonable."

  "How often?"

  "Do they come to my gate?" Jason Popper sighed and stood again. "Sit here and wait, Gillian. If that's what you wish. And if I happen to get another visitor today, answer on my behalf. How's that for a plan?"

  "I guess I can try."

  Then the great man reached beneath the bench, into a weathered cupboard, and took out a wide wooden bowl. The bowl was clean but scarred by fork tines and a thousand different hands. "You've been through a lot," he said. "You're probably hungry. If you want, make yourself a salad while you wait."

  But Gillian barely had time to pick a few greens before the bell at the gate began, quietly but insistently and with much purpose, to ring.

  SEASON TO TASTE

  As we've seen before, Robert Reed is very adept at imagining the future of humanity. Here's a tale that demonstrates he's just as good at considering our current nature.

  IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, coming across that little recipe box. Chester wanted a camera. Some guy had just called to ask if he had any old .35 mm for sale, and Chester said, "Sure, come on over." Except he wasn't feeling so sure about it now. Somewhere in the house was a nice camera complete with its original leather case and light meter. He could remember putting it in a certain box in the basement. That was where Chester kept most of his inventory, in the basement. He had all kinds of cardboard boxes down there. On shelves, on the floor. Stacked head-high, in places. But the camera wasn't where it belonged, and it wasn't in the box under that first box, or in any of the boxes surrounding it. Later, speaking in her sweetest voice, Evelyn would remind him that he'd sold the camera last fall, for eight dollars and change, and maybe he was remembering things a little cockeyed. Which wasn't all that unusual, of late. But the thing that mattered -- what caught his eye, then his emotions --was the old recipe box, a tarnished brass clasp holding it shut, cheap pine badly stained and its design simple without being elegant, someone long ago having burned the word RECIPES into its slightly warped, very yellowed lid.

  "Where did we get this?" he asked his wife.

  Evelyn was chopping up an onion. Her gray eyes lifted for an instant, then dropped again. Her hands never stopped working the knife. "I don't know," she told Chester. "Where did you find it!"

  He showed her. The recipe box had been tucked inside a little wicker basket that had gotten shoved behind all of his boxes. He placed the basket and its round lid on the kitchen counter, saying, "One of us must have bought it, then forgot to look inside." That was his current theory, but easily amended. "Did you buy this? Do you remember where?"

  "I told you. No." She was watching the onion become a pile of clean white segments. "Why? What's gotten into you?'

  "Here, I'll show you!" With a dramatic flourish -- Chester had a gift for drama -- he turned the clasp and opened the box, fishing out a random recipe typed on a stiff and yellowed three-by-five card. With a voice growing louder by the syllable, he read, "'Vengeance Stew. Two pounds of meat cut from your enemy's buttocks, plus, preferably, his tongue. Cube the meat. Coat in flour, pepper, salt. Brown in a Dutch Oven!'"

  "What are you talking about?" Twenty years of marriage, and sometimes, bless her, Evelyn would ignore his ravings. "It sounds like a recipe for stew -- "

  "'Vengeance Stew,'" he repeated. He roared. "'Meat cut from your enemy's buttocks, plus preferably, his tongue.'"

  Her mouth closed, the gray eyes big as saucers.

  "All right. Here's another one." Thick fingers found a three-by-five card worn ragged at the corners. "'Meat Loaf from a Loaf. Canned tomatoes. Rolled oats. One egg. Onion. Salt. Pepper. And one-and-a-half pounds of ground chuck from a lazy, no-good man.'" Chester lowered the card, his face bright and red w as if a light bulb burned behind his cheeks. "Well," he exclaimed. "Do you undersand now?"

  "Where did you find that? In one of your boxes?"

  "Behind the boxes. I told you." He shoved the card into its slot, then pulled out a fresh example. "'Sweet Potato Shepherd's Pie. Onion. Garlic. Jalapeno peppers. Cumin. Chili powder. Oregano. Two pounds of ground young shepherd' -- Jesus! -- 'although any young man from animal husbandry will serve nicely.'"

  Evelyn touched the small box, for an instant. Three dabs of onion juice began to dry against the old wood.

  "'Donner Party Pot Pie,'" Chester read aloud, flipping wildly through the cards. "'Rump Roast. From a well-fed matron.' I'm getting sick here, Er! 'Swiss Steak and Gravy.' Oh, but we can use an Austrian in a pinch. Thank goodness!"

  "It must be a joke," Evelyn whispered.

  "And a damn funny one, too." Chester pushed the box away, trying to avoid the temptation of reading more recipes. "Are you sure you didn't buy this wicker basket? Take a good look."

  She played with the round wicker lid, then set it on the basket, examining the drab ensemble until she could say, without a trace of doubt,

  "I didn't buy this."

  "Then I must have." He didn't have Evelyn's memory. For Chester, life had always meant lists and reminders, and since turning sixty-five, it seemed that yesterday and last year were the hardest things to remember. If he had bought this basket last year, which seemed likely, then there were only a few hundred garage sales to choose from. Plus dozens of auctions, too. They bolstered their income through buying and selling other people's refuse. And their inventory was vast, explaining why nobody had opened the basket, why the curse box had escaped their gaze for so long...

  Again, but with more force, his wife told him, "This is all a joke. A stupid, childish joke." She shut the box and fastened the brass clasp. "You can't possibly believe --"

  "In this day and age.? Everything's possible!"

  The chopped onion lay forgotten on the cutting board. Dinner was delayed, which was fine with Chester. He had lost his appetite. He might never eat again.

  "I don't know what to do," he confessed. "If I ran to the police, what would I tell them?"

  Always reasonable, Evelyn said, "lust what you know, which is almost nothing."

  Fighting revulsion, he grabbed the box, flinging it open and pulling out a final card. Like every other recipe, it was typed neatly, the p missing its stem and the k floating above its neighbors. Like every three-by-five card, this card was miscolored and stiff, but its comers were extra frayed, obviously from heavy use. A favorite recipe, he reasoned. Which made it all the more shocking when he read aloud, "'Lemon Veal Scallopini. Flour. Garlic salt. Veal' -- Oh, dear Lord! --'from infants restrained with silk and fed ample buttermilk.'"

  "It's someone's insanity," Evelyn whispered. "Leave it alone."

  And Chester tried to believe her. He would have given anything to think these were just crazy words on paper, harmless by any measure. Yet he couldn't. He couldn't quit thinking about the recipes -- stewing, so to speak -- until at three in the morning, all of the sudden, he sat up in bed, knowing where he must have bought that box. Of course, of course...of course...!

  AN OLD FARMSTEAD some eighty minutes from home, it had a large, unkempt yard adorned with metal sheds and a sagging barn and an enormous garage. Every structure was elderly, showing rust and rot that a careful, decent man would never allow. That was one reason Chester had remembered this place. This county had a reputation for hillbillies. It was a corner of the state that Evelyn normally avoided, where Chester hunted alone for the best deals. But today was an exception. His wife must have sensed something at breakfast. Meeting him at the pickup, she merely shrugged when he mentioned where he was going, telling him, 'I don't want to stay home." Why not? "Because that fellow is going to come over looking for a camera, and I don't want to have to tell him that you already sold it."

  Chester laughed despite himself. No doubt about it, she was quite a wife. His first and only true love. He found himself thinking about the benefits in marrying in middle-age. All your youth and stupidity is spent and gone, which makes life a lot easier. The truth of it was that Chester was glad for the company, particularly when he pulled up in front of the hillbilly house. Particularly when his nervous energy began to ebb, replaced with a big dollop of fear.

  "You said there was a sale here. A special Tuesday sale." Evelyn threw his lie back at him. "It doesn't even look like anyone's home. Not for several months, judging by appearances."

  Which might not be bad news, he told himself. Provided there wasn't a pack of dogs waiting in ambush.

  "Where did you hear about this sale?"

  Chester opened his door, then said, "Maybe I'm wrong. Stay here, and I'll go see."

  "Maybe I'll come with you, and we'll both see."

  "No." He paused, looking at the gray eyes and the strong plain face. Then he said, "Wait here. I'll just be a few minutes." And after a brief silence, he added, "If anything should happen, get help. Okay? Promise me?"

  She sat motionless, and mute. Emotion made her look younger than her years. Chester could practically see the bride whom he had married.

  Walking toward the ramshackle house, he played with scenarios. It was possible that he hadn't bought the wicker basket and recipe box here. That he was wrong despite a very clear memory. And it was very likely that the seller had bought the basket elsewhere, and just like Chester, he never knew what he had in his possession.

  It was important to give the man his chance to explain.

  Being fair was essential.

  Jokes or not, those recipes were evidence of a sick, twisted mind. That's what Chester was telling himself, for the umpteenth time, watching a fellow that he halfway remembered, watching him shuffle out onto the broad and sagging front porch.

  "Hello, friend," said a thick, unfriendly voice.

  Chester offered a quick nod, then forced himself to speak. "I'm out shopping...for a typewriter, actually...and I remembered that you've got a good selection...you know, of all sorts of things..."

  The man on the porch was thick like his voice, and strong in a casual, bearish way. Tired jeans and a faded Hawaiian shirt made an interesting fashion statement. He had the bright amoral eyes of a squirrel. "I'm not selling today," he warned. Then some base instinct took hold, and he said, "A typewriter, huh? Yeah, I got a few. Out in the garage. What sort you huntin' for?"

  They walked in the same direction, but not together. Chester fought the urge to look over his shoulder at Evelyn. "A manual typewriter," he managed. "Nothing fancy." He was volunteering too much, but he couldn't help it. "It's for my grandson, frankly. He wants an old typewriter so he can write just like Hemingway."

  If the name meant anything to the gent, it didn't show. A burly arm jerked open a rusting door. Inside the huge garage were maybe half a dozen trucks and cars in various stages of being stripped or put back together again. The lone working vehicle -- an old flatbed truck -- was carrying a big V-8 engine over its rear axle, a greasy canvas tarp thrown over it.

  Chester gave that engine a quick look, realizing that it was the youngest thing inside this garage.

  Exactly two typewriters were waiting along the farthest wall, buried under dust and the operator's manual for some vanished dishwasher, Chester caught a whiff of unwashed flesh, a thousand uncharitable thoughts coming to mind. He had typing paper in his back pocket. Unfolding it, he realized that his hands were shaking. With a matching tremor in his voice, he said, "Just want to see how they work."

  Could a shrewd predator somehow guess his plan?

  The first typewriter, a bluish Smith Corona, had very faded, but very normal ps and ks.

  Chester began to roll the paper into the big gray Adler, but he already knew it wasn't the right one. And why should it be? Even if this was the cannibal, he would have his own typewriter in the house, or it would have been sold ages ago. Except for the recipes, there was no evidence. After a moment of typing, Chester turned to the man, regarding him in the hard glare of the shop lights. Then with the steadiest voice he could manage, he asked, "Have you ever heard of Vengeance Stew?"

  For a long moment, the face was puzzled. Then came the slow flash of recognition, or maybe something else. Whatever it was, the man muttered in a low, distinctly angry voice, "What do you mean, vengeance?"

  Chester opened his mouth, his voice stolen.

  "Just what the hell do you want here?"

  Good Lord, what if this was the cannibal... ?

  "You don't give a shit about typewriters." The man walked to the flatbed and pulled the tarp down over the newish engine. "Because I've got a bill a sale. If you think there's something wrong here...!"

  "Something's very wrong here," said Chester, feeling it in his bones.

  "Oh, yeah?" Now the man came at him. "Like what, you old shit?"

  It had been forty years since Chester's last fistfight, but panic gave him the old instincts. Unfortunately, his reflexes were missing. His first swing was diverted. His second swing did nothing but throw him off balance, and his opponent gave him a quick smack in the belly, putting him down on his knees, down on the very hard, very cold concrete.

  "It's not your engine," Chester heard, the voice falling from a great height. "And I got a bill a sale to prove it!" Why was he talking about engines?

  Looking up, Chester saw an ugly, angry face floating over him. An enormous fist drifted past as the voice asked him, "What do you mean, vengeance? Tell me, or I'll kick the shit out of you!"

  "The stew," Chester muttered. "I just want to know...what's in it... !"

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 311 312 313 314 315 316 317 318 319