Where the Heart Is

Where the Heart Is by Robert J. Sawyer

It was not the sort of welcome I had expected. True, I’d been gone a long time—so long, in fact, that no one I knew personally could possibly still be alive to greet me. Not Mom or Dad, not my sisters… not Wendy. That was the damnable thing about relativity: it tended to separate you from your relatives.

But, dammit, I’m a hero. A starprober. I’d piloted the Terry Fox all the way to Zubenelgenubi. I’d—communed—with alien minds. And now I was home. To be greeted by the Prime Minister would have been nice. Or the mayor of Toronto. They could even have wheeled in a geriatric grand-nephew or grand-niece. But this, this would never do.

I cupped my hands against naked cheeks—I’d shaved for this!—and called down the flexible tunnel that had sucked onto the Foxtrot’s airlock. “Hello!” A dozen lonely echoes wafted back to me. “Yoohoo! I’m home!” I knew it was false bravado. And I hated it.

I ran down the corridor. It opened onto an expanse of stippled tile. A red sign along the far wall proclaimed Welcome to Starport Toronto. Some welcome. I placed hands on hips and took stock of the tableau before me. The journalists’ lounge was much as I remembered it. I’d never seen it empty before, though. Nor so neat. No plastic Coca-Cola cups half-full of flat pop, no discarded hardcopy news sheets: nothing marred the gleaming curves of modular furniture. I began a slow circumnavigation of the room. The place had apparently been deserted for some time. But that didn’t seem right, for there was no dust. No spider-webs, either, come to think of it. Someone must be maintaining things. I sighed. Maybe the janitor would show up to pin a medal on my chest.

I walked into an alcove containing a bay window and pressed my hands against the curving pane. Sunlight stung my eyes. The starport was built high on Oak Ridges moraine, north of Toronto. Highway 11, overgrown with brush, was deserted. The fake mountain over at Canada’s Wonderland had caved in and the roller coasters had collapsed into heaps of intestines. The checkerboard-pattern of farmland that I remembered had disappeared under a blanket of uniform green. The view towards Lake Ontario was blocked by stands of young maples. The CN Tower, tallest free-standing structure in the world (when I left, anyway), still thrust high above everything else. But the Skypod with its revolving restaurant and night club had slipped far down the tapered spindle and was canted at an angle. “You go away for 140 years and they change everything,” I muttered.

From behind me: “Most people prefer to live away from big cities these days.” I wheeled. It was a strange, multitudinous voice, like a hundred people talking in unison. A machine rolled into the alcove. It was a cube, perhaps a meter on a side, translucent, like an aquarium filled with milk. The number 104 glowed on two opposing faces. Mounted on the upper surface was an assembly of lenses, which swung up to look at me.

“What are you?” I asked.

The same voice as before answered: a choir talking instead of singing. “An information robot. I was designed to display data, including launch schedules, bills of lading, and fluoroscopes of packages, as required.”

I looked back out at where my city had been. “There were almost three million people in Toronto when I left,” I said.

“You are Carl Hunt.”

I paused. “I’m glad someone remembers.”

“Of course.” The tank cleared and amber letters glowed within: my name, date and place of birth, education and employment records—a complete dossier.

“That’s me, all right: the 167-year-old man.” I looked down at the strange contraption. “Where is everybody?”

The robot started moving away from me, out of the alcove, back into the journalists’ lounge. “Much has happened since you left, Mr. Hunt.”

I quickly caught up with the little machine. “You can call me Carl. And—damn; when I left there were no talking robots. What do I call you?”

We reached the mouth of a door-lined corridor. The machine was leading. I took a two-meter stride to pull out in front. “I have no individuality,” it said. “Call me what you will.”

I scratched my chin. “Raymo. I’ll call you Raymo.”

“Raymo was the name of your family’s pet Labrador Retriever.”

My eyes widened in surprise then narrowed in suspicion. “How did you know that?”

Raymo’s many voices replied quickly. “I am a limb of the TerraComp Web—

“The what?”

“The world computer network, if you prefer. I know all that is known.” We continued down the hallway, me willing to go in the general direction Raymo wanted, so long as I, not the machine, could lead. Presently the robot spoke again. “Tell me about your mission.”

“I prefer to report to the Director of Spaceflight.”

Raymo’s normally instantaneous reply was a long time in coming. “There is no person with that title anymore, Carl.”

I turned around, blocking Raymo’s path, and seized the top edges of the robot’s crystalline body. “What?”