Robot Adept

They went out to play another game, and another, and another, the victories and the losses immaterial, only the experience being important. So it continued for several days, with physical, mental and chance games of every type. They raced each other in sailcraft, they played Chinese checkers, they bluffed each other with poker, they battled with punnish riddles. Some times they cheated, indulging in one game while nominally playing another, as when they made love while theoretically wrestling in gelatin. Whatever else they did, they lived their joint life to the fullest extent they could manage, trying to cram decades into days.  They found themselves in machine-assisted art: playing parts in a randomly selected play whose other parts were played by programmed robots. Each of them was cued continuously on lines and action, so that there was no problem of memorization or practice. It was their challenge to interpret their parts well, with the Game Computer ready to rate their performance at the end.  They had specified a play involving male-female relations, of a romantic nature, with difficulties, and the computer had made a selection from among the many thousands in its repertoire.

Thus they were acting in one by George Bernard Shaw titled You Never Can Tell, dating from the nineteenth century of Earth. Bane was VALENTINE and Agape was GLORIA CLANDON. They were well into the scene.

“Oh, Miss Clandon, Miss Clandon: how could you?” he demanded.

“What have I done?” she asked, startled.

“Thrown this enchantment on me ...” And as he spoke the scripted lines, he realized that it was true: she had enchanted him, though she had not intended to.

“I hope you are not going to be so foolish—so vulgar—as to say love,” she responded with uncertain feeling. According to the play, she had no special feeling for him, but in reality she did; this was getting difficult for her.

“No, no, no, no, no. Not love; we know better than that,” he said earnestly. “Let’s call it chemistry ...” And wasn’t this also true? What was love, really? But as he spoke, he became aware of something that should have been irrelevant. They had an audience.

“Nonsense!” she exclaimed with more certainty.

They had not had an audience when they started.

Several serfs had entered the chamber and taken seats.  Why? This was a private game, of little interest to any one else. “. . . you’re a prig: a feminine prig: that’s what you are,” he said, enjoying the line. “Now I suppose you’ve done with me forever.”

“... I have many faults,” she said primly. “Very serious faults—of character and temper; but if there is one thing that I am not, it is what you call a prig.” She gazed challengingly at him.

“Oh, yes, you are. My reason tells me so: my experience tells me so.” And his reason and experience told him that something was wrong: there should be no audience.

“... your knowledge and your experience are not infallible,” she was saying, handling her lines with in creasing verve. “At least I hope not.”

“I must believe them,” he said, wishing he could warn her about the audience without interfering with the set lines. “Unless you wish me to believe my eyes, my heart, my instincts, my imagination, which are all telling me the most monstrous lies about you.”

“Lies!”

Yet more serfs were entering the audience chamber.

Were they players waiting for their turn? “Yes, lies.” He sat down beside her, as the script dictated, but wasn’t sure he did it convincingly. “Do you expect me to believe that you are the most beautiful woman in the world?”

Now she was evidently feeling the relevance! “That is ridiculous, and rather personal.”

“Of course it’s ridiculous ...” His developing paranoia about the audience was, too! He wished they could just quit the play here, and get away; he didn’t trust this at all. But as they exchanged their lines, his apprehension increased. Suppose the Contrary Citizens had managed to divert Blue’s minions, so that there was no protection for the moment?

“And I’m a feminine prig,” she was saying.

“No, no: I can’t face that: I must have one illusion left: the illusion about you. I love you.”

She rose, as the cue dictated, and turned. Then she spied the audience. She almost lost her place. “I am sorry. I—“ Now she did lose it, and barely recovered.  “What can I say?”

What, indeed? Now it seemed sure: the Citizens were about to make their move. But how could he get away from here with Agape, without setting off the trap?  They needed a natural exit, to get offstage, out of sight.

“... I can’t tell you—“ he was saying.

“Oh, stop telling me how you feel: I can’t bear it.”