The Silver Metal Lover

rigged? Bet you did, you girl.”

“Clovis isn’t here,” I said.

“Then I’ll wait.”

“He’s gone to the beach.” Another lie. Austin believed it.

“Hope someone kicks sand in his face.”

He turned, flowed straight down the corridor and banged the button for the lift to come back. I felt guilty and glad, and the lift swallowed him and he was gone.

It was one P.M., according to Clovis’s talking clock when I switched it on. I had combed my hair for the thirtieth time. I sat in my black frock and black nails and white strained face, and gazed at the New River through the window. There were bruised-looking clouds. It might rain. I had stopped raining; my tears were dry. I made some real coffee, of which Clovis has accumulated a whole cupboard. But I couldn’t drink it. There was dust on the coffee table. Obviously the block’s automatic cleaner had remained unsummoned for days.

What was I waiting for? For Clovis to call and say he’d failed? For the door to open and Clovis to come through, shrug and say—what surprisingly he hadn’t last night—you’d better forget it, Jane. After all, it’s this fear of men thing again, isn’t it, due to your lack of a physically present father?

Last night, I had known where I was, for all of one hour. I’d known that women don’t love robots. That a doll with its clockwork showing meant nothing to me. But I hadn’t been able to hang on to that truth. For me—he was alive. A man, Clovis. Real.

I heard the lift.

Wasn’t there another small apartment in an annex at the end of this gallery? It might be the people from there.

The door seemed to tremble, ripple, as if underwater, and opened. Clovis and Silver walked through it.

Silver wore blue clothes, mulberry boots. I couldn’t stop looking at them. Then I looked at Clovis’s face. Clovis was surprised. He had been surprised, one could tell, for quite a while. He came over to me and said, “Jane, Jane, Jane.” Then he handed me a plastic folder. “Papers,” said Clovis briskly. “Duplicates of reassembly order, possession rights and receipt for cash transfer with bank stamp. Two-year guaranty, with a bar sinister on it due to incomplete check being waived by customer. And Egyptia’s signed confirmation that you have right of loan. For six months it may say, or years, or something. Egyptia is vaguely aware, by the way, of having been cheated of something, so I’m taking her to lunch, and buying her a steel-grey fur cloak. For which you’ll also owe me the money.”

“I may not be able to repay you,” I said. I was numb. Silver was standing near the door, standing at the edge of my vision, blue fire burning the rest of the room to cinders.

“See you in court, then,” said Clovis.

Inanely I said, “Austin came up. I said you were at the beach.”

“I think I am,” said Clovis. “Certainly there is a distinct notion of sand underfoot. Shifting, I surmise.” His face was still surprised. He turned from me and walked back to Silver, glanced at him, walked by him, and reached the door. “You know where everything is,” Clovis said to me. “And if you don’t, now is the time to find out. Jesus screamed and ran,” added Clovis. The apartment door slammed behind him, jarring its mechanisms. And I was alone. Alone with Egyptia’s robot.

I had to force myself to look at him. From the boots to the long legs, and across—one hand, two hands, loosely at rest by his sides. Arms. Torso. Shoulders with the hair glowing against the blue shirt. Throat. Face. Intact. Whole. Tiger’s eyes. In repose. And yet, what was it? Was I inventing it? The ghost of something, some disorientation, the look on the face of someone who has been sick and is convalescing… No, imagination.

Did he know the legal position, who owned him, who was borrowing him? Did I have to tell him?

His amber eyes went into a long, slow blink. Thank God they worked. Thank God they were as beautiful as when I’d first seen them. He smiled at me. “Hallo,” he said.

“Hallo,” I said. I was so tense I scarcely felt it. “Do you remember me?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what to say to you,” I said.

“Say whatever you want.”

“I mean, do I say: Please sit down, won’t you? Will you have some tea?”

He laughed. I loved his laugh. Always loved it. But it broke my heart. I was so sad, so sad now he was here with me. Sadder than I’d been at any time, a sadness beyond all tears.

“I’m quite relaxed,” he said. “I’m always relaxed. You don’t have to work at that one.”

I was thrown, but now I expected to be thrown. I had to say something to him, which I kept biting back. He saw my hesitation. He raised one eyebrow at me.

“What?” he said. Human. Human.

“Do you know what happened? What they did to you?”

“They?”

“Electronic Metals.”

“Yes,” he said. No change.

“I saw you then,” I said. It came out raw and harsh.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That can’t have been very nice for you.”

“But you,” I said. “You.”

“What about me?”

“Were you unconscious?” I said.

“Unconscious isn’t really a term you can apply to me,” he said. “Switched off, if you mean that, then partially. To perform the check, at least half of my brain had to be functioning.”

My stomach knotted together.

“You mean you were aware?”

“In a way.”

“Did it—was it painful?”

“No. I don’t feel pain. My nerve centers react by a method of alarm reflex rather than a pain reflex. Pain isn’t necessary to my body as a warning signal, as it would be in a human. Therefore, no pain.”

“You heard what he said. What I said.”

“I think so.”

“Are you incapable of dislike?”

“Yes.”

“Of hate?”

“Yes.”

“Of fear?”

“Maybe not,” he said. “I don’t analyze myself the way a human does. My preoccupations are outward.”

“You’re owned,” I said. “You belong to Egyptia. You’ve been lent to me.”

“So?”

“So, are you angry?”

“Do I look angry?”

“You use the ego-mode: ‘I’ you say.”

“Yes. Rather ridiculous if I spoke any other way, not to mention confusing.”

“Do I irritate you?”

“No,” he laughed again, very softly. “Ask whatever you want.”

“Do you like me?” I said.

“I don’t know you.”

“But you think, as a robot, you can still get to know me?”

“Better than most of the humans you spend time with, if you’ll let me.”

“Do you want to?”

“Of course.”

“Do you want to make love to me?” I cried, my heart a hurt, myself angry and in pain and in sorrow, and in