The Silver Metal Lover

girl played on a mandolin. One had a marvelous voice. Not, of course, as good as the robot’s voice.

Off the bridge, there had been a break-in at Staria’s Second Owner Emporium, and another at Finn Darl’s Food-o-Mart, a soup of police and flashing lights and hospital wagons. A giant can of baked fruit had rolled into the road and was being flung away from each rushing car, into the path of another.

I was blase. I knew the violence of the city, and the uneven quality of its life. I took a bus to Jagged’s and went into the restaurant for iced coffine, and as I drew the first sip through the chocolate-flavored straw, someone pinched my arm.

“You’re out late,” said Medea, seating herself opposite me.

“Does your mother know?” said Jason, seating himself next to her.

They both watched me with their narrow eyes.

I hadn’t choked at the ferocious pinch, I had been through too much to let a pinch bother me, was too collected, or perhaps anesthetized.

“My mother’s upstate.”

“Ooh,” said Medea. “Naughty goings-on at Chez Stratos.” like Egyptia, Medea had had her hair toned dark blue, but unlike Egyptia’s long silken rope, Medea’s hair had been crimped and crinkled. Jason’s hair was coloressence charted, a sort of beige, and he had a deep tan from surfing at Cape Angel. But Medea just lies under a black sunshade and never tans. I never know why they’re my friends, because they’re not.

“Did you go to see the anti-robot demo?” I asked. I knew they hadn’t, and I said it deliberately, to bask in my uninvolvement.

“What demo?” said Medea.

“Oh, those robots that are supposed to look like people,” said Jason. “Some morons making a fuss. How long is your mother away?” Jason asked me.

“Not long.”

“Why not have a party before she comes back?”

“She’s much too good to do that,” said Medea.

“Are you?” Jason demanded.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re getting very fat,” said Medea. “Why don’t you come off those capsules? I’m supposed to be a Eunice Ultima—terribly thin. But I just put the pills in the disposal.”

I was twenty-five and clever. For once, I knew I was only a little plump.

“Why don’t you try red hair for a change?” Jason said to me.

That was odd. My stomach turned over. Had Jason heard about my silliness? I hoped not. Jason liked to gain an advantage. When I was a child, he took care of me once when I was frightened. He was my age, but he was very kind, or seemed to be. But he liked the power. Later the same day he tried to frighten me again, just so he could reassure me. He’d do that sort of thing a lot. He used to have several little pets, and they were always getting sick so he had to care for them. But then they would get sick again, and one day Jason’s father—Jason and Medea have a father—stopped Jason from having pets. Since then he’s played with electric gadgets instead.

“She won’t do anything Mother doesn’t want,” said Medea.

She got up again, and Jason got up too, as if he were attached to her by a string. She’s sixteen and a half, and he is sixteen. They were born by the Precipta Split-Tempo method, and are really twins.

“Good-bye, Jane,” said Jason politely.

“Good-bye, Jane,” said Medea.

They went out, and the robot waiter came over on its tripod of wheels and charged me with Jason and Medea’s bill, which they’d told it I’d be paying. Not that they couldn’t pay it, it was just a joke. So I joked too, and refused, and gave the waiter their address. Their father would be furious (again), and normally I wouldn’t have done such a thing, just paid for them. But tonight. Oh, tonight, I had wings.

Worlds flying like birds; my car’s in flight. The city lights are spattered on my windshield like the fragments of the night. And I’m in flight. The sky’s a wheel, a merry-go-round of wings and snow and steel, and fire. We’ll tread the sky, we’ll ride the scarlet horses—

What was that? A song—what—what—Silver’s song.

I left the waiter robot and my unfinished coffine. I went into a booth and dialed Clovis.

“Infirmary,” said Clovis, cautiously.

“Hallo,” I said.

“Thank God. I thought it was Austin ringing back.”

“Clovis,” I said.

“Yes, Jane,” said Clovis.

“Clovis,” I said. “Clovis. Clovis.”

A pause.

“What’s the matter?” he asked me so gently his voice was, for a second, like the voice, the voice—

“Clovis, you see—Clovis—Clovis—”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She’s—away. Clovis—”

“Yes, I’m Clovis. Where are you?”

“I can’t remember. Yes. I’m in Jagged’s. I’m in the restaurant.”

“I’m not coming to get you, do you understand? Go down to the taxi-park. Get a cab and come here. If you’re not here in ten minutes I’ll worry. Jane?”

“Yes?”

“Can you do it?”

“Clovis! Oh, Clovis, black water’s coming out of my eyes!”

“Your mascara is running.”

“Oh—yes. I forgot I had any on.” I laughed.

“Pull yourself together and get a taxi,” he said.

I was quite calm and rather amused. I walked into the ladies room and washed my face, and then went down to the taxi-park. I looked at the wonderful star-fields of the city below, above and alongside. The city lights are spattered on my windshield—I’m in flight—we’ll tread the sky—

“Block 21, New River Road,” I said to the driver, who was an astoundingly humanlike robot. “Good Lord,” I said, waving my black nails at him, “you’re almost as realistic as the special E.M. formats.”

“Which?” he asked.

“Electronic Metals. Copper, Golder and Silver.”

“Never heard of ’em.”

“Have you ever been dismantled?”

“Not so you’d notice.”

“I wonder what it’s like. He looked so—he looked—”

“Could you please,” he said, “not cry like that when you get out of the cab? It might be bad for business.”

He was human of course, I’d forgotten about Jagged’s gimmick line of real drivers.

He’d been more forbearing than Egyptia.

Lights hit the windshield. We flew.

I managed to stop crying. The worst thing was not knowing why I was.

When I got up to the fifteenth gallery of Clovis’s block, his door rushed open before I even spoke to it, set for sight. Clovis stood in the middle of the rug, barefoot, in a shower robe, frowning.

“He’s dying,” I said. “They’re going to kill him.”

The sedative Clovis gave me wasn’t flavored. It had a bitter taste. I slept in the spare bedroom, which has black satin sheets, alternating with green or oyster satin sheets. The satin is a deliberate gesture, for you slide all night from one end of the bed to the other. Clovis usually makes his guests uncomfortable, in the hopes they’ll soon go away. Drugged, I slept. When I woke up, he gave me China tea and an apple.

“If you can find anything to eat in the servicery, you can eat it.”

Sleepwalking, drug-dazed, I found some instant toasts. Clovis stood in the doorway.

“I think I gave you too much Serenol. Do you remember what you told me last night? You were in very