Carbide Tipped Pens Part 20

"Bias? Oh, yes!" he said, distractedly watching me eat the last of my sandwich. "The cultural slight of the left hand goes back to at least the ancient Romans, including the fact that the Latin word for 'the left side' was sinister, meaning 'unlucky,' among other things, and for 'the right side' was dexter, meaning 'skillful,' among other things. But you don't have to engage in much sleight of hand-'sleight' from Old Norse meaning 'sly,' later 'deftness' and 'dexterity,' 'clever tricks'-to see that the sinister hand of letters is the dexter hand of numbers, the sinister hand of numbers is the dexter hand of letters. We're a tricksy species, lucky in that we've been so unlucky, and unlucky in that we've been so lucky."

We drink. Mark retrieves the pi-rat paws from his pants pocket. Taking a length of baling wire from the storage compartment under the dashboard, he makes a loop from the wire. He twists the ends so as to bind the paws together at the wrists, then hangs the whole a.s.semblage from the mirror in the Sun Dog's cab.

"That's what the Bots, even in defeat, are still trying to figure out," he said as, together, we tipped the sludge-barrow's contents into the truck's bed. Finished with sludging Pond 7's kettle at last, we leaned against the truck as he smoked and finished his thought. "How has the twisted mirror of our DNA has allowed human consciousness to be both chiral and chiasmatic, left handedright brained, right handedleft brained? How that X-ing makes possible the crossing over through all scales, until all scales fall from our eyes and we see that just as the universe is 'as above, so below,' so, too, the infinite is closer than it appears in the mirror. There's no need to be forgiven for Eden and the 'fall' into knowledge. No need to be acquitted of crimes never committed."

"Tricksy?" I asked, crumpling up my lunch wrapper. "Lucky that we've been so unlucky? I don't get that."

"We've probably been habilis as long as we've been h.o.m.o-handy as long as we've been human. But 150,000 to 200,000 years ago, a chance mutation-some of that same old lucky unlucky-produced a dextral allele involving the FOXP2 gene and the transcription factor POU3F2. The changes arising from that mutation not only affected synaptic plasticity and dendritic trees but also strongly biased handedness in favor of the right hand and control of speech in favor of the left cerebral hemisphere. That chance mutation interacted with an already present alternative allele that was 'chance' in another sense-directionally neutral, mirror image, ambidextrous, coin-flip, fifty-fifty."

"And that did-what?"

"The heterozygous form-neutral plus dextral-was evolutionarily advantageous. It improved information storage for learning and storing memories, and consolidated the control of both manual and verbal capabilities in the same hemisphere of the brain. Together with later changes in the regulation of FOXP2 expression, it resulted in a shift from a predominantly gestural to a predominantly vocal form of language-a major speciation event."

Struck by a sudden idea, Mark laughs and slaps his thigh.

"Of course!" he says, starting the truck. "Two wrongs don't make a right, but three lefts do!"

Gravel crunches beneath the wheels. The paired pi-rat hands, clasped together in inverted and disproportioned prayer, pendulum slowly from the rearview mirror as we b.u.mp along. Around us, like a dream the night forgot, the thin snow disappears in the morning suns.

"The intriguing thing about those changes affecting synaptic plasticity, however," Mark said, finishing his luncherito at last, crumpling its wrapper into a ball, and tossing that ball into the recycling can, "was that they involved right-handed, dextral forms of amino acids-even though our cells make only left-handed forms."

"So how does that happen? Doesn't sound evolutionarily efficient, to me."

"Brain cells exploit a trick by making an enzyme that flips the handedness of an amino acid-serine, say-from left-handed L to right-handed D forms, thereby breaking the mirror-symmetry, breaking even of biological h.o.m.ochirality itself. Like breaking the mirror twice, or three times-for better luck, next time. It's the sort of trick we're always benefiting from. Never more so than when our peculiarly human form of consciousness arose from the breakdown of the bicamerally specialized mind-when the two 'sides' of the mind began to communicate, each by borrowing from the mirror's other side."

"But it's a delicate balancing act," I suggested, as neutrally as I could, "this contrariwise pattern-finding?"

"Yes. Very. I know what you're thinking again. That's why so many of us go mad, making impossible connections between implausible dots. And it's true that too little D-serine in the brain is a cause of schizophrenia, but too much exacerbates stroke damage. Lefty loosey, righty tighty. But I know the difference."

The sludge-filled Sun Dog moved low and slow as Mark drove it to the hatchery's compost dump-or ORGANIC NUTRIENT RECYCLING SITE, as the official sign read.

"Here we are-the Onerous ONRS. Time for you to exit."

I got out. He backed the pickup against the biggest pile. I unlatched the tailgate and got out of the way. With a nod Mark floored the accelerator on the pickup. A stinking tsunami of sludge sloshed toward the back of the bed, slammed open the tailgate and flowed out in a great vomitive heave, emptying the truck bed. Mark got out and leaned against the truck.

"A neat trick," I said, "and a dirty one, too!"

"I've picked up a few handy tricks on this rock," he said with a shrug. "A few off it, too."

"Such as?

"Oh, things I learned from my time at the Knot, fighting the Bots. Like the idea that 'infinite' does not mean the same as 'all possible.' The set of even numbers is infinite, but also inherently incomplete: it contains no odd numbers, excluding all elements of that other infinite set. Odd and even, left and right, infinite yet incomplete. So humility is due."

I laughed.

"Anything not involving numbers?"

"Just that-as much as being human allows you to-strive to be free, strive to be true. That's the only wisdom I can offer you. Besides, it's about time for lunch."

As we drive, it occurs to me that maybe Mark's in his right mind and all's left with the world. If so, I don't think he will be here tomorrow. I don't know how I know-I just know. Perhaps he will become the long-awaited Ravelator, stepping through the curtain of s.p.a.ce-time, traversing dark light-years in an instant, taking a bow in the starry footlights on the other side of forever. Maybe he will kill himself. Maybe they amount to the same thing. Or not. In any case, this report to you, my unseen audience, ends here, ends now.

THE PLAY'S THE THING Jack McDevitt

Could the research now underway in the field of Artificial Intelligence someday reproduce William Shakespeare? And if a Shakespeare II could be produced, would it be able to write successful dramas?

That's what Jack McDevitt's story is about. But there's more to it than meets the eye. How would society react to a Shakespeare who is not a human being, but a program in a computer?

And if Shakespeare could be reproduced, how about Einstein? Or Churchill? Or Hitler?

It had been twenty years since Dennis Colby and I patrolled the outfield for the Explorers. I'd hoped to move on to the Phillies, but you probably know how that turned out. Eventually I came back to LaSalle's English department, which is how I came to be sitting with the rest of the faculty in Rossi Hall when Dennis received the 2063 Holroyd Award for his work in computer technology, which had initiated advances across every scientific field.

He didn't look any older when he ascended to the lectern. His hair was still black and he walked with that same easy stride. He smiled, surveyed the room, and said how glad he was to be back home. "I owe everything to my folks," he continued, pointing an index finger in their direction, the same gesture he used to make when I was coming to bat in a tight situation. "They were smart enough to send me to LaSalle." I tried to catch his eye, but he didn't seem to recognize me. Twenty years can do that to you. I looked nothing like the .300 hitter I'd once been.

"I'll never forget this," he said. "And I have an announcement of my own. Originally, I'd planned to do this a month ago." He took what looked like a q-pod from a pocket and lifted it so we could all see it. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "we've had a major breakthrough. This"-he gazed at the pod-"is the closest thing we've had yet to a bona fide artificial intelligence." He lifted the lid. "Will, say h.e.l.lo to the audience."

"h.e.l.lo, everybody," it said in a cheerful baritone. "It's nice to be here."

Dennis nodded. "Tell them who you are, Will."

"I'm William Shakespeare," he said. That brought a sprinkling of laughter and applause from across the dining area. "I understand," he added, "that you have a superb theatrical group here. The Masque, I believe?"

I waited until the crowd had dissipated before going over to say h.e.l.lo. His eyes widened when I told him who I was. Then he managed a nervous smile. "Just kidding, Lou," he said. "I could never forget you. You still playing ball?"

We walked outside into bright sunlight and talked about old times while we waited for his car to come in from the parking area. When it pulled up at the curb, I asked the big question: "Dennis, does it really impersonate Shakespeare? Or is it just another smart refrigerator?"

"It's a lot more than that, Lou." The door opened and he climbed in and put the trophy on the seat beside him. "I guess though that's one way to put it."

"But why Shakespeare? I'd have expected you to go for Einstein or Brachmann or somebody."

"It's hard to get at the inner reality of a physicist or a mathematician. But with Shakespeare, it's all lying out there. Read him and you know exactly who the guy was."

"Dennis, we're not even sure that the plays were written by Shakespeare."

He sat there, holding the door open. "Let me put it a different way." He took the q-pod out of his pocket. "Will's a reproduction of whoever wrote the plays."

"Good." He was still the guy I remembered, a guy who knew how to enjoy a moment of glory. "Great. Congratulations."

"Thanks, Lou. Maybe we could get together sometime for lunch."

"I'd enjoy that." I hesitated. Then: "Dennis, would you be willing to bring Will in to talk to my drama cla.s.s?"

There were fourteen kids in the cla.s.sroom next morning, and I had a few minutes with them before our guest arrived. Living in a smart house that tells you what time it is and prepares the meat loaf isn't quite the same as saying h.e.l.lo to a pod that pretends to be Shakespeare. "I don't know how this is going to work," I said, "but Dr. Colby is an old friend. If things go wrong, I'd like everyone to play it straight." They all nodded. No problem. I suggested some questions they might ask, like whether Shakespeare had modeled Lady Macbeth after someone he'd known, or what he perceived to be Hamlet's fatal flaw. A few of them were taking notes. Then Dennis arrived.

I introduced him. He said h.e.l.lo and the students applauded. "I a.s.sume," he said, "that they know what this is about?"

"Oh, yes. They're very excited."

"Excellent." He looked out across the cla.s.s. "And I can imagine what you're thinking. To tell you the truth I don't blame anyone who's skeptical. But Will is the next best thing to having Mr. Shakespeare actually here in the room. Ask him anything you like. Where he got the ideas for The Merry Wives of Windsor or Much Ado About Nothing or whatever." He took the pod out of his pocket, opened it, and placed it on my desk, facing the students. "If I'd known a few days in advance that this was going to happen, I'd have added the visuals so you could have seen him, but I just don't have that set up yet." He looked down at the pod. "Will, you're on."

"Thank you, Professor Colby," said Will. "Good morning, everyone. I've been looking forward to this. These last two days have been enjoyable. I'm finally out of the coc.o.o.n. Who has a question?"

There was a flurry of hands. "Elaine," I said. Elaine, a member of the Masque, had starred in Friends and Lovers a few weeks earlier.

Elaine got to her feet. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Shakespeare. You don't seem to have written any musicals. Were there such things in your era?"

"'Will' is fine, Elaine. Let's keep it informal. And yes. There was live music on stage all the way back to ancient Greece. And probably earlier than that. I never wrote a musical, but several of my shows have been adapted. West Side Story, for example, was based on Romeo and Juliet. And The Taming of the Shrew has become Kiss Me, Kate. There are others."

"But you didn't actually write one?"

"No. Not in the current usage."

Al Harmon was the only athlete in the room. "Will," he said, "if you don't mind my saying so, you're not talking funny."

"How do you mean, Al?"

"Oh, all those lines that sound as if they come out of the Bible. 'To thine own self be true.' And 'Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.' I thought that's the way you'd be talking."

"Ladies and gentlemen, let not disappointment be scrolled across your features."

"Yes, like that."

Will laughed. "I was writing four hundred years ago. The language was different."

"Oh."

"And there were other factors at play also."

I don't think I've ever been in a cla.s.s, either as student or teacher, which was more enjoyable. Dennis was having a good time too. He was seated with me off to the side, literally glowing with pride. I gradually realized this was a test run for him. We were two or three minutes from the bell when Jennifer Quail, who had a talent for getting to the heart of an issue, came through again: "Will, could you write something today like Hamlet? Or Macbeth? Something at that level?"

Dennis grinned. Shook his head. Was about to say something, but Will got in first: "Of course." Dennis's grin turned to surprise. "I doubt I've lost my touch."

"If you wrote again, would it be about one of the English kings? Or Caesar?"

"Probably not. There are other, more current figures whose tragic experiences could fuel a powerful narrative."

Dennis leaned over. "He's making it up," he whispered. "He can't write plays. He can talk about them, but he can't actually..."

"I understand," I said.

"Who, for example?" asked Jennifer. "Who would you like to write about?"

"Oh, Winston Churchill comes immediately to mind."

That silenced everyone. Except Elaine. "How does Churchill qualify as a tragic figure? He's probably the most admired political figure of the last century." She turned to Maria Bonner for backing.

"Absolutely," said Maria.

"That's true," said Will. "But to beat back the n.a.z.is, he thought it necessary to abandon Eastern Europe to the Soviet Union. He sold them out, left them to face a half-century of enslavement. And he knew it when it was happening. Imagine how he must have felt at night, when the lights were out."

n.o.body moved.

"Richard Nixon is another one."

"Nixon?" This time it was Dennis who'd had too much. "Why do you say that, Will?"

"Dennis, he was a major figure in making us aware of climate problems. He opened the door to China. He made a number of contributions to the general welfare of the nation. But he did not believe in himself. Consequently he overplayed his hand and ultimately destroyed his presidency. Think about what was running through his mind on that last day, when he walked out of the White House, crossed the lawn, and boarded that helicopter."

I pointed at the clock.