Ted Chiang作品集

Ted Chiang
简介
自1990年处女作《Tower of Babylon》问世以来，20余年间，Ted Chiang只创作了13个中短篇作品。然其写作之严肃、语言之洗练、思想之深入，在科幻界绝无仅有。这为数不多的文字所迸发出的想象力令人惊叹，篇篇皆是不可多得的精品。其中两篇短文发表于《Nature》上。相信50年后人们撰写当今世界级科幻大家时，他必占一席之地。

目录
作者简介
Ted Chiang的真名实姓
重建文学的幻想传统
特德·蒋的八个世界
巴比伦塔（1990）
Tower of Babylon
除以零 (1991)
Division by Zero
领悟 (1991)
Understand
你一生的故事（1998）
Story of Your Life
人类科学之演变（2000）
The Evolution of Human Science
七十二个字母（2000）
Seventy-Two Letters
地狱是上帝不在的地方（2001）
Hell Is the Absence of God
赏心悦目——审美干扰镜提案风波纪实(2002)
Liking What You See: A Documentary
前路迢迢(2005)
What’s expected of us
商人和炼金术士之门（2007）
The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate
呼吸——宇宙的毁灭 2008
Exhalation
软件体的生命周期（2010）
The Lifecycle of Software Objects
实事之实，真情之真（2013）
The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling
附一：The fiction of Ted Chiang（The Economist）
附二：《大都会科幻评论》对话Ted Chiang
附三：姜峯楠关于Exhalation的访谈
附四：Ted Chiang Interview
附五：A Conversation With Ted Chiang
附六：Interview: Ted Chiang（The Asian American Literary Review）
附七：Acknowledgments
制作信息

目录

作者简介

Ted Chiang的真名实姓

重建文学的幻想传统

特德·蒋的八个世界

○巴比伦塔（1990，星云奖）

●Tower of Babylon(1990, Nebula Award)

○除以零(1991)

●Division by Zero(1991)

○领悟(1991)

●Understand(1991)

○你一生的故事（1998，星云奖）

●Story of Your Life(1998, Nebula Award)

○人类科学之演变（2000）

●The Evolution of Human Science(2000, Published in Nature)

○七十二个字母（2000，侧面奖）

●Seventy-Two Letters(2000, Sidewise Award)

○地狱是上帝不在的地方（2001，雨果奖和星云奖）

●Hell Is the Absence of God(2001, Hugo and Nebula Award)

○赏心悦目——审美干扰镜提案风波纪实(2002)

●Liking What You See: A Documentary(2002)

○前路迢迢（2005）

●What's Expected Of Us(2005, Published in Nature)

○商人和炼金术士之门（2007）

●The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate (2007, Nebula, Hugo and Seiun Award)

○呼吸——宇宙的毁灭（2008，英国科幻协会奖、轨迹奖和雨果奖）

●Exhalation (2008, BSFA, Locus, and Hugo Award)

○软件体的生命周期（2010，轨迹奖、雨果奖和日本星云奖）

●The Lifecycle of Software Objects (2010, Locus, Hugo and Seiun Award)

○实事之实，真情之真（2013）

●The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling (2013)

●附一：The fiction of Ted Chiang(The Economist)

○附二：《大都会科幻评论》对话Ted Chiang

○附三：姜峯楠关于Exhalation的访谈

●附四：Ted Chiang Interview

●附五：A Conversation With Ted Chiang

●附六：Interview: Ted Chiang(The Asian American Literary Review)

注：标注○为中文，标注●为英文

Ted Chiang (中文名姜峯楠，曾被译为泰德·蒋)，美国华裔科幻作家。1967年出生于美国纽约州杰斐逊港，1989年毕业于布朗大学，获得计算机科学学士学位，现为一名自由职业者，为计算机程序撰写文档。少年时代起，Ted就开始接触科幻小说，并尝试创作，向杂志投稿。从“号角”科幻写作班毕业后，Ted因处女作《巴比伦塔》一炮而红，荣获1990年星云奖最佳短篇小说奖。Ted Chiang的产量并不高，到目前为止发表的作品只有十三篇，但它们都保持了他特有的高水准，其中大部分入围或获得 “雨果”、“星云”等科幻大奖。

2005年四川科学技术出版社的“世界科幻大师丛书”推出了Ted Chiang的中短篇作品集《你一生的故事》，共收录当时已发表的八篇小说。

Ted Chiang (born 1967) is an American science fiction writer. He was born in Port Jefferson, New York and graduated from Brown University with a Computer Sciences degree, and has attended Clarion. Today he resides in Bellevue, near Seattle, Washington.

He has won Nebula Awards for his short stories "Story of Your Life" (1999) and "Tower of Babylon" (1990), and both a Nebula and a Hugo Award for his novellette "Hell Is the Absence of God" (2002). He turned down a Hugo nomination for "Liking What You See: A Documentary". His story "Seventy-Two Letters" received the Sidewise Award for Alternate History.

List of works:

* "Tower of Babylon" (1990) (Nebula Award winner)

* "Division by Zero" (1991)

* "Understand" (1991)

* "Story of Your Life" (1998) (Nebula Award winner)

* "The Evolution of Human Science" (2000) (a.k.a. "Catching Crumbs from the Table")

* "Seventy-Two Letters" (2000) (Sidewise Award winner)

* "Hell Is the Absence of God" (2001) (Hugo and Nebula Award winner)

* "Liking What You See: A Documentary" (2002)

* "What's Expected Of Us" (2005) (Hugo and Nebula Award winner)

* "The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate" (2007) (Nebula, Hugo and Seiun Award winner)

* "Exhalation" (2008) (BSFA, Locus, and Hugo Award winner)

* "The Lifecycle of Software Objects" (2010) (Locus, Hugo and Seiun Award winner)

* "The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling" (2013)

Chiang's first eight stories are collected in Stories of Your Life, and Others (1st US hardcover ed: ISBN 0-7653-0418-X; 1st US paperback ed.: ISBN 0-7653-0419-8).

"The Evolution of Human Science" and "What's Expected Of Us" are published in Nature.

Ted Chiang的真名实姓

李广益

２００６年四月初，我陪同来华查资料的日本朋友上原香拜访科幻作家韩松。上原香对中国科幻很感兴趣，常看《科幻世界》，最近还发表了一篇研究韩松小说《红色海洋》的论文。席间，上原香告诉我们，在中国科幻迷中很受欢迎的美籍华裔作家特德·蒋其实姓“姜”。她说，日本有篇Ted Chiang的介绍中提到了这位作家的中文全名。韩松和我都觉得很有意思，就请上原香提供确凿的资料。

上原香回国后，很快寄来一份材料，是附在Ted Chiang名篇《你一生的故事》日译本（あなたの人生の物语）后面的一篇文章，作者是山岸真。文章对Ted Chiang其人其文都有比较详细的介绍，其中对这位作家的生平有如下叙述：

Ted Chiang，１９６７年１０月２０日生于纽约州杰斐逊港（Port jefferson），其父母是来自中国的移民。中文名为姜峰楠（Chiang Feng-nan）的他，小时候能说点汉语，现在完全不会了。立志成为科学家的Ted Chiang，进入大学后攻读物理学和计算机科学，不过后来放弃了前者。１９８２年，Ted Chiang毕业于罗得岛州布朗大学。他现在居住在华盛顿州西雅图近郊，是一位自由从业的技术编写师（Tech Writer），并继续创作科幻小说。

日本人向来严谨，这里指出的Ted Chiang中文姓名比较可信。然而，网上查到的几篇西方杂志刊登的Ted Chiang专访并没有提到他的中文名，倒是一个韩国人的博客提到了这位作家叫姜峰楠，不过不足为据。我请上原香联系山岸真，务请说明Ted Chiang姓名的出处。上原香求助于那部小说的出版方早川书房，书房编辑答复道：出版过程中，问过Chiang先生，通过经纪人向Chiang先生询问了其姓名的汉字拼写的问题，得到了Chiang先生亲属的回复确认。

所以，Ted Chiang正确的中文译名应该是特德·姜。这是个小小的差错，但有必要让这位华裔作家及时在汉语世界恢复他的"真名实姓"。如果特德·姜得知这个文化交流中的小插曲，以语言学科幻闻名的他会不会萌发灵感，写下一篇像阿西莫夫的《用Ｓ来拼我的名字》那样的有趣小说呢？我们拭目以待。

本文原载《科幻世界译文版》２００６年第９期

重建文学的幻想传统

《科幻世界》杂志社总编　阿来

前些日子，有报纸记者采访，谈科幻出版问题。出版界的人有兴趣谈，媒体也有兴趣推波助澜，这说明，科幻作为一种出版资源，至少已经开始引起了业界的关注，这是好事情。其间，记者转述一个观点：中国科幻出版的不景气是因为中国文学中向来缺少幻想的传统。

这说法让人吃惊不小。一种以武断与无知让人吃惊的说法。

关于中国文学，我们要讨论的不是有没有幻想传统，而是我们为何丢掉了这一传统，今天又该如何来接续并光大这个传统。从任何一本简明至极的文学史中，都会出现富于幻想性的作品的名字：《山海经》、《西游记》、《聊斋志异》和《镜花缘》等。甚至“五四”新文化运动以后鲁迅的《故事新编》，也是一部充满了奇丽幻想的伟大作品。只是，在刚刚过去的那个世纪中期，中国文学宽阔河床上浩荡的水流一下被紧紧收束进高高的堤坝之中，众多的支流消失了，这条人工收束的河道以被曲解的“现实主义”来命名。

从此，我们有整整两三代人的双眼中，再难从文学中看到幻想炫目的光芒，我们的两耳再也听不到想像力优美的吟唱。所以，现在才会有人站在正在重新开阔、重新恢复想像力的文学之河的岸边说：中国文学没有幻想的传统。这妄自菲薄时的大胆确实令人非常吃惊。而事实仅仅是，我们只是在短短的几十年中丢掉了优美的幻想传统。而新时期文学开始的二十多年来，文学与出版界最有意义的努力之一就是：在与我们整个文化传统接续上中断的联系，同时，恢复与整个世界的对话与交流能力。而科幻这个舶来的文学品种，之所以在这些年内获得长足进展，就是因为这不但符合科技时代的审美潮流，更暗合了人们对接续幻想文学传统的一种渴望。科幻是幻想文学在现代的变身。只不过，时代前进了，幻想重新上路时，除了渴望超越现实的心灵需求依旧之外，更重要的是站在了坚实的科学知识与科学眼光的基石之上。

常常有这样一种现象，当讨论到世界文化的绝大多数成就时，我们都能从本国古人的成就中找到佐证，证明吾国的创造与发明远比洋人们要早很多很多。这固然有一定的事实基础，就比如幻想性吧，《庄子》就以丰沛无边的想像来说明哲理，后起的希腊哲人则不是这样的方式。

霍金的新书叫《果壳中的宇宙》，指出了宇宙在一个巨大尺度上的封闭性，历史在这封闭的宇宙中转了一个圈，拥有光荣历史的我们却开始忘记智慧的祖先创下的伟大遗产。

“记忆中的形象一旦被词语固定住，就给抹掉了。”在富于幻想的卡尔维诺笔下，马可·波罗对天朝上国的可汗这样说。因为这样一个原因，他不愿意向可汗讲述记忆中的威尼斯，怕因此“一下子失去了她”。我想，那种认为中国没有幻想文学传统的说法，并不是要像马可·波罗一样，要把这伟大的遗产珍藏起来，任其尘封，在世界面前做出一副从未受过幻想恩赐的僵死的表情。其实，文学幻想传统的中断，只是文学被暂时工具化的结果。这样的结果是，文学以单一的面目，细菌一样快速自我复制，还有一些更加聪明的则学会了相互仿造，最后，以庄严现实的名义扼杀了幻想。恍惚记得得塞利纳的小说《茫茫黑夜漫游》中，写非洲大河两岸的丛林中有一种带菌的蚊子，浪游河上的主人公被叮咬感染后，眼前便出现种种可怕的幻象。看来，在文学上也是一样，一旦被某种病毒感染，也会出现幻视：使局部的放大遮蔽了整体面貌。

今天，文学生态的多样性正在恢复，在主流文学中，想像力复活了，像汹涌的春水冲破了堤坝。遗憾的是，科幻文学却只是在文学主流视野之外悄然崛起，文学界还没有意识到，科幻文学的兴起，正是另一种意义上，对幻想文学传统的有力接续。所以如此的原因，是因为，在幻想前面有了一个限制词：科学。也正由于此，我在前面袭用了一个大概是来自佛经的词：变身。也就是说，当幻想在文学中重新出现时，如果说在主流文学中，大致还能看到原来的模样的话，那么，当幻想出现在科幻文学当中时，完全是一副很当代很时尚的样子了。特别是因为，科幻文学这一特别的样式，首先是从欧美兴起，转而进入中国，我们因而难以确认科幻文学与中国文学中的幻想传统有无一种传承的关系。现在，大批的青少年刚开始文学阅读，便把兴趣投向了科幻文学；更多想在文学上一试身手的青少年一开始便从科幻小说创作起步，而且进步神速，这样一种现象，很难完全归功于欧风美雨的吹沐。在我更愿意看成是，幻想传统在新的时代条件下以一种新的姿态在复苏与重建。所以，这种“变身”是值得学界重视的，也是值得我们为之欢呼的。

为一套域外的科幻小说丛书中文版写序，却谈的是中国文学中幻想传统的复苏与重建，也许，读者，甚至丛书的编辑会责我文不对题。但我想，我们所以译介这些作品，并计划把这样一项现在推进得还比较艰难的工作长期进行下去，其目的，是想了解幻想性的文学在另外一些文化中，是怎样一种面貌，达到了怎样的标高。恢复并重建我们的幻想传统，不可能只是一个简单的接续，而是具有全新时代特征的大幅进步。特别是考虑到，这个传统曾经有过相当长时期的中断与遗忘，那么，引进这样的他山之石，以资借鉴，以资开阔我们的视野，就是一件有特别意义的事情了。文学之河上束搏自由想像的堤坝有时实在是太坚固了，要冲决这样顽固的存在，有时需要引进另外一股有活力的水流，与堤坝之内渴望自由的力量一起形成一股强大的合力。

因此，这套丛书的出版，有着一种特别的意义。它提醒我们，中国文学幻想传统的重建，除了纵向的接续，还有大量的横向的比较，只有站在与世界对话的意义上，这种重建才是一种真正的重建。

特德·蒋的八个世界

姚海军

特德·蒋１９６７年出生于美国纽约市杰斐逊镇，毕业于布朗大学计算机科学系，是美国当代最优秀的华裔科幻作家。

特德·蒋的作品不多，自１９９０年发表处女作《巴比伦塔》至今，总共发表的作品只有八篇，且都是短篇或中篇。尽管如此，他在美国科幻界却享有很高的声誉。个中原因很简单：他的作品虽少，却几乎篇篇称得上精品。八篇小说让他捧回了包括雨果奖、星云奖、斯特金奖、坎贝尔奖在内的所有科幻大奖的奖杯。

本书收录的就是特德·蒋迄今为止的全部八篇小说。

《巴比伦塔》是特德·蒋的处女作，荣获１９９０年星云奖。

特德·蒋在《巴比伦塔》中用一连串令人惊叹的细节，舒展自如地将一座只能存在于想像世界中的通天塔永久地矗立于读者心间。小说中恣肆张扬的想像，凝练传神的语言，充分展现了人类想像力的奇伟。

《巴比伦塔》还探讨了好奇心对人类的左右。一代又一代，我们一直在好奇心的驱使下探寻。科学在突飞猛进，我们的狂妄在与日俱增，正如同那些努力凿穿天底的工匠。特德·蒋在小说结尾给出了向上帝挑战的结局，当然，更恰当地讲，这个结局只是我们作为人类一员自省的开始。

《你一生的故事》是一篇少见的以语言学为核心的科幻小说，荣获１９９８年的星云奖和斯特金奖。

对于那些热衷于描写地球人与外星人交往的科幻作家来说，智慧生物之间交流所必需的语言本是他们必须要解决的首要问题。但是很显然，绝大多数作家都狡猾地回避了这个问题。在他们的故事中，语言障碍总是被一笔带过：故事开始不久，他们就让地球科学家拿着自动翻译器出现在了外星人面前。

从语言学角度切入描写两种智慧生物的交流是对想像力的挑战。科幻有史百余年来，只有特德·蒋在应对这种挑战中，取得了令人瞩目的成就。《你一生的故事》在将语言学的魅力表现到极致的同时，更奠定了特德·蒋科幻名家的地位。

《你一生的故事》中的外星人被称为“七肢桶”。七肢桶文字，颇有几分像中国的象形文字，所不同的只是，七肢桶不是靠一个个具有独立意义的字词来表意，而是将所有需要表达的语意都统一在一个字内。语意越是繁复，这个字就越是复杂。

更奇妙的是七肢桶语言背后的感知世界的方式。那种方式与我们完全不同。我们依照前后顺序感知世界，将各个事件之间的关系理解为因与果；而“七肢桶”则同时感知所有事件，过去、现在、未来在他们眼中没有界线，恰如一本完整的史书，既可以先看“因”，也可以先看“果”。

这种感知世界的方式深深影响了故事的主人公（她受政府委托掌握七肢捅语言的过程，就是她感知世界的方式发生改变的过程），她因而洞悉了自己，以及她那个暂时还不存在的女儿的一生。虽然我们很明白这意味着什么，但是，当读到“然后，突然间，我已经在太平间：一个勤杂工掀开罩单，露出你的脸。我看见的是二十五岁时的你（她的女儿）”时，那种惊悚，还是让我们猝不及防。

小说独具匠心地采用了第一人称视角与第二人称视角交替推进的手法，字里行间充溢着科幻小说特有的奇异感。读者在感受七肢捅语言独特魅力的同时，更感受到一种缘于宿命的忧伤：那忧伤融和着诗一般的意象，最终凝聚成女主人公的感叹——“一瞥之下，过去与未来轰然同时并至，我的意识成为长达半个世纪的灰烬，时间未至已成灰。我的余生尽在其中。”

同《巴比伦塔》一样，《地狱是上帝不在的地方》和《七十二个字母》写的都是一个完全由想像力创造的假想世界，前者荣获２００１年的雨果奖、星云奖和轨迹奖，后者荣获２０００年的日本科幻大奖。

《地狱是上帝不在的地方》可谓别出心裁，是一篇以“点子”取胜的幻想小说杰作。小说讲述了天使下凡在给人间带来恩惠的同时，所引发的灾难与信仰冲击；通过对尼尔宗教情感心路历程的追寻，探讨了爱与回报以及什么才是真正的信仰的问题。这些探讨给读者留下了广阔的回想空间。

《七十二个字母》中的想像世界比《地狱是上帝不在的地方》更为奇特。那是一个以名字驱动一切的“魔法”世界，科学大师们通过命名赋予万物以灵性。命名师是那个世界中最伟大的职业，他们中的一员甚至已经开始研究能够自我“繁殖”的自动偶人的佳名。当然，这一研究被一个关乎人类种族存亡的问题所打断，伟大的命名师必须先找出人类的佳名，让人类继续繁衍生息。

《除以零》也许是一篇令人费解的故事。它讲述了一个女数学家科学信仰的崩窥，但给人的感觉却好像是从数学问题的裂缝中对爱情生活的一次观察。数学上，任何数字除以零都不会得出一个有意义的数来；而在爱情生活中，纯粹的理性正如同数学中那个不可以作除数的“零”。

比较而言，《赏心悦目》是这本小说集中最平实的一篇，其故事核心是新发明“审美干扰镜”所引起的社会反应，是一篇典型的反思型科幻小说。特德·蒋在这篇故事中提出的问题是：相貌歧视是否应该或者可以用技术手段予以消灭？

在特德·蒋发表的八篇作品中，《人类科学之演变》是最特别的。从篇幅上看它只能算是一则小品，但在逻辑想像方面却同样极为出众。特德·蒋仿佛是一位先知先觉者，为我们勾画了一幅当科学发展到常人再也无法理解时的未来图景。两千字的短文，令人心生千般遐想。

《领悟》是特德·蒋作品中情节性最强的一篇。荷尔蒙Ｋ疗法为我们的世界创造了两位超人。他们中的一个一心要重塑世界，而另一个却只想利用自己超人的智慧探求宇宙的终极真理。他们最终狭路相逢，展开了一场生死决战，特德·蒋对这场决战的描写想像超绝，激荡心神，堪称经典——或许只有弗诺·文奇《真名实姓》中的超人争霸才可与之媲美。

《领悟》是对传统的超人争霸题材的一次超越。这超越源自于特德·蒋对他笔下的一位超人的引导。他让这位神一样的人物摒弃世俗欲求，走上科学探索之路，最大程度上满足了读者的好奇心。

巴比伦塔

一

如果把塔放倒在希拉平原上，从这端到那端，将要走上整整两天时间。当塔矗立着朝向天空时，从地面爬上顶端，将花去一个半月时间──如果这个攀登者没有额外负担的话。

而实际情形是，很少有人可以徒手攀登。绝大多数的人身后都拖着一辆装满砖块的木质小车，于是，攀登的速度自然就大大减缓了。当砖块从装上车时起，到被运到不断升高的塔顶那一天，这个世界已经过去整整四个月时间。

二

赫拉鲁穆一生都是在艾拉买度过的，他只是在市场购买铜器时才听说过巴比伦这个名字。

那些铜器是来自大海的船带到幼发拉底河畔的。

现在，赫拉鲁穆和其他矿工却正走在去巴比伦塔的路上，身后，是驮着货物的商队。他们沿着一条满是尘土的小路从高原上下来，穿过平原上被条条沟渠和堤坝分割成许多方块的绿色田野。

和赫拉鲁穆一样，所有的人以前都没有见过那座塔。

在距巴比伦还有几里路时，那塔就浮现在他们的视线里了：一根像亚麻线一样的细条，摇曳在闪着微光的热腾腾的空气中，从巴比伦地平线上慢慢耸立起来。又行走一些时候，他们眼前出现了巴比伦城巨大的围墙。如果把这围墙看作一个巨大的硬泥壳的话，那么，塔身就好像正破壳而出，变得越来越高，越来越大。以致这群正在走近的人眼里除了这通天之塔外，便一无所见了。

当他们仰酸了脖子，把视线收回到地面时，便看到了修建这庞然大物所带来的巨大影响：幼发拉底河在缓缓流淌，河床却几乎被掏空，只为制作数不清的砖块提供大量的泥土。更往南一点，是蜂房一般重重叠叠的砖窑，此时却无声无息没有升火。

他们走向城门，这时的塔看上去比赫拉鲁穆能想像出来的任何东西都要大。它伸进无边的天空中，最后，高得连自身也像被天空吸进去一样，什么也看不见了。如果说这塔是天空的支柱的话，那么可以说它的下部比这城里最大的宫殿还要庞大。一行人就这么仰着脑袋走路，在强烈的阳光下眯缝着眼睛。

南尼用肘碰碰走在身边的赫拉鲁穆，声音里满含敬畏：“我们也要去爬那东西，一直爬到它顶上？”

“嗯……”赫拉鲁穆依然仰着头，有点答非所问，“它看上去……有点不太自然。”

中央城门前有一支商队正从那儿出发，这队矿工挤进城墙投下的狭窄的阴影中，他们的工头贝尼向站在城门塔楼上的看守人叫道：“我们是从艾拉买召集来的矿工！”

看门人一下兴奋起来，其中一个大声问道：“你们就是那些将要挖通天堂拱顶的人吗？”

“是的。”

三

整个城市都在庆祝。

节日是在最后一批砖运往高处的时候开始的，已经进行八天了，而且还要继续两天。无论白天还是夜晚，整个城市都在欢歌、舞蹈，笼罩在一派狂欢的气氛之中。

和制砖者在一起的是那些拖车的人，他们由于无休止地在高塔上攀爬而使腿上暴起了一条条结实的肌肉。每天早上，他们迎着东方的霞光拖着满车砖块开始攀爬，四天以后，重负移交给下一站的拖车人，第五天，他们带着空拖车回到城里。就是这样，拖车者构成的链条一环扣一环，一直把砖块传送到塔顶。正因为如此，只有下面这队拖车的人才能回到城里与人们一起庆祝。当然，之前已经有许多酒肉也一环环送了上去，以使整个城市的欢乐满布塔身，直到天堂。

赫拉鲁穆与他来自艾拉买的矿工伙伴们一起坐在土凳上，面前长长的桌子上堆满了食物。这个夜晚，这个城市的广场上还摆放着许多同样的桌子。艾拉买的矿工们与那些拖车人交谈，打听塔的种种情况。

南尼问：“有人告诉我，当一块砖从塔顶掉下来时，塔顶上砌砖的人们恸哭不已，还使劲抓扯自己的头发，因为要过四个月才能补充它。但当一个人失足摔死时，人们却毫不在意，这是真的吗？”

一个叫鲁加图穆的拖车人猛烈地摇着头：“噢，不，那只是一个故事而已。每天都有运砖的链条在不断运转，把几千块砖送上塔顶，所以，失去一块砖根本算不了什么。但是，砌砖人把一件东西看得比生命更重要，那就是砖刀。”

“为什么是砖刀？”

“对一个砌砖人而言，砖刀掉到塔下，他就不能工作，直到下面带上来一把新的砖刀。在这等待砖刀到达的几个月时间里，他就挣不到必需的食物，这才是那些人在塔顶痛哭的原因。如果一个工人摔死了，而他的砖刀还留在那里，人们会在暗地里感到庆幸，因为下一个掉下砖刀的工人就能继续工作，而不致立即陷入困境。”

赫拉鲁穆吃了一惊，并努力计算着矿工们带来了多少工具。然后，他反驳道：“为什么不多带些砖刀上去？它们的重量与那些砖头相比根本算不了什么，而一个工人停工才是真正的损失。”

所有拖车的人都大笑起来。

“我们没法愚弄这个人。”鲁加图穆转向赫拉鲁穆，脸上洋溢着愉快的神情，“那么，节日一结束你们就开始攀登吗？”

赫拉鲁穆喝了口啤酒：“是的。我听说还有一队来自西部某处的矿工也将加入，但我还没见到他们。你知道他们吗？”

“知道，他们来自于那个叫埃及的地方，但他们不像你们开采矿石，他们的工作是钻石头。”

南尼嘴里塞满的猪肉使他说话显得口齿不清了：“我们在艾拉买也钻石头。”

“他们钻的石头是花岗石，跟你们不一样。”

“花岗石？”在艾拉买没有花岗石，所以他们只钻过石灰岩和雪花石。

“到过埃及的商人说，他们的金字塔和宫殿用花岗石和石灰建成，一块块都非常巨大。据说他们还在花岗岩上雕出巨大的雕像。”

“可花岗石很难……”

鲁加图穆耸耸肩：“对他们而言并不难。王室的建筑师们相信他们到达天堂拱顶时，也许会有用。”

对此，赫拉鲁穆点点头，谁又能肯定在高处那个地方不需要这样的人呢？

“那么，你见到过他们吗？”

“没有，他们还没到，几天后才能到，但不可能在节日结束时赶到，所以，你们艾拉买人要独自登塔了。”

“你们不是要陪我们上去吗？”

“对，但只是最初的四天。然后我们必须回来，只有你们这些幸运的人才能继续往前。”

“幸运？你说我们幸运？”

“我非常想到塔顶上去。往上爬十二天的高度，是我到过的最高的地方。”鲁加图穆有些悲伤地笑了笑，“我羡慕你们将会摸到天堂的拱顶。”

去触摸天堂的拱顶，并用镐头将其掘开，虽然还未成为现实，但仅仅这个想法也足以使赫拉鲁穆感到不安：“其实，你没有必要羡慕……”

“对，”南尼总是兴冲冲的，他说，“当我们完成了工作，所有人就都能摸到天堂的拱顶了。”

四

第二天早上，赫拉鲁穆专程去看塔。

一座庙宇在塔基的旁边。庙宇自身本应也是个辉煌的所在，可现在，它却那么灰溜溜地蹲在塔下，毫不起眼。

而塔就不一样了，不等你靠近去触摸它，就已经感到一种纯粹的坚固与力量。所有的传说都认为，建造这座塔的目的，是为了获得一种力量，这种力量是任何一座巴比伦庙塔都未曾拥有的。普通的巴比伦塔只是用太阳晒干的泥砖制成，只在表面装饰经过烧焙的砖。这座正等他们去攀爬的高塔却全部用被窑火煅烧得十分坚硬的砖堆砌而成，一块块砖被沥青胶泥粘合起来。

塔的底座有两个平台。

第一个平台是巨大的正方形，大约二百腕尺长，四十腕尺高。上面是第二个平台，就是从那里开始，塔身拔地而起。

塔身是一根正方形的巨柱，支撑住天堂的重量。塔身上缠绕着一条斜面，就像缠在鞭子手柄上的皮条。不对，不是一条斜面，而是两条，缠绕着塔身，吸引着他的目光一直往上。他看到的是永无止境的交替出现的斜面和砖，砖和斜面，直到最后就什么都分辨不出来了。而塔却还在向着天空上升，上升，不停地上升。赫拉鲁穆看得脑袋眩晕，离开塔的时候，步子都有些踉跄。

赫拉鲁穆想起了儿童时代听过的故事，那些大洪水泛滥之后的神话。

故事讲述大洪水之后人们怎样移居到世界的每个角落，居住到比大洪水之前更多的陆地上；人们怎样航行到世界的边缘，看到海洋下陷进茫茫雾霭之中，汇入了地狱的黑暗；人们怎样因此认识到这个世界太小了，并希望看到边界之外的东西，所有耶和华的创造物；人们怎样在焦渴的大地上抬头望天，想像上帝的房子一定建在清凉的水上。进而想起几世纪前塔开始建筑，一根支撑天宇的巨柱，一道通往天堂的楼梯，人们可以爬上去瞻仰耶和华的杰作，耶和华也可以下到地面来看看人间的创造。

对赫拉鲁穆而言，这成千上万人不停劳动的场面也像一个神话，非常激动人心，因为这种劳动的唯一目的就是最大限度地接受并理解上帝。当巴比伦人在艾拉买招募矿工时他就非常激动了，所以，他才在此时此刻站在了塔的跟前。可偏偏在这个时候，他的感觉却在反抗，在内心里大声地说，世上没有什么东西应该耸立得如此之高。

而且，他开始怀疑，自己为什么要去攀爬这看上去没有终点的巨大造物。

五

开始攀登的那个早上，塔基第二层平台上满是一排排两轮人力拖车。车上装载着各种各样的口袋，里面装着大麦、小麦、小扁豆、洋葱、海枣、黄瓜、面包和鱼干，还有许多硕大的陶罐，里面盛满了水、酒、牛奶、棕榈油。车上还有青铜容器、芦苇篮子和亚麻布，甚至还有一些肥壮的牛和山羊。一些人正用布条将这些牲畜的眼睛蒙住，以免它们登塔时看到下面而受到惊吓；到达塔顶后，它们将成为祭品。

当然，还有些拖车用来装上矿工们的镐头和锤子，以及一些可以装配出一个小煅铁炉的元件。工头还叫人往拖车上装木头和芦苇。

鲁加图穆站在一辆拖车旁，把装上车的木头用绳子系紧。赫拉鲁穆走过去，问他：“这些木头是从哪儿来的？我们这一路上可没看到过树林。”

“在北方有一片树林，是刚开始建塔时种下的，砍下的木头顺着幼发拉底河漂流下来。”

“你们种了一整片森林？”

“建塔之前，建筑家们就知道砖窑将烧掉许多树木，因此他们种了这片森林。还有一些人，负责为树林提供水，并在每棵树被砍掉的地方补种一棵。”

赫拉鲁穆吓了一跳：“这就能提供所有的木材？”

鲁加图穆埋头给车轴加油，头也不抬地说：“至少是大多数吧。”

南尼走过来，眼睛却盯着展开在平台下的巴比伦的街道：“我从来没有站得这么高，以至于能够俯瞰一座城市。”

“我也没有。”赫拉鲁穆说。

鲁加图穆却只是微笑：“走吧，所有的车都准备好了。”

所有人都配成两人一组，每一组都配上一辆拖车。矿工们拉的车混编在那些老练的拖车人中间，鲁加图穆的拖车就跟在赫拉鲁穆和南尼的拖车后面。

“记住，”鲁加图穆叮嘱他们，“跟前面的车保持十腕尺的距离。转弯时由右边的那个人用力，每隔一小时交换一下位置。”

赫拉鲁穆与南尼弯下腰，把拖车的绳子吊在肩膀上，然后一起直起腰来，把拖车的前端抬离了地面。

鲁加图穆挥挥手，两人一用力，车轮就开始转动了。车轮滚上登塔的斜面时，两人深深地弯下了腰。赫拉鲁穆咕哝了一句：“这还是一辆轻车。”

硬砖铺成的斜面上，几世纪以来，车轮在上面已经磨出了一道深深的沟槽，车轮就顺着沟槽缓缓地向上滚动。两人腰弯得那么低，头都要抵到地面，几乎都没有在塔上的感觉了。

“你们采矿时唱歌吗？”

“当石头不是太硬时。”南尼回答。

“那么，唱一个你们的采矿歌吧。”

这个要求传递到所有矿工耳里，不久，整支队伍都唱起歌来了。

六

人影越来越短，他们上升得越来越高。

现在，这些攀登者周围只剩下凛冽的风，和太阳投在身下的影子。这儿的气温比下面的城市要低很多，在下面，正午的骄阳能够杀死一只快速横过街道的蜥蜴。登高环顾四周，可以看到沉沉流动的幼发拉底河，以及宽广的绿色田野，反射着阳光的沟渠从其中蜿蜒而过。巴比伦城是一幅密密麻麻的街道与建筑构成的迷宫般的图案，而在整个城市之上，闪耀着石膏涂料的白色光芒。

突然传来了一个人大叫的声音。

作为这个运转着的链条上的一环，赫拉鲁穆知道自己不能停下来，于是便向后面的鲁加图穆大声叫道：“下面出了什么事？”

“你们的一个矿工对高度感到害怕了，第一次离开地面的人偶尔会出现这种情况。但很少有人在这么点高度就感到惊恐。”

赫拉鲁穆附和说：“我知道这种惊恐。在矿工中就有人害怕进入坑道，因为他们老是担心被埋在里面。”

“真的？”鲁加图穆说，“我倒还真没听说过这种事情。你怎么样，我是说，在这种高度上你的感觉。”

“我什么也没有感觉到。”他若无其事地说，同时却看了南尼一眼，他们俩才知道此时内心里的真实感觉是什么。

“其实，你从自己手掌上就能感觉到紧张，对吧？”南尼轻声问道。

赫拉鲁穆在绳子粗砺的纤维上擦擦有些汗湿的手，点了点头。

“我也感觉到了。”

“也许我们也该蒙上头巾，像牛和山羊一样。”赫拉鲁穆尽量以轻松的口吻说。

“你认为我们也会对高度产生恐惧，当我们爬得更高时？”

赫拉鲁穆想了一下，好像这样就能甩掉紧张的感觉：“我们只是不习惯而已，再说我们还有几个月时间来适应高度，也许等我们到达塔顶后，我们可能还会觉得这塔不够高呢。”

“不，不，”南尼摇摇头，“我并不认为有谁希望这东西更高一些。”

说完，两个人相视着大笑起来。

七

晚餐吃的是大麦、洋葱和小扁豆。睡觉的地方是塔内的一条走廊。

第二天早上起来，矿工们腿酸软得要命，几乎都迈不开步子了。拖车工人们见状笑了起来，然后给了他们一些药膏涂在肌肉上，并为他们的拖车减轻了一些负担。

这时赫拉鲁穆再往塔下看时，膝盖就像浸在冷水中一样。在这个高度上，风一直在吹着，很明显，越往上走，风力会越来越大。他甚至想，有没有人被风刮到塔下去过呢？他还想，这个被刮下塔去的家伙，在到达地面之前，完全有时间完成一个祷告。赫拉鲁穆被自己的奇怪想法吓了一跳。

攀登又开始了。和第一天相比，他们可以看得更远了，进入视野的景物宽广得令人害怕：连绿洲之外的沙漠都尽收眼底，沙漠中的商队看上去就像一列缓缓移动的昆虫。

第三天，他们的腿仍然没有好转，赫拉鲁穆感觉自己就像个残疾老人。到了第四天，腿的感觉才好了一点。拖车工人们出于同情帮忙拖了两天的货物又回到了他们车上。下午，他们遇到了从上面下来的第二梯次上的拖车人。

那个晚上比较热闹，他们全在一起吃饭聊天。早上，陪伴了他们四天的第一队拖车人准备回到巴比伦，鲁加图穆向赫拉鲁穆与南尼道再见。

“照顾好你们的车，它爬上这座塔的次数比任何人都多。”

“你羡慕它？”

“不，想想每次好不容易爬上了塔，又必须顺着原路回来，我就难受。”

八

现在，他们后面那辆车的拖车人变成了库塔。这一天行程结束时，库塔走过来：“你们从来没在这样高的地方眺望过太阳，来，看看吧。”

库塔走到塔边坐下，双腿悬在塔外，他看见他们犹豫不决：“你们可以趴在地上，把头伸出来向外边看，如果你们想看的话。”赫拉鲁穆不愿意在别人眼里像个担惊受怕的孩子，但他怎么也不敢学库塔的样子，于是，他与南尼便只好照库塔所说的样子做了。

“当太阳下落时，要顺着塔边往下看。”

赫拉鲁穆向下看了一眼，那几千腕尺的深渊让人胆寒，他赶忙把视线转向远处的地平线：“太阳从这儿落下有什么不同？”

“当太阳从西边落到那些山脉后面时，希拉平原就是黑夜了。但在这儿，我们比那些山峰更高，因此我们仍然能看到太阳。如果我们想看到夜晚，太阳必须沉落到更远的地方。”

赫拉鲁穆明白了：“夜晚降临到地面的时间比这儿要早。”

“你能看到黑夜顺着塔升上来，从地面升到天空。”他盯着远处的太阳看了一会儿，然后把视线转向下方，“你们看，现在开始了！”

赫拉鲁穆和南尼循声望去，在这座巨塔下面，巴比伦城已处在阴影中。阴影往上蔓延时，就像一顶华盖正在撑开一样。很快，阴影水一样漫过了他们，于是，他们便置身黄昏中了。

赫拉鲁穆翻过身来把脸转向天空，看到夜色快速升过塔的其余部分，天空越来越模糊，太阳正下沉到世界很远很远的边缘。

“算得上是一种奇观，对吧。”库塔问。

赫拉鲁穆什么也没说，他第一次明白，所谓的夜，就是大地把它自己的阴影投射到了天空上。

九

又经过了两天的爬行，赫拉鲁穆已经敢于站在塔边上往下看了──虽然抓着边上的柱子，探出身子时还特别小心翼翼。他问库塔：“怎么塔看上去越往上越宽，怎么会这样呢？”

“因为有那些亚麻绳吊着的丝柏木造成的阳台。”

“阳台？塔上造阳台有什么用处？”

“铺上土壤后，就可以种植蔬菜，在这么高的地方，水很紧缺，因此最普遍种植的是洋葱。再往上，那里雨水多一些，你们还可以看到种植的豆子。”

对此，南尼感到有些难于理解：“雨水？上面的雨水为什么就不能落到下面来？”

库塔对南尼提出这样的问题也感到难于理解：“它们在下落时被蒸发掉了。”

南尼耸耸肩头。

次日行程结束时，他们就到达了有阳台的高度。看到了上面密密麻麻地栽着洋葱。这里，每一层都有几个算不上宽敞的房间，供拖车工人的家里人居住。女人们或是坐在屋里缝补衣服，或是在地里挖洋葱。孩子们则上上下下地彼此追逐，在拖车中间穿梭。

拖车工人们回到自己的家中，并邀请矿工们和他们共进晚餐，于是，赫拉鲁穆便和南尼一起去了库塔家里。这是一顿丰盛可口的晚餐，有鱼干、面包、海枣酒和水果。

吃完饭出去闲逛时，赫拉鲁穆注意到在塔的这一层面上，已经形成了一个小城镇。上行与下行的坡道就是穿城而过的大街。镇子上有一座神殿，用以举行各种仪式与庆典，有行政官员调解各种争端，有商店。当然，这个城镇并非一个永远的存在，它仅仅只是一个长达几个世纪的旅程的一个组成部分。

赫拉鲁穆问库塔：“你们有谁去过巴比伦城吗？”

库塔的妻子阿利图穆回答：“没有，我们为什么要下去，为了让我爬很长的路再回到这里吗？这儿有我们所需要的一切东西。”

“你们一点也不想到地面上去走走，我是说真正的地面。”

库塔耸耸肩：“我们住在通往天堂的路上。我们所干的一切就是使这条路延伸得更高更远，当我们选择离开时，只会向上，而不是向下。”

十

矿工们又继续往上。

有一天，当有人探出身子往下看去时，发现塔身收缩得什么都看不见了，远在其到达坚实的地面之前。再向上看，却依然看不到塔顶。也就是说，他们不再是大地的一部分，而处在一种上不沾天，下不着地的境地了。赫拉鲁穆感到了一种被隔离于世界之外的惶恐，好像大地因为其不忠的行为摈弃了他，而天堂还随时可能拒绝他。

这里的居民却并不感到任何不安，他们总是热情地接待矿工们，并祝愿他们在拱顶处的工作顺利完成。这些居民住在潮湿的雾气里，从上面还是下面都能看到暴雨。他们在空中收获谷物。

几个星期过去了，每天的旅程中，都会感到太阳和月亮越来越近。月亮把它的银色光辉洒在塔身南面，闪烁不定，仿佛上帝在注视着他们。很快他们就处在与月亮平行的高度上了，他们好奇地打量着月亮坑坑洼洼的脸，惊讶于它庄严而自在的运行。

然后，他们就接近了太阳。时间正是夏季，当太阳从巴比伦升起时，这几乎就悬挂在他们头顶上。在塔的这个高度上，已经没有了常住的居民，也没有供种植作物的阳台，这里太阳的热量足以把大麦直接烤熟。粘合塔砖的材料不再是沥青，因为会被阳光烤化流淌。为了遮挡过度的热量，坡道外缘的柱子全被加宽到失去了柱子应有的形状，差不多都连接起来形成了一道连续不断的墙。从那些剩下的缝隙里，漏进来一些呼啸的风和金色明亮的光线。

为了适应温度的变化，每天出发的时间越来越早，以使在攀登的路上有更多的清凉。当他们来到与太阳水平的高度上时，已经完全是在夜间行进了。白天，他们躺着睡觉，在火热的微风中大汗淋漓。矿工们甚至担心，如果他们真的睡着了，在醒来之前就会被酷热烤死。但拖车工人们无数次地在这个高度上往返，却从未有人因此丢了性命，这多少让矿工们睡觉前感到安心一点了。

终于，他们越过了这个酷热的高度。现在，白天的光线开始极不自然地向上照耀，阳台上的植物倾斜着向下生长，弯下身子以便获得光合作用所需的阳光。之后，他们就接近了星星。一个个火团似的小圆体在四周铺展开来。在这里，星星并不像从地面上看去那么密集，也不是全部分布在同一个水平高度上，并一直向上延伸。很难辨别它们到底有多远，因为没有恰当的参照物。但偶尔会有一颗星星一下子冲到离他们很近的地方，向这些人证明它那令人吃惊的速度。

白天，天空是一种比从地面上看上去更苍白的蓝色，显示出他们正在接近天堂拱顶的迹象。只要仔细观察，白天的天空里也可以看到几颗星星。地面上看不到它们，是由于太阳那炫目的光。

赫拉鲁穆正在望星星，南尼突然急匆匆跑来：“一颗星星撞到了塔上！”

“什么？”赫拉鲁穆惊恐地四处张望，好像是担心自己被星星撞上一样。

“不，不是现在，而是很久以前，是一个多世纪以前。是一个当地居民讲的故事，当时他的祖父在现场。”

他们回到人群中，看到几个矿工正围在一个形容枯槁的老人四周。“……星星把自己射进了塔砖中，就在上面半里路远的地方。现在仍然可以看到它留下的痕迹……”

“星星最后怎么样了？”

“它燃烧着，不停地咝咝作响，明亮得让人根本无法正眼看它。人们想把它撬出来，再继续自己的旅程，可是，它发出的热量根本不让人靠近。几个星期后，它自己才冷却成一堆黑色的疙疙瘩瘩的天堂金属。有一个人双臂环抱在一起那么大。”

“这么大啊！”南尼的声音里充满了敬畏，“以前当星星落到地面上时，也能找到小块的天堂金属，比最好的青铜还坚硬，人们通常用它打造护身符。”

“那么大一块天堂金属，这里没有人试图把它制成某种工具吗？”赫拉鲁穆的脑子总是能比别人想更多的问题。

“噢，没有，人们连碰都不敢碰它。每个人都在等待上帝的惩罚，担心一切都是因为我们打扰了他。人们在塔下等了几个月，上帝依然像过去一样平心静气，什么事情都没有发生。他们这才回来，把星星从塔砖里撬出来，现在，它就在下面那座城市的神殿中。”

沉默。

每一个都好像在体味着什么。过了很久，一个矿工才开口：“我们从没在有关塔的故事里听到这一个。”

“因为它是一个禁忌，一件不能提起的事情。”

再度沉默。

十一

这一路上去，天空的色彩变得越来越柔和，直到有一天早晨，赫拉鲁穆醒来后突然惊叫起来。以前看上去越来越苍白的天空，现在看上去像是一层白色的天花板，在他们头顶高处铺展开来。他们已经非常接近天堂的拱顶，看到它就像一个固体的壳，封住了整个天空。所有的矿工都不敢大声说话，盯着天空目不转睛地看，露出白痴一样的傻样，因此受到塔上居民的嘲笑。

就这样，天堂拱顶突然一下就出现在他们面前。他们不是向虚空无休止地攀爬，而是爬上一个在每个方向都延伸得无边无际的地方。面对此情此景，赫拉鲁穆感到眩晕。当他注视拱顶时，觉得整个世界都在虚空中翻转，而且，头上的拱顶也带有一种令人压抑的重量，它像整个世界一样重，却又没有任何支撑。因此赫拉鲁穆感到了前所未有的惊恐：拱顶随时会从头上倒塌下来。

有时，他又觉得拱顶像一面垂直的悬崖，而后面朦胧的地面是另一面悬崖。塔则是一根缆绳，紧紧地绷直在两者之间。

他们攀登得更慢了，这使工头贝尼很是不满。人们看到了拱顶，但它带来的并不是更快接近的渴望，而是队伍中蔓延开的不安情绪。也许人们并不渴求生活在这样一个地方，也许天性在约束他们不要太接近天堂，而要人们安心在留在地面上。

他们终于登上了塔顶，头晕目眩的感觉消失了。

这儿，在塔顶的四方平台上，矿工们凝视着下界像毯子一样铺开的陆地与海洋，在飘渺的雾气掩映下，大地与海洋在任何一个方向上，都一直延伸到视力难以企及的地方。而在他们头顶，悬浮着的是这个世界的屋顶，无声地告诉他们：我就是世界的最高处，这儿就是所有创造的根源。

僧侣带领他们祈祷，向上帝祈祷。感谢他们已被允许看到所有的一切，并请求上帝原谅他们还想看到更多的地方。

十二

塔顶还在上升。

强烈的焦油气味从加热的大锅里升起来，锅里，大团的沥青正在融化。这是四个月来，矿工们闻到的最具现实感的气味。他们翕动着鼻翼，捕捉每一丝微弱的气味，趁其被风刮走之前。沥青把一块块砖紧嵌在适当的地方，塔就这样一点点成为一个庞然大物。

砌砖工们仍在一丝不苟地工作，以绝对的精确安放那些又重又大的砖。他们的工作将近尾声，而新上来还感到头晕目眩的矿工们又将开始他们的工作。

埃及人也赶到了。

这些埃及人皮肤黝黑，体型瘦小，下巴上挂着稀疏的胡须，他们的拖车上装着火成岩锤子、青铜工具和木头楔子。他们的工头叫森穆特，他和艾拉买人的工头贝尼一起商量怎样打通拱顶。埃及人打造了一个煅炉，以便用来重新煅造那些用钝了的青铜工具。

拱顶的高度就在一个人伸直了手臂就能碰到的指尖之上，感觉平滑冰凉，它看上去是由很好的颗粒状花岗石磨制而成。

许多年前，上帝引发了地球上的那场大洪水。地狱的水从下面漫溢翻涌，天堂的水则通过拱顶上打开的水闸一泻而下。现在他们接近了拱顶，却没有看到上帝的水闸。他们四处搜寻，也没有在那坚硬的花岗石平面上看到哪怕一丝丝的缝隙。

看来，塔顶与天堂的会合处是在两道闸门之间，对他们来说，这确实是一种幸运。如果头顶有一道闸门，他们就不得不冒着打穿一座天堂水库的风险，如果这种事情真的发生，下面的平原上就会下起不合时令的大雨，雨水会引发幼发拉底河的洪灾。当然，当水库排空之后，暴雨就会停止。但也不排除另一种可能，即上帝想惩罚冒犯他的人类，便让雨继续倾盆而下，直到这塔坍倒在巴比伦城融化而成的泥浆之中。

即使看不到闸门，却仍然有一个风险存在。也许上帝创造的闸门是凡人眼睛所难以看见的，也许他们头顶就是一座天堂水库，只是因为这个水库太巨大了，以至于最近的闸门也有几里路远。

关于他们的工作该从那里开始，争论不少。

“上帝肯定不会把塔冲垮。”一个叫卡杜萨的砌砖工说，“如果上帝觉得塔是对他的亵渎，那他早就下手了。然而这几个世纪以来我们一直在工作，从未看到过上帝哪怕最轻微的不满迹象。即使我们头上有一个水库，上帝也会在我们打穿之前排干它的。”

“如果上帝喜爱这种冒险，那么，就应该有一架专门制造的楼梯在这里等着我们了。”这是一个艾拉买矿工的回答，“上帝既不会帮助我们也不会阻止我们。如果我们打穿了一个水库，我们就将遭受灭顶之灾。”

赫拉鲁穆也冲口说出心中的怀疑：“上帝也许不必直接惩罚我们，如果是我们自己打穿了天堂水库，他会认为是我们自作自受。”

“艾拉买人，”那个卡杜萨叫道，“我们的工作是为了我们对上帝的爱，我们整个一生都在为此工作。我们的父辈，以至再过去的许多代人也是如此。像我们这样正直的人不应该受到惩罚。”

“怀着纯洁的目的工作，并不意味着我们是在明智地工作。选择远离土地的生活，真的就是一种正确的道路？现在我们已经准备好了去打穿天堂，我们怎能保证不为自己的过错受惩罚？”

“赫拉鲁穆建议要小心，我同意，”工头贝尼也说，“我们必须确保不给下面的世界带来第二次大洪水，甚至不能给下面带来过量的大雨。我跟埃及人森穆特一起商量过，他给我看了他们用来密封法老坟墓的方法，相信这种方法会给我们的工作提供可靠的保障。”

十三

僧侣们举行了一个典礼，把牛和羊作了献祭，又讲了许多神圣的话，烧了许多香。然后，矿工们开始工作了。

矿工们清楚，只用锤和镐对付这花岗岩天顶是无济于事的。

他们用带上来的木头，燃起一大堆火，让它整整烧了一天。在火焰灼烤下，石头发出劈劈啪啪的声音，慢慢爆裂。这样，他们就可以把石头一大块一大块地从天顶上撬下来了。用这种方法，每天他们都能深入一个腕尺。

坑道不是垂直上升，而是以一个角度倾斜上升，以使他们能从塔上建一道楼梯斜靠在上面。火烧的方式使坑道非常平整光滑，因此他们还在脚下造出一个木制平台，保证自己不滑回塔顶上去。当坑道取得一定进展后，他们就在里面开辟出房间。

埃及人也开始工作了，他们要造一道活动的花岗石门。首先，他们需要从坑道壁中切出一块足够大的花岗岩，它有一个人那么长却比一个人还宽许多。几周以后，它才从岩壁上显出完备的形状。最后，用一块块木头楔子把石料剥离下来，造成了一道可以关住坑道的滑门。这样一来，如果上面真是天堂水库，而且被矿工们挖穿的话，这道滑门加上一些灰浆就可以重新把天堂拱顶封闭起来。

坑道一点点向上延伸，埃及人又建造了一些新的滑动门。这样，如果天堂水库溃决的话，也只能淹没坑道的某一段。

转眼之间，开掘天堂拱顶的工作已经持续几年了。拖车队运上塔顶的不再是砖，而是挖掘坑道需要的大量木头和水。

人们居住在拱顶入口处的坑道中，那儿还有许多小通道，还有悬挂的阳台，种植着向下弯曲的蔬菜。矿工们也成了天堂边界处的定居者，有些人还结了婚，在最接近天堂的地方生儿育女，很少有人再回到地面上去了。

十四

赫拉鲁穆脸上蒙着一块湿布，沿着木梯往下爬，他刚给坑道尽头的火堆添了些木柴。火还能再烧几小时，他下到更低些的坑道里来等待，这儿的风中没有那么浓重的烟雾。

这时，突然传来一座房子撑不住自己重量的那种可怕的嘎嘎声。上面的石头正被一股巨大的力量所分开，随之而来是一阵不断增大的咆哮声，一股激流顺着坑道奔涌而来。

赫拉鲁穆惊恐地站在那里，一动不动。水流，令人震惊的冰冷的水流，猛烈地扑到他腿上，一下就把他撞倒了。他紧紧地抓住激流下的石头梯级。

预想中那可怕的事情发生了，他们挖穿了天堂水库。

他们必须尽快赶到最近的一道石头滑门那里，但他却不断被猛烈的水流冲倒，有时甚至摔出十几级台阶那么远。但恐惧使他感觉不到疼痛，他想，整个拱顶马上就要塌下来了，整个天空就将在他脚下裂开，而他会随这天堂之水一起落到地上。这可就是上帝制造的第二次大洪水？

终于，他跑到了滑动门那里。

他从水里爬起来，还有另外两个矿工，达姆奇亚和阿弗尼。这时，滑动门已经关闭，封闭了出口。

“不！”他叫起来。

“他们关上了它！”达姆奇亚尖叫道，“他们没有等我们！”

“还有人来吗？”阿弗尼则说，“我们可以撬开滑动门。”

“没有人来。”赫拉鲁穆回答。

阿弗尼用手里的锤子使劲砸那门，可在急流的喧哗声中却没发出一点声音。

赫拉鲁穆向房间四处看了看，这才发现一个埃及人脸面朝下浮在水里。

“他是从上面滚下来摔死的。”达姆奇亚的嗓音尖厉刺耳。

“我们什么也不能干吗？”

阿弗尼眼望着上面：“上帝，放过我们吧。”

他们三个站在不断上升的水里，绝望地祷告着，但赫拉鲁穆知道这完全是徒劳的。上帝并没有要求人们来建塔或打穿拱顶，这些决定是人类自己作出的，现在就该他们死在水中了。只凭自己的正直并不能把他们从这个结局里拯救出来。

水已经淹到了他们的胸部。

“快往上爬！”赫拉鲁穆大声招呼两个同伴。

他们迎着急流吃力地向上爬，水就在他们脚下不断上涨。为坑道照明的火把已经熄灭了，他们只能在黑暗里摸索，嘴里咕哝着连自己都听不清的祈祷。

最后在坑道尽头，他们只能眼睁睁看着水的上涨，看看水会不会把他托起到一个什么地方。水很快就涨上来了，并真把他们托起来了。赫拉鲁穆看到那条喷涌出水流的裂缝就在旁边，呼吸着狭小空间里最后一点空气，叫道：“当这点地方被水灌满后，我们就能向天堂游去。”

他不知道他们是不是听到了他的话，当水升到天花板时，他吞下最后一口空气，并向上游进裂缝中。就算他会死，他也要死得比这个世界上的任何人更接近天堂。

四周全是令人窒息的黑暗，压力强大的水流，吸附、推动着他。他连上下左右都分不清了，快要撑不住了，最后一点空气正从嘴边逃走。他要被淹死了，周围的黑暗正渗进他的肺里。

突然，他感觉到了水面上的空气，然后就什么都不知道了。

十五

赫拉鲁穆醒来，脸贴在湿漉漉的石头上。他什么都看不见，但能感觉到身边的水流。他翻动身躯，嘴里发出痛苦的呻吟。他呼吸到了空气。

时间慢慢流逝，最后，他终于站了起来，水从他脚踝下面快速流过。他向前走去，水在变深。他转向另一个方向，于是，他感觉到了干燥的岩石。

四周一片漆黑，像没有火把的矿井。他用手在黑暗中摸索，这样过去了好几个小时。如果这是一个山洞，那它肯定是十分巨大的。他感觉到地面在向上倾斜，也许这是一条通道，这条通道能把他引到天堂。

他继续往前爬行，不去想过去了多长时间，也不去想他将永远不能从原路返回地面。尽管他才被水淹过，吞下了那么多的水，这时，他仍感到口渴，并感到饥饿。

终于，一道光线出现在他眼前。

他跪下来，双手紧紧地捂住脸，这是来自上帝的光芒吗？几分钟后，他慢慢睁开眼睛，看到了面前延伸开广阔的沙漠。他刚从一片丘陵地带的一个山洞里爬出来。难道天堂也跟地上一样？上帝就住在这样一个地方？也许，这只是上帝创造的另一个领地，是另外一个地球？或许上帝住在更上面的某个地方？

一轮太阳挂在他背后的山顶附近，它是在上升还是下落呢？

沙漠中有一条线在移动，那是一支商队吗？

他向着商队跑去，干渴的喉咙里发出尖叫。当他马上就要跑不动的时候，商队发现了他，整个商队都停了下来。

赫拉鲁穆首先看见的确实是一个人，而不是一个鬼魂，手里还举着一只水袋。赫拉鲁穆一把抢过来，拼命地往喉咙里灌去。

“你被土匪袭击了吗？我们正往埃瑞琪去。”

赫拉鲁穆盯着他叫道：“你在骗我！”

那个人后退几步，上上下下打量着他，好像他已被太阳晒疯了。

“可是，埃瑞琪是在幼发拉底平原上！”

“是的，难道这有什么不对吗？”又一个商队的人走了过来，并准备好手里的武器。

“我来自──我是──”赫拉鲁穆停了一下，“你们知道巴比伦吗？”

“噢，那就是你的目的地吗？它就在埃瑞琪北部，从埃瑞琪到巴比伦算不上是一段困难的旅程。”

“塔，你们听说过巴比伦塔吗？”

“当然听说过，那是通往天堂的柱子。听说在塔顶的工人们正在挖一条穿过天堂拱顶的坑道。”

赫拉鲁穆一下倒在了干燥的沙砾中。

“你病了吗？”商队的人问他。

赫拉鲁穆没有搭理他们。天哪，他又回到了地球，他明明爬进了天堂水库，却又回到了地球之上。是上帝有意阻止他的吗？可他并没有看到上帝，哪怕是一点点上帝存在的迹象。

也许，这是一种特别的方式，天堂的拱顶就在地球的下面，好像它们就紧紧挨在一起。但怎么可能是这样的呢？赫拉鲁穆躺在那里，想得脑袋都快炸开了，还是一点也不明白。

然后，他觉得自己一下子就明白过来了。一个圆滚筒，他想，人们用一个雕刻有符号的滚筒滚过一块柔软的泥板，滚筒就在泥板上形成了一幅图画印。符号可能出现在泥板相反的两端，但它们在滚筒上却是肩并肩的排列。人们把天堂和地狱看成一张泥板相反的两头，中间就是天空和星星。然后，世界以某种奇异的方式卷起来了，天堂与地球就成了滚筒上两个并列的符号。

如此一来，就知道上帝为什么没有毁掉那塔了，为什么没有因为人们努力越出为他们设定的界限而惩罚他们，因为再长的旅程也仅仅只能让他们回到原来出发的地方。他们几个世纪的辛勤劳作不会揭示出比他们所知道的更多的创造，他们最后所看到的只是上帝无比杰出的艺术才能。

通过这种才能，上帝的存在才被指明，而又被隐藏起来。

而人们就知道了他们应该呆在应该呆的地方。

赫拉鲁穆从沙砾里支起身子，双腿由于心里的敬畏之感而摇摇晃晃。他要走回巴比伦去。也许他会遇到拉车的鲁加图穆，他会给人们捎话上去，告诉他们他所知道的世界的模样。

后记

这个故事是我在和一个朋友聊天时想出来的，当时他说的是他在希伯来学校里所学习的有关巴比伦塔的故事。他在那个学校里学到的跟我所知道的有一些不同。当时我只读过《圣经·旧约》里的版本，读过之后也没觉得怎么样。希伯来学校所教的版本更曲折，说这座塔非常高，爬上去要用一整年时间。如果一个人失足堕下，没有人觉得特别难过，但如果掉下去的是一块砖头，砌砖的人会伤心得哭起来，因为换一块砖需要一年时间。

这个故事讲述的本来是向上帝挑战的下场，但我从这个故事中看到了一个高居于空中的奇异的城市。这幅景象把我迷住了，我开始想象这样一座城市中的居民的生活情景。

有人把这个故事称为“巴比伦人的科幻小说”。我开始写作时倒没这么想过（巴比伦人掌握了不少物理和天文知识，肯定会把这篇小说看成纯粹的空想），但我完全理解这种说法。小说中的人物都是信仰宗教的信徒，但他们更多依赖工程知识，而不是祈祷。小说里没有出现一个神灵，所发生的每一件事都可以用物理知识加以解释。从这个角度看，尽管小说中的人物具有跟我们完全不同的世界观，但他们和我们所处的世界是完全一样的。

（严道丽　译）

Tower of Babylon

Were the tower to be laid down across the plain of Shinar, it would be two days' journey to walk from one end to the other. While the tower stands, it takes a full month and a half to climb from its base to its summit, if a man walks unburdened. But few men climb the tower with empty hands; the pace of most men is slowed by the cart of bricks that they pull behind them. Four months pass between the day a brick is loaded onto a cart, and the day it is taken off to form a part of the tower.

○○○

Hillalum had spent all his life in Elam, and knew Babylon only as a buyer of Elam's copper. The copper ingots were carried on boats that traveled down the Karun to the Lower Sea, headed for the Euphrates. Hillalum and the other miners traveled overland, alongside a merchant's caravan of loaded onagers. They walked along a dusty path leading down from the plateau, across the plains, to the green fields sectioned by canals and dikes.

None of them had seen the tower before. It became visible when they were still leagues away: a line as thin as a strand of flax, wavering in the shimmering air, rising up from the crust of mud that was Babylon itself. As they drew closer, the crust grew into the mighty city walls, but all they saw was the tower. When they did lower their gazes to the level of the river-plain, they saw the marks the tower had made outside the city: the Euphrates itself now flowed at the bottom of a wide, sunken bed, dug to provide clay for bricks. To the south of the city could be seen rows upon rows of kilns, no longer burning.

As they approached the city gates, the tower appeared more massive than anything Hillalum had ever imagined: a single column that must have been as large around as an entire temple, yet rising so high that it shrank into invisibility. All of them walked with their heads tilted back, squinting in the sun.

Hillalum's friend Nanni prodded him with an elbow, awe-struck. "We're to climb that? To the top?"

"Going up to dig. It seems… unnatural."

The miners reached the central gate in the western wall, where another caravan was leaving. While they crowded forward into the narrow strip of shade provided by the wall, their foreman Beli shouted to the gatekeepers who stood atop the gate towers. "We are the miners summoned from the land of Elam."

The gatekeepers were delighted. One called back, "You are the ones who are to dig through the vault of heaven?"

"We are."

○○○

The entire city was celebrating. The festival had begun eight days ago, when the last of the bricks were sent on their way, and would last two more. Every day and night, the city rejoiced, danced, feasted.

Along with the brickmakers were the cart-pullers, men whose legs were roped with muscle from climbing the tower. Each morning a crew began its ascent; they climbed for four days, transferred their loads to the next crew of pullers, and returned to the city with empty carts on the fifth. A chain of such crews led all the way to the top of the tower, but only the bottommost celebrated with the city. For those who lived upon the tower, enough wine and meat had been sent up earlier to allow a feast to extend up the entire pillar.

In the evening, Hillalum and the other Elamite miners sat upon clay stools before a long table laden with food, one table among many laid out in the city square. The miners spoke with the pullers, asking about the tower.

Nanni said, "Someone told me that the bricklayers who work at the top of the tower wail and tear their hair when a brick is dropped, because it will take four months to replace, but no one takes notice when a man falls to his death. Is that true?"

One of the more talkative pullers, Lugatum, shook his head. "Oh no, that is only a story. There is a continuous caravan of bricks going up the tower; thousands of bricks reach the top each day. The loss of a single brick means nothing to the bricklayers." He leaned over to them. "However, there is something they value more than a man's life: a trowel."

"Why a trowel?"

"If a bricklayer drops his trowel, he can do no work until a new one is brought up. For months he cannot earn the food that he eats, so he must go into debt. The loss of a trowel is cause for much wailing. But if a man falls, and his trowel remains, men are secretly relieved. The next one to drop his trowel can pick up the extra one and continue working, without incurring debt."

Hillalum was appalled, and for a frantic moment he tried to count how many picks the miners had brought. Then he realized. "That cannot be true. Why not have spare trowels brought up? Their weight would be nothing against all the bricks that go up there. And surely the loss of a man means a serious delay, unless they have an extra man at the top who is skilled at bricklaying. Without such a man, they must wait for another one to climb from the bottom."

All of the pullers roared with laughter. "We cannot fool this one," Lugatum said with much amusement. He turned to Hillalum. "So you'll begin your climb once the festival is over?"

Hillalum drank from a bowl of beer. "Yes. I've heard that we'll be joined by miners from a western land, but I haven't seen them. Do you know of them?"

"Yes, they come from a land called Egypt, but they do not mine ore as you do. They quarry stone."

"We dig stone in Elam, too," said Nanni, his mouth full of pork.

"Not as they do. They cut granite."

"Granite?" Limestone and alabaster were quarried in Elam, but not granite. "Are you certain?"

"Merchants who have traveled to Egypt say that they have stone ziggurats and temples, built with limestone and granite, huge blocks of it. And they carve giant statues from granite."

"But granite is so difficult to work."

Lugatum shrugged. "Not for them. The royal architects believe such stoneworkers may be useful when you reach the vault of heaven."

Hillalum nodded. That could be true. Who knew for certain what they would need? "Have you seen them?"

"No, they are not here yet, but they are expected in a few days' time. They may not arrive before the festival ends, though; then you Elamites will ascend alone."

"You will accompany us, won't you?"

"Yes, but only for the first four days. Then we must turn back, while you lucky ones go on."

"Why do you think us lucky?".

"I long to make the climb to the top. I once pulled with the higher crews, and reached a height of twelve days' climb, but that is as high as I have ever gone. You will go far higher." Lugatum smiled ruefully. "I envy you, that you will touch the vault of heaven."

To touch the vault of heaven. To break it open with picks. Hillalum felt uneasy at the idea. "There is no cause for envy-" he began.

"Right," said Nanni. "When we are done, all men will touch the vault of heaven."

○○○

The next morning, Hillalum went to see the tower. He stood in the giant courtyard surrounding it. There was a temple off to one side that would have been impressive if seen by itself, but it stood unnoticed beside the tower.

He could sense the utter solidity of it. According to all the tales, the tower was constructed to have a mighty strength that no ziggurat possessed; it was made of baked brick all the way through, when ordinary ziggurats were mere sun-dried mud brick, having baked brick only for the facing. The bricks were set in a bitumen mortar, which soaked into the fired clay, forming a bond as strong as the bricks themselves.

The tower's base resembled the first two platforms of an ordinary ziggurat. There stood a giant square platform some two hundred cubits on a side and forty cubits high, with a triple staircase against its south face. Stacked upon that first platform was another level, a smaller platform reached only by the central stair. It was atop the second platform that the tower itself began.

It was sixty cubits on a side, and rose like a square pillar that bore the weight of heaven. Around it wound a gently inclined ramp, cut into the side, that banded the tower like the leather strip wrapped around the handle of a whip. No; upon looking again, Hillalum saw that there were two ramps, and they were intertwined. The outer edge of each ramp was studded with pillars, not thick but broad, to provide some shade behind them. In running his gaze up the tower, he saw alternating bands, ramp, brick, ramp, brick, until they could no longer be distinguished. And still the tower rose up and up, farther than the eye could see; Hillalum blinked, and squinted, and grew dizzy. He stumbled backwards a couple steps, and turned away with a shudder.

Hillalum thought of the story told to him in childhood, the tale following that of the Deluge. It told of how men had once again populated all the corners of the earth, inhabiting more lands than they ever had before. How men had sailed to the edges of the world, and seen the ocean falling away into the mist to join the black waters of the Abyss far below. How men had thus realized the extent of the earth, and felt it to be small, and desired to see what lay beyond its borders, all the rest of Yahweh's Creation. How they looked skyward, and wondered about Yahweh's dwelling place, above the reservoirs that contained the waters of heaven. And how, many centuries ago, there began the construction of the tower, a pillar to heaven, a stair that men might ascend to see the works of Yahweh, and that Yahweh might descend to see the works of men.

It had always seemed inspiring to Hillalum, a tale of thousands of men toiling ceaselessly, but with joy, for they worked to know Yahweh better. He had been excited when the Babylonians came to Elam looking for miners. Yet now that he stood at the base of the tower, his senses rebelled, insisting that nothing should stand so high. He didn't feel as if he were on the earth when he looked up along the tower.

Should he climb such a thing?

○○○

On the morning of the climb, the second platform was covered, edge to edge, with stout two-wheeled carts arranged in rows. Many were loaded with nothing but food of all sorts: sacks filled with barley, wheat, lentils, onions, dates, cucumbers, loaves of bread, dried fish. There were countless giant clay jars of water, date wine, beer, goat's milk, palm oil. Other carts were loaded with such goods as might be sold at a bazaar: bronze vessels, reed baskets, bolts of linen, wooden stools and tables. There was also a fattened ox and a goat that some priests were fitting with hoods so that they could not see to either side, and would not be afraid on the climb. They would be sacrificed when they reached the top.

Then there were the carts loaded with the miners' picks and hammers, and the makings for a small forge. Their foreman had also ordered a number of carts be loaded with wood and sheaves of reeds.

Lugatum stood next to a cart, securing the ropes that held the wood. Hillalum walked up to him. "From where did this wood come? I saw no forests after we left Elam."

"There is a forest of trees to the north, which was planted when the tower was begun. The cut timber is floated down the Euphrates."

"You planted a entire forest?"

"When they began the tower, the architects knew that far more wood would be needed to fuel the kilns than could be found on the plain, so they had a forest of trees planted. There are crews whose job is to provide water, and plant one new tree for each that is cut."

Hillalum was astonished. "And that provides all the wood needed?"

"Most of it. Many other forests in the north have been cut as well, and their wood brought down the river." He inspected the wheels of the cart, uncorked a leather bottle he carried, and poured a little oil between the wheel and axle.

Nanni walked over to them, staring at the streets of Babylon laid out before them. "I've never before been even this high, that I can look down upon a city."

"Nor have I," said Hillalum, but Lugatum simply laughed.

"Come along. All of the carts are ready."

Soon all the men were paired up and matched with a cart. The men stood between the cart's two pull rods, which had rope loops for pulling. The carts pulled by the miners were mixed in with those of the regular pullers, to ensure that they would keep the proper pace. Lugatum and another puller had the cart right behind that of Hillalum and Nanni.

"Remember," said Lugatum, "stay about ten cubits behind the cart in front of you. The man on the right does all the pulling when you turn corners, and you'll switch every hour."

Pullers were beginning to lead their carts up the ramp. Hillalum and Nanni bent down and slung the ropes of their cart over their opposite shoulders. They stood up together, raising the front end of the cart off the pavement.

"Now pull," called Lugatum.

They leaned forward against the ropes, and the cart began rolling. Once it was moving, pulling seemed to be easy enough, and they wound their way around the platform. Then they reached the ramp, and they again had to lean deeply.

"This is a light wagon?" muttered Hillalum.

The ramp was wide enough for a single man to walk beside a cart if he had to pass. The surface was paved with brick, with two grooves worn deep by centuries of wheels. Above their heads, the ceiling rose in a corbelled vault, with the wide, square bricks arranged in overlapping layers until they met in the middle. The pillars on the right were broad enough to make the ramp seem a bit like a tunnel. If one didn't look off to the side, there was little sense of being on a tower.

"Do you sing when you mine?" asked Lugatum.

"When the stone is soft," said Nanni.

"Sing one of your mining songs, then."

The call went down to the other miners, and before long the entire crew was singing.

○○○

As the shadows shortened, they ascended higher and higher. Shaded from the sun, with only clear air surrounding them, it was much cooler than in the narrow alleys of a city at ground level, where the heat at midday could kill lizards as they scurried across the street. Looking out to the side, the miners could see the dark Euphrates, and the green fields stretching out for leagues, crossed by canals that glinted in the sunlight. The city of Babylon was an intricate pattern of closely set streets and buildings, dazzling with gypsum whitewash; less and less of it was visible, as it seemingly drew nearer the base of the tower.

Hillalum was again pulling on the right-hand rope, nearer the edge, when he heard some shouting from the upward ramp one level below. He thought of stopping and looking down the side, but he didn't wish to interrupt their pace, and he wouldn't be able to see the lower ramp clearly anyway. "What's happening down there?" he called to Lugatum behind him.

"One of your fellow miners fears the height. There is occasionally such a man among those who climb for the first time. Such a man embraces the floor, and cannot ascend further. Few feel it so soon, though."

Hillalum understood. "We know of a similar fear, among those who would be miners. Some men cannot bear to enter the mines, for fear that they will be buried."

"Really?" called Lugatum. "I had not heard of that. How do you yourself feel about the height?"

"I feel nothing." But he glanced at Nanni, and they both knew the truth.

"You feel nervousness in your palms, don't you?" whispered Nanni.

Hillalum rubbed his hands on the coarse fibers of the rope, and nodded.

"I felt it too, earlier, when I was closer to the edge."

"Perhaps we should go hooded, like the ox and the goat," muttered Hillalum jokingly.

"Do you think we too will fear the height, when we climb further?"

Hillalum considered. That one of their comrades should feel the fear so soon did not bode well. He shook it off; thousands climbed with no fear, and it would be foolish to let one miner's fear infect them all. "We are merely unaccustomed. We will have months to grow used to the height. By the time we reach the top of the tower, we will wish it were taller."

"No," said Nanni. "I don't think I'll wish to pull this any further." They both laughed.

○○○

In the evening they ate a meal of barley and onions and lentils, and slept inside narrow corridors that penetrated into the body of the tower. When they woke the next morning, the miners were scarcely able to walk, so sore were their legs. The pullers laughed, and gave them salve to rub into their muscles, and redistributed the load on the carts to reduce the miners' burden.

By now, looking down the side turned Hillalum's knees to water. A wind blew steadily at this height, and he anticipated that it would grow stronger as they climbed. He wondered if anyone had ever been blown off the tower in a moment of carelessness. And the fall; a man would have time to say a prayer before he hit the ground. Hillalum shuddered at the thought.

Aside from the soreness in the miners' legs, the second day was similar to the first. They were able to see much farther now, and the breadth of land visible was stunning; the deserts beyond the fields were visible, and caravans appeared to be little more than lines of insects. No other miner feared the height so greatly that he couldn't continue, and their ascent proceeded all day without incident.

On the third day, the miners' legs had not improved, and Hillalum felt like a crippled old man. Only on the fourth day did their legs feel better, and they were pulling their original loads again. Their climb continued until the evening, when they met the second crew of pullers leading empty carts rapidly along the downward ramp. The upward and downward ramps wound around each other without touching, but they were joined by the corridors through the tower's body. When the crews had intertwined thoroughly on the two ramps, they crossed over to exchange carts.

The miners were introduced to the pullers of the second crew, and they all talked and ate together that night. The next morning, the first crew readied the empty carts for their return to Babylon, and Lugatum bid farewell to Hillalum and Nanni.

"Take care of your cart. It has climbed the entire height of the tower, more times than any man."

"Do you envy the cart, too?" asked Nanni.

"No, because every time it reaches the top, it must come all the way back down. I could not bear to do that."

○○○

When the second crew stopped at the end of the day, the puller of the cart behind Hillalum and Nanni came over to show them something. His name was Kudda.

"You have never seen the sun set at this height. Come, look." The puller went to the edge and sat down, his legs hanging over the side. He saw that they hesitated. "Come. You can lie down and peer over the edge, if you like." Hillalum did not wish to seem like a fearful child, but he could not bring himself to sit at a cliff face that stretched for thousands of cubits below his feet. He lay down on his belly, with only his head at the edge. Nanni joined him.

"When the sun is about to set, look down the side of the tower." Hillalum glanced downward, and then quickly looked to the horizon.

"What is different about the way the sun sets here?"

"Consider, when the sun sinks behind the peaks of the mountains to the west, it grows dark down on the plain of Shinar. Yet here, we are higher than the mountaintops, so we can still see the sun. The sun must descend further for us to see night."

Hillalum's jaw dropped as he understood. "The shadows of the mountains mark the beginning of night. Night falls on the earth before it does here."

Kudda nodded. "You can watch night travel up the tower, from the ground up to the sky. It moves quickly, but you should be able to see it."

He watched the red globe of the sun for a minute, and then looked down and pointed. "Now!"

Hillalum and Nanni looked down. At the base of the immense pillar, tiny Babylon was in shadow. Then the darkness climbed the tower, like a canopy unfurling upward. It moved slowly enough that Hillalum felt he could count the moments passing, but then it grew faster as it approached, until it raced past them faster than he could blink, and they were in twilight.

Hillalum rolled over and looked up, in time to see darkness rapidly ascend the rest of the tower. Gradually, the sky grew dimmer as the sun sank beneath the edge of the world, far away.

"Quite a sight, is it not?" said Kudda.

Hillalum said nothing. For the first time, he knew night for what it was: the shadow of the earth itself, cast against the sky.

○○○

After climbing for two more days, Hillalum had grown more accustomed to the height. Though they were the better part of a league straight up, he could bear to stand at the edge of the ramp and look down the tower. He held on to one of the pillars at the edge, and cautiously leaned out to look upward. He noticed that the tower no longer looked like a smooth pillar.

He asked Kudda, "The tower seems to widen further up. How can that be?"

"Look more closely. There are wooden balconies reaching out from the sides. They are made of cypress, and suspended by ropes of flax."

Hillalum squinted. "Balconies? What are they for?"

"They have soil spread on them, so people may grow vegetables. At this height water is scarce, so onions are most commonly grown. Higher up, where there is more rain, you'll see beans."

Nanni asked, "How can there be rain above that does not just fall here?"

Kudda was surprised at him. "It dries in the air as it falls, of course."

"Oh, of course." Nanni shrugged.

By the end of the next day they reached the level of the balconies. They were flat platforms, dense with onions, supported by heavy ropes from the tower wall above, just below the next tier of balconies. On each level the interior of the tower had several narrow rooms inside, in which the families of the pullers lived. Women could be seen sitting in the doorways sewing tunics, or out in the gardens digging up bulbs. Children chased each other up and down the ramps, weaving amidst the pullers' carts, and running along the edge of the balconies without fear. The tower dwellers could easily pick out the miners, and they all smiled and waved.

When it came time for the evening meal, all the carts were set down and food and other goods were taken off to be used by the people here. The pullers greeted their families, and invited the miners to join them for the evening meal. Hillalum and Nanni ate with the family of Kudda, and they enjoyed a fine meal of dried fish, bread, date wine, and fruit.

Hillalum saw that this section of the tower formed a tiny kind of town, laid out in a line between two streets, the upward and downward ramps. There was a temple, in which the rituals for the festivals were performed; there were magistrates, who settled disputes; there were shops, which were stocked by the caravan. Of course, the town was inseparable from the caravan: neither could exist without the other. And yet any caravan was essentially a journey, a thing that began at one place and ended at another. This town was never intended as a permanent place, it was merely part of a centuries-long journey.

After dinner, he asked Kudda and his family, "Have any of you ever visited Babylon?"

Kudda's wife, Alitum, answered, "No, why would we? It's a long climb, and we have all we need here."

"You have no desire to actually walk on the earth?"

Kudda shrugged. "We live on the road to heaven; all the work that we do is to extend it further. When we leave the tower, we will take the upward ramp, not the downward."

○○○

As the miners ascended, in the course of time there came the day when the tower appeared to be the same when one looked upward or downward from the ramp's edge. Below, the tower's shaft shrank to nothing long before it seemed to reach the plain below. Likewise, the miners were still far from being able to see the top. All that was visible was a length of the tower. To look up or down was frightening, for the reassurance of continuity was gone; they were no longer part of the ground. The tower might have been a thread suspended in the air, unattached to either earth or to heaven.

There were moments during this section of the climb when Hillalum despaired, feeling displaced and estranged from the world; it was as if the earth had rejected him for his faithlessness, while heaven disdained to accept him. He wished Yahweh would give a sign, to let men know that their venture was approved; otherwise how could they stay in a place that offered so little welcome to the spirit?

The tower dwellers at this altitude felt no unease with their station; they always greeted the miners warmly and wished them luck with their task at the vault. They lived inside the damp mists of clouds, they saw storms from below and from above, they harvested crops from the air, and they never feared that this was an improper place for men to be. There were no divine assurances or encouragements to be had, but the people never knew a moment's doubt.

With the passage of the weeks, the sun and moon peaked lower and lower in their daily journeys. The moon flooded the south side of the tower with its silver radiance, glowing like the eye of Yahweh peering at them. Before long, they were at precisely the same level as the moon when it passed; they had reached the height of the first of the celestial bodies. They squinted at the moon's pitted face, marveled at its stately motion that scorned any support.

Then they approached the sun. It was the summer season, when the sun appears nearly overhead from Babylon, making it pass close by the tower at this height. No families lived in this section of the tower, nor were there any balconies, since the heat was enough to roast barley. The mortar between the tower's bricks was no longer bitumen, which would have softened and flowed, but clay, which had been virtually baked by the heat. As protection against the day temperatures, the pillars had been widened until they formed a nearly continuous wall, enclosing the ramp into a tunnel with only narrow slots admitting the whistling wind and blades of golden light.

The crews of pullers had been spaced regularly up to this point, but here an adjustment was necessary. They started out earlier and earlier each morning, to gain more darkness for when they pulled. When they were at the level of the sun, they traveled entirely at night. During the day, they tried to sleep, naked and sweating in the hot breeze. The miners worried that if they did manage to sleep, they would be baked to death before they awoke. But the pullers had made the journey many times, and never lost a man, and eventually they passed above the sun's level, where things were as they had been below.

Now the light of day shone upward, which seemed unnatural to the utmost. The balconies had planks removed from them so that the sunlight could shine through, with soil on the walkways that remained; the plants grew sideways and downward, bending over to catch the sun's rays.

Then they drew near the level of the stars, small fiery spheres spread on all sides. Hillalum had expected them to be spread more thickly, but even with the tiny stars invisible from the ground, they seemed to be thinly scattered. They were not all set at the same height, but instead occupied the next few leagues above. It was difficult to tell how far they were, since there was no indication of their size, but occasionally one would make a close approach, evidencing its astonishing speed. Hillalum realized that all the objects in the sky hurtled by with similar speed, in order to travel the world from edge to edge in a day's time.

During the day, the sky was a much paler blue than it appeared from the earth, a sign they were nearing the vault. When studying the sky, Hillalum was startled to see that there were stars visible during the day. They couldn't be seen from the earth amidst the glare of the sun, but from this altitude they were quite distinct.

One day Nanni came to him hurriedly and said, "A star has hit the tower!"

"What!" Hillalum looked around, panicked, feeling like he had been struck by a blow.

"No, not now. It was long ago, more than a century. One of the tower dwellers is telling the story; his grandfather was there."

They went inside the corridors and saw several miners seated around a wizened old man. "- lodged itself in the bricks about half a league above here. You can still see the scar it left; it's like a giant pockmark."

"What happened to the star?"

"It burned and sizzled, and was too bright to look upon. Men considered prying it out, so that it might resume its course, but it was too hot to approach closely, and they dared not quench it. After weeks it cooled into a knotted mass of black heaven-metal, as large as a man could wrap his arms around."

"So large?" said Nanni, his voice full of awe. When stars fell to the earth of their own accord, small lumps of heaven-metal were sometimes found, tougher than the finest bronze. The metal could not be melted for casting, so it was worked by hammering when heated red; amulets were made from it.

"Indeed, no one had ever heard of a mass of this size found on the earth. Can you imagine the tools that could be made from it!"

"You did not try to hammer it into tools, did you?" asked Hillalum, horrified.

"Oh no. Men were frightened to touch it. Everyone descended from the tower, waiting for retribution from Yahweh for disturbing the workings of Creation. They waited for months, but no sign came. Eventually they returned, and pried out the star. It sits in a temple in the city below."

There was silence. Then one of the miners said, "I have never heard of this in the stories of the tower."

"It was a transgression, something not spoken of."

○○○

As they climbed higher up the tower, the sky grew lighter in color, until one morning Hillalum awoke and stood at the edge and yelled from shock: what had before seemed a pale sky now appeared to be a white ceiling stretched far above their heads. They were close enough now to perceive the vault of heaven, to see it as a solid carapace enclosing all the sky. All of the miners spoke in hushed tones, staring up like idiots, while the tower dwellers laughed at them.

As they continued to climb, they were startled at how near they actually were. The blankness of the vault's face had deceived them, making it undetectable until it appeared, abruptly, seeming just above their heads. Now instead of climbing into the sky, they climbed up to a featureless plain that stretched endlessly in all directions.

All of Hillalum's senses were disoriented by the sight of it. Sometimes when he looked at the vault, he felt as if the world had flipped around somehow, and if he lost his footing he would fall upward to meet it. When the vault did appear to rest above his head, it had an oppressive weight. The vault was a stratum as heavy as all the world, yet utterly without support, and he feared what he never had in the mines: that the ceiling would collapse upon him.

Too, there were moments when it appeared as if the vault were a vertical cliff face of unimaginable height rising before him, and the dim earth behind him was another like it, and the tower was a cable stretched taut between the two. Or worst of all, for an instant it seemed that there was no up and no down, and his body did not know which way it was drawn. It was like fearing the height, but much worse. Often he would wake from an unrestful sleep, to find himself sweating and his fingers cramped, trying to clutch the brick floor.

Nanni and many of the other miners were bleary-eyed too, though no one spoke of what disturbed their sleep. Their ascent grew slower, instead of faster as their foreman Beli had expected; the sight of the vault inspired unease rather than eagerness. The regular pullers became impatient with them. Hillalum wondered what sort of people were forged by living under such conditions; how did they escape madness? Did they grow accustomed to this? Would the children born under a solid sky scream if they saw the ground beneath their feet?

Perhaps men were not meant to live in such a place. If their own natures restrained them from approaching heaven too closely, then men should remain on the earth.

When they reached the summit of the tower, the disorientation faded, or perhaps they had grown immune. Here, standing upon the square platform of the top, the miners gazed upon the most awesome scene ever glimpsed by men: far below them lay a tapestry of soil and sea, veiled by mist, rolling out in all directions to the limit of the eye. Just above them hung the roof of the world itself, the absolute upper demarcation of the sky, guaranteeing their vantage point as the highest possible. Here was as much of Creation as could be apprehended at once.

The priests led a prayer to Yahweh; they gave thanks that they were permitted to see so much, and begged forgiveness for their desire to see more.

○○○

And at the top, the bricks were laid. One could catch the rich, raw smell of tar, rising out of the heated cauldrons in which the lumps of bitumen were melted. It was the most earthy odor the miners had smelled in four months, and their nostrils were desperate to catch a whiff before it was whipped away by the wind. Here at the summit, where the ooze that had once seeped from the earth's cracks now grew solid to hold bricks in place, the earth was growing a limb into the sky.

Here worked the bricklayers, the men smeared with bitumen who mixed the mortar and deftly set the heavy bricks with absolute precision. More than anyone else, these men could not permit themselves to experience dizziness when they saw the vault, for the tower could not vary a finger's width from the vertical. They were nearing the end of their task, finally, and after four months of climbing, the miners were ready to begin theirs.

The Egyptians arrived shortly afterwards. They were dark of skin and slight of build, and had sparsely bearded chins. They had pulled carts filled with dolerite hammers, and bronze tools, and wooden wedges. Their foreman was named Senmut, and he conferred with Beli, the Elamites' foreman, on how they would penetrate the vault. The Egyptians built a forge with what they had brought, as did the Elamites, for recasting the bronze tools that would be blunted during the mining.

The vault itself remained just above a man's outstretched fingertips; it felt smooth and cool when one leapt up to touch it. It seemed to be made of fine-grained white granite, unmarred and utterly featureless. And therein lay the problem.

Long ago, Yahweh had released the Deluge, unleashing waters from both below and above; the waters of the Abyss had burst forth from the springs of the earth, and the waters of heaven had poured through the sluice gates in the vault. Now men saw the vault closely, but there were no sluice gates discernible. They squinted at the surface in all directions, but no openings, no windows, no seams interrupted the granite plain.

It seemed that their tower met the vault at a point between any reservoirs, which was fortunate indeed. If a sluice gate had been visible, they would have had to risk breaking it open and emptying the reservoir. That would mean rain for Shinar, out of season and heavier than the winter rains; it would cause flooding along the Euphrates. The rain would most likely end when the reservoir was emptied, but there was always the possibility that Yahweh would punish them and continue the rain until the tower fell and Babylon was dissolved into mud.

Even though there were no visible gates, a risk still existed. Perhaps the gates had no seams perceptible to mortal eyes, and a reservoir lay directly above them. Or perhaps the reservoirs were huge, so that even if the nearest sluice gates were many leagues away, a reservoir still lay above them.

There was much debate over how best to proceed.

"Surely Yahweh will not wash away the tower," argued Qurdusa, one of the bricklayers. "If the tower were sacrilege, Yahweh would have destroyed it earlier. Yet in all the centuries we've been working, we have never seen the slightest sign of Yahweh's displeasure. Yahweh will drain any reservoir before we penetrate it."

"If Yahweh looked upon this venture with such favor, there would already be a stairway ready-made for us in the vault," countered Eluti, an Elamite. "Yahweh will neither help or hinder us; if we penetrate a reservoir, we will face the onrush of its waters."

Hillalum could not keep his doubts silent at such a time. "And if the waters are endless?" he asked. "Yahweh may not punish us, but Yahweh may allow us to bring our judgment upon ourselves."

"Elamite," said Qurdusa, "even as a newcomer to the tower, you should know better than that. We labor for our love of Yahweh, we have done so for all our lives, and so have our fathers for generations back. Men as righteous as we could not be judged harshly."

"It is true that we work with the purest of aims, but that doesn't mean we have worked wisely. Did men truly choose the correct path when they opted to live their lives away from the soil from which they were shaped? Never has Yahweh said that the choice was proper. Now we stand ready to break open heaven, even when we know that water lies above us. If we are misguided, how can we be sure Yahweh will protect us from our own errors?"

"Hillalum advises caution, and I agree," said Beli. "We must ensure that we do not bring a second Deluge upon the world, nor even dangerous rains upon Shinar. I have conferred with Senmut of the Egyptians, and he has shown me designs which they have employed to seal the tombs of their kings. I believe their methods can provide us with safety when we begin digging."

○○○

The priests sacrificed the ox and the goat in a ceremony in which many sacred words were spoken and much incense was burned, and the miners began work.

Long before the miners reached the vault it had been obvious that simple digging with hammers and picks would be impractical: even if they were tunneling horizontally, they would make no more than two fingers' width of progress a day through granite, and tunneling upward would be far, far slower. Instead, they employed fire-setting.

With the wood they had brought, a bonfire was built below the chosen point of the vault, and fed steadily for a day. Before the heat of the flames, the stone cracked and spalled. After letting the fire burn out, the miners splashed water onto the stone to further the cracking. They could then break the stone into large pieces, which fell heavily onto the tower. In this manner they could progress the better part of a cubit for each day the fire burned.

The tunnel did not rise straight up, but at the angle a staircase takes, so that they could build a ramp of steps up from the tower to meet it. The fire-setting left the walls and floor smooth; the men built a frame of wooden steps underfoot, so that they would not slide back down. They used a platform of baked bricks to support the bonfire at the tunnel's end.

After the tunnel rose ten cubits into the vault, they leveled it out and widened it to form a room. After the miners had removed all the stone that had been weakened by the fire, the Egyptians began work. They used no fire in their quarrying. With only their dolerite balls and hammers, they began to build a sliding door of granite.

They first chipped away stone to cut an immense block of granite out of one wall. Hillalum and the other miners tried to help, but found it very difficult: one did not wear away the stone by grinding, but instead pounded chips off, using hammer blows of one strength alone, and lighter or heavier ones would not do.

After some weeks, the block was ready. It stood taller than a man, and was even wider than that. To free it from the floor, they cut slots around the base of the stone and pounded in dry wooden wedges. Then they pounded thinner wedges into the first wedges to split them, and poured water into the cracks so that the wood would swell. In a few hours, a crack traveled into the stone, and the block was freed.

At the rear of the room, on the right-hand side, the miners burned out a narrow upward-sloping corridor, and in the floor in front of the chamber entrance they dug a downward-sloping channel into the floor for a cubit. Thus there was a smooth continuous ramp that cut across the floor immediately in front of the entrance, and ended just to its left. On this ramp the Egyptians loaded the block of granite. They dragged and pushed the block up into the side corridor, where it just barely fit, and propped it in place with a stack of flat mud bricks braced against the bottom of the left wall, like a pillar lying on the ramp.

With the sliding stone to hold back the waters, it was safe for the miners to continue tunneling. If they broke into a reservoir and the waters of heaven began pouring down into the tunnel, they would break the bricks one by one, and the stone would slide down until it rested in the recess in the floor, utterly blocking the doorway. If the waters flooded in with such force that they washed men out of the tunnels, the mud bricks would gradually dissolve, and again the stone would slide down. The waters would be retained, and the miners could then begin a new tunnel in another direction, to avoid the reservoir.

The miners again used fire-setting to continue the tunnel, beginning at the far end of the room. To aid the circulation of air within the vault, ox hides were stretched on tall frames of wood, and placed obliquely on either side of the tunnel entrance at the top of the tower. Thus the steady wind that blew underneath the vault of heaven was guided upward into the tunnel; it kept the fire blazing, and it cleared the air after the fire was extinguished, so that the miners could dig without breathing smoke.

The Egyptians did not stop working once the sliding stone was in place. While the miners swung their picks at the tunnel's end, the Egyptians labored at the task of cutting a stair into the solid stone, to replace the wooden steps. This they did with the wooden wedges, and the blocks they removed from the sloping floor left steps in their place.

○○○

Thus the miners worked, extending the tunnel on and on. The tunnel always ascended, though it reversed direction regularly like a thread in a giant stitch, so that its general path was straight up. They built other sliding door rooms, so that only the uppermost segment of the tunnel would be flooded if they penetrated a reservoir. They cut channels in the vault's surface from which they hung walkways and platforms; starting from these platforms, well away from the tower, they dug side tunnels, which joined the main tunnel deep inside. The wind was guided through these to provide ventilation, clearing the smoke from deep inside the tunnel.

For years the labor continued. The pulling crews no longer hauled bricks, but wood and water for the fire-setting. People came to inhabit those tunnels just inside the vault's surface, and on hanging platforms they grew downward-bending vegetables. The miners lived there at the border of heaven; some married, and raised children. Few ever set foot on the earth again.

○○○

With a wet cloth wrapped around his face, Hillalum climbed down from wooden steps onto stone, having just fed some more wood to the bonfire at the tunnel's end. The fire would continue for many hours, and he would wait in the lower tunnels, where the wind was not thick with smoke.

Then there was a distant sound of shattering, the sound of a mountain of stone being split through, and then a steadily growing roar. And then a torrent of water came rushing down the tunnel.

For a moment, Hillalum was frozen in horror. The water, shockingly cold, slammed into his legs, knocking him down. He rose to his feet, gasping for breath, leaning against the current, clutching at the steps.

They had hit a reservoir.

He had to descend below the highest sliding door, before it was closed. His legs wished to leap down the steps, but he knew he couldn't remain on his feet if he did, and being swept down by the raging current would likely batter him to death. Going as fast as he dared, he took the steps one by one.

He slipped several times, sliding down as many as a dozen steps each time; the stone steps scraped against his back, but he felt no pain. All the while he was certain the tunnel would collapse and crush him, or else the entire vault would split open, and the sky would gape beneath his feet, and he would fall down to earth amidst the heavenly rain. Yahweh's punishment had come, a second Deluge.

How much further until he reached the sliding stone? The tunnel seemed to stretch on and on, and the waters were pouring down even faster now. He was virtually running down the steps.

Suddenly he stumbled and splashed into shallow water. He had run down past the end of the stairs, and fallen into the room of the sliding stone, and there was water higher than his knees.

He stood up, and saw Damqiya and Ahuni, two fellow miners, just noticing him. They stood in front of the stone that already blocked the exit.

"No!" he cried.

"They closed it!" screamed Damqiya. "They did not wait!"

"Are there others coming?" shouted Ahuni, without hope. "We may be able to move the block."

"There are no others," answered Hillalum. "Can they push it from the other side?"

"They cannot hear us." Ahuni pounded the granite with a hammer, making not a sound against the din of the water.

Hillalum looked around the tiny room, only now noticing that an Egyptian floated facedown in the water.

"He died falling down the stairs," yelled Damqiya.

"Is there nothing we can do?"

Ahuni looked upward. "Yahweh, spare us."

The three of them stood in the rising water, praying desperately, but Hillalum knew it was in vain: his fate had come at last. Yahweh had not asked men to build the tower or to pierce the vault; the decision to build it belonged to men alone, and they would die in this endeavor just as they did in any of their earthbound tasks. Their righteousness could not save them from the consequences of their deeds.

The water reached their chests. "Let us ascend," shouted Hillalum.

They climbed the tunnel laboriously, against the onrush, as the water rose behind their heels. The few torches illuminating the tunnel had been extinguished, so they ascended in the dark, murmuring prayers that they couldn't hear. The wooden steps at the top of the tunnel had dislodged from their place, and were jammed farther down in the tunnel. They climbed past them, until they reached the smooth stone slope, and there they waited for the water to carry them higher.

They waited without words, their prayers exhausted. Hillalum imagined that he stood in the black gullet of Yahweh, as the mighty one drank deep of the waters of heaven, ready to swallow the sinners.

The water rose, and bore them up, until Hillalum could reach up with his hands and touch the ceiling. The giant fissure from which the waters gushed forth was right next to him. Only a tiny pocket of air remained. Hillalum shouted, "When this chamber is filled, we can swim heavenward."

He could not tell if they heard him. He gulped his last breath as the water reached the ceiling, and swam up into the fissure. He would die closer to heaven than any man ever had before.

The fissure extended for many cubits. As soon as Hillalum passed through, the stone stratum slipped from his fingers, and his flailing limbs touched nothing. For a moment he felt a current carrying him, but then he was no longer sure. With only blackness around him, he once again felt that horrible vertigo that he had experienced when first approaching the vault: he could not distinguish any directions, not even up or down. He pushed and kicked against the water, but did not know if he moved.

Helpless, he was perhaps floating in still water, perhaps swept furiously by a current; all he felt was numbing cold. Never did he see any light. Was there no surface to this reservoir that he might rise to?

Then he was slammed into stone again. His hands felt a fissure in the surface. Was he back where he had begun? He was being forced into it, and he had no strength to resist. He was drawn into the tunnel, and was rattled against its sides. It was incredibly deep, like the longest mine shaft: he felt as if his lungs would burst, but there was still no end to the passage. Finally his breath would not be held any longer, and it escaped from his lips. He was drowning, and the blackness around him entered his lungs.

But suddenly the walls opened out away from him. He was being carried along by a rushing stream of water; he felt air above the water! And then he felt no more.

○○○

Hillalum awoke with his face pressed against wet stone. He could see nothing, but he could feel water near his hands. He rolled over and groaned; his every limb ached, he was naked and much of his skin was scraped raw or wrinkled from wetness, but he breathed air.

Time passed, and finally he could stand. Water flowed rapidly about his ankles. Stepping in one direction, the water deepened. In the other, there was dry stone; shale, by the feel of it.

It was utterly dark, like a mine without torches. With torn fingertips he felt his way along the floor, until it rose up and became a wall. Slowly, like some blind creature, he crawled back and forth. He found the water's source, a large opening in the floor. He remembered! He had been spewed up from the reservoir through this hole. He continued crawling for what seemed to be hours; if he was in a cavern, it was immense.

He found a place where the floor rose in a slope. Was there a passage leading upward? Perhaps it could still take him to heaven.

Hillalum crawled, having no idea of how much time passed, not caring that he would never be able to retrace his steps, for he could not return whence he had come. He followed upward tunnels when he found them, downward ones when he had to. Though earlier he had swallowed more water than he would have thought possible, he began to feel thirst, and hunger.

And eventually he saw light, and raced to the outside.

The light made his eyes squeeze closed, and he fell to his knees, his fists clenched before his face. Was it the radiance of Yahweh? Could his eyes bear to see it? Minutes later he could open them, and he saw desert. He had emerged from a cave in the foothills of some mountains, and rocks and sand stretched to the horizon.

Was heaven just like the earth? Did Yahweh dwell in a place such as this? Or was this merely another realm within Yahweh's Creation, another earth above his own, while Yahweh dwelled still higher?

A sun lay near the mountaintops behind his back. Was it rising or falling? Were there days and nights here?

Hillalum squinted at the sandy landscape. A line moved along the horizon. Was it a caravan?

He ran to it, shouting with his parched throat until his need for breath stopped him. A figure at the end of the caravan saw him, and brought the entire line to a stop. Hillalum kept running.

The one who had seen him seemed to be man, not spirit, and was dressed like a desert-crosser. He had a waterskin ready. Hillalum drank as best he could, panting for breath.

Finally he returned it to the man, and gasped, "Where is this place?"

"Were you attacked by bandits? We are headed to Erech."

Hillalum stared. "You would deceive me!" he shouted. The man drew back, and watched him as if he were mad from the sun. Hillalum saw another man in the caravan walking over to investigate. "Erech is in Shinar!"

"Yes it is. Were you not traveling to Shinar?" The other man stood ready with his staff.

"I came from- I was in-" Hillalum stopped. "Do you know Babylon?"

"Oh, is that your destination? That is north of Erech. It is an easy journey between them."

"The tower. Have you heard of it?"

"Certainly, the pillar to heaven. It is said men at the top are tunneling through the vault of heaven."

Hillalum fell to the sand.

"Are you unwell?" The two caravan drivers mumbled to each other, and went off to confer with the others. Hillalum was not watching them.

He was in Shinar. He had returned to the earth. He had climbed above the reservoirs of heaven, and arrived back at the earth. Had Yahweh brought him to this place, to keep him from reaching further above? Yet Hillalum still hadn't seen any signs, any indication that Yahweh noticed him. He had not experienced any miracle that Yahweh had performed to place him here. As far as he could see, he had merely swum up from the vault and entered the cavern below.

Somehow, the vault of heaven lay beneath the earth. It was as if they lay against each other, though they were separated by many leagues. How could that be? How could such distant places touch? Hillalum's head hurt trying to think about it.

And then it came to him: a seal cylinder. When rolled upon a tablet of soft clay, the carved cylinder left an imprint that formed a picture. Two figures might appear at opposite ends of the tablet, though they stood side by side on the surface of the cylinder. All the world was as such a cylinder. Men imagined heaven and earth as being at the ends of a tablet, with sky and stars stretched between; yet the world was wrapped around in some fantastic way so that heaven and earth touched.

It was clear now why Yahweh had not struck down the tower, had not punished men for wishing to reach beyond the bounds set for them: for the longest journey would merely return them to the place whence they'd come. Centuries of their labor would not reveal to them any more of Creation than they already knew. Yet through their endeavor, men would glimpse the unimaginable artistry of Yahweh's work, in seeing how ingeniously the world had been constructed. By this construction, Yahweh's work was indicated, and Yahweh's work was concealed.

Thus would men know their place.

Hillalum rose to his feet, his legs unsteady from awe, and sought out the caravan drivers. He would go back to Babylon. Perhaps he would see Lugatum again. He would send word to those on the tower. He would tell them about the shape of the world.

Story Notes

This story was inspired by a conversation with a friend, when he mentioned the version of the Tower of Babel myth he'd been taught in Hebrew school. At that point I knew only the Old Testament account, and it hadn't made a big impression on me. But in the more elaborate version, the tower is so tall that it takes a year to climb, and when a man falls to his death, no one mourns, but when a brick is dropped, the bricklayers weep because it will take a year to replace.

The original legend is about the consequences of defying God. For me, however, the tale conjured up images of a fantastic city in the sky, reminiscent of Magritte's?Castle in the Pyrenees. I was captivated by the audacity of such a vision and started wondering what life in such a city would be like.

Tom Disch called this story "Babylonian science fiction." I hadn't thought about it that way when I was writing it— the Babylonians certainly knew enough physics and astronomy to recognize this story as fanciful— but I understood what he meant. The characters may be religious, but they rely on engineering rather than prayer. No deity makes an appearance in the story; everything that happens can be understood in purely mechanistic terms. It's in that sense that— despite the obvious difference in cosmology— the universe in the story resembles our own.

除以零

１

任何数字除以零，都不会得出一个有意义的数字来。理由是除法被定义为乘法的逆转：如果你先除以零，然后再乘以零，就会重新得到开始那个数字。然而，乘以零只会得出零，不会得出任何别的数字。没有任何数字乘以零会得出非零的结果。因此，除以零的结果实际上是“无意义的”。

１ａ

里瓦斯太太进来的时候，雷内正望着窗外。

“才待了一个星期就要出院吗？连真正的待都谈不上。老天知道，我可是非得长期待下去不可。”

雷内强作笑脸说：“我肯定你不会待很久的。”里瓦斯太太爱在病房里指手画脚。大家都知道她的所作所为不过是做做姿态而已，但医生助手们对她还是留了点神，以免她偶然成功。

“哈。他们倒巴不得我走。你知道如果你死在医院里，他们会负什么责任吗？”

“知道”

“可以肯定这就是他们所担心的。始终是他们的责任——”

雷内没有理睬，目光又重新转向窗外，眺望一道烟雾横过天空。

“诺伍德太太？”护士叫道，“你的丈夫来接你了。”

雷内又向里瓦斯太太嫣然一笑，然后离开了。

１ｂ

卡尔再次签了名字，最后护士把表格拿去处理。

他记得他送雷内来住院时的情景，并且想起在第一次询问时那些老套的问题。当时，他耐着性子，一一回答。

“是的，她是一名数学教授。你在《名人传记》里可以找到她的名字。”

“不对，我是搞生物学的。”

以及：

“我留下了一盒我需要的载物玻璃片。”

“不，她不可能知道。”

还有他预料中的问题：

“得过。那是大约二十年前我读研究生的时候。”

“不，我是试图跳楼。”

“不，当时我和雷内还不相识。”

如此等等，等等。

此时，他们确信了他能干可靠，便准备让雷内出院，接受门诊治疗。

蓦然回首，卡尔心不在焉地觉得有点吃惊。在整个询问期间，除了短暂的一刻外，他没有丝毫似曾相识的错觉。和医院、医生、护士打交道的过程中，他的惟一感觉是麻木，是枯燥无味，是机械重复。

２

有一个著名的“证明”，得出一等于二：该证明的开始是定义：“假设ａ＝１；假设ｂ＝１”，得出结果：“２＝２ａ”①，也就是说，一等于二。人们容易忽视的是，这个证明过程中将零作为被除数。在这一点上，该证明越过了雷池，使所有的法则都彻底无效。允许除以零，就是允许证明不仅一和二是相等的，而且任何两个数字——无论是是真实的还是想像的，无论有理数还是无理数——都是相等的。

２ａ

雷内和卡尔一回到家里，她就立刻走进书房，来到书桌面前，开始将她的所有手稿翻转过去，面朝下，一股脑儿扫成一堆。折腾期间，每当有一页纸面朝上，她就会情不自禁地退缩。她想干脆一把火把书稿烧了，但那样做只有象征意义。其实，只要根本不瞧它们一眼，效果是一样的。

医生也许会把这种举止描叙成自我强迫性行为。雷内想起先前自己作为病人在这些傻瓜的监护下所受到的屈辱，不禁皱起眉头。她想起自己作为有自杀念头的病人，被锁在病房里，受到医生助手们二十四小时的监护，还要接受医生的询问。他们一副屈尊的派头，说的话枯燥又乏味。她不像里瓦斯太太，不会玩弄伎俩。其实那些伎俩很简单，只要说，“我知道自己还没有康复，但感觉好些了。”他们就会认为你差不多可以放出去了。

２ｂ

卡尔站在门口注视雷内片刻，这才走过门廊。他回想起整整二十年前，他自己被放出来那天的情景。他的父母驱车来接他，在回家的途中，母亲唠叨了一些空洞无物的话，什么大家见到他会多么高兴呀等等。他竭力抑制住自己，才没有挣脱母亲抱着他肩膀的手臂。

他为雷内做的一切，正是他自己在被监护期间想接受的。尽管最初她拒绝见他，他还是每天都上医院来，以便她想见他时，他在身边。他们俩有时候交谈，有时候只是在医院里散散步。他没有发现自己做的一切有什么过错，而且他知道，她很高兴他这么做。

他确实做了种种努力，但他只感觉在尽义务而已。

３

伯纳德·罗素②和艾尔弗雷德·怀特海③在其合著的《数学原理》中试图将形式逻辑作为数学的严谨基础。这部大作以他们所认为的公理开始，推演出愈来愈复杂的定理。到了第３６２页，他们已经建立了足够的定理，终于证明了“１＋１＝２”。

３ａ

七岁那年，雷内察看一个亲戚的房子，她着迷似的发现地板上铺的光滑的大理石地砖呈完美无瑕的正方形。一个一行，两个两行，三个三行，四个四行：地砖拼成正方形。无论你从哪面瞧去，形状都一样。更奇妙的是，每一个正方形都比最后一个正方形多出呈奇数的地砖。雷内获得了顿悟。结论很自然：这种形式具有一种内在的完美，由地砖那光滑、清凉的感觉所证实。还有，地砖彼此拼接，之间的线条严密得天衣无缝。她为这种精确性激动得浑身颤抖。

在往后的岁月里，她又获得了其他顿悟、其他成就。二十三岁就完成令人惊叹的博士论文，写的系列论文好评如潮。人们将她比做诺伊曼④，大学竞相笼络她。而她自己对这一切向来并不在意。她在意的是那种完美的感觉，她学到的每一个定理都具有这种完美，与地砖一样实在，一样精确。

３ｂ

卡尔觉得今日的他是在与劳拉相识之后才诞生的。他出院后闭门不见任何人，但一位朋友设法把他介绍给劳拉。最初，他将她拒之门外，但她理解他。他身心俱疲时她爱他，一旦他康复后，她又让他自由。通过认识她，卡尔懂得了什么叫感应他人的心灵。他脱胎换骨了。

劳拉获得硕士学位后继续深造，与此同时卡尔也在大学攻读生物学博士学位。后来，他饱受各种精神危机和心脏疾病，但再也没有绝望过。

一想到劳拉这种人，卡尔就惊羡不已。自从读研究生以来，他就没有和她交谈过，这些年来她的生活怎么样？不知她爱上了什么人？他很早就认识到了这种爱是什么，不是什么。他对这种爱无比珍视。

４

十九世纪初叶，数学家们开始探索不同于欧几里得几何的几何学。这些新几何学得出了似乎荒谬的结果，但在逻辑上却没有矛盾。后来证明，非欧几何是与欧几里得几何学一致的相关学问，只要欧几里得几何学在逻辑上没有矛盾，非欧几何也就没有矛盾。

但要证明欧几里得几何学的一致性，这可难倒了数学家们。到了十九世纪末叶，所取得的成就至多证明：只要算术在逻辑上没有矛盾，那么，欧几里得几何学就没有矛盾。

４ａ

开始的时候，雷内只觉得这是个有点恼人的小麻烦。当时她走下大厅，敲敲彼得·法布里希办公室敞开的门。“彼得，有空吗？”

法布里希将座椅从办公桌往后推开。“当然有空，雷内，什么事？”

雷内走进去，心里知道他会有什么反应。以前她从来没有向系里任何人请教过问题，都是别人向她请教。没有关系。“我想请你帮个忙。几周前我曾告诉你我正在研究的体系，还记得吗？”

他点了点头，“你想用这个体系来改写公理系统。”

“正确。是这样的，几天前我开始得出十分可笑的结论，到现在我的体系也自相矛盾起来。请你看一看，好吗？”

法布里希的表情在意料之中。“你想——当然可以，我很高兴——”

“太好了。问题就出在头几页的例子里，其余的供你参考。”说着她递给他薄薄的一扎手稿，“我觉得如果让我给你从头到尾讲一遍的话，你可能会受我的引导，只能得出和我相同的结论。”

“也许你说得对。”法布里希瞧了瞧头几页，“我不知道要多久才能看完。”

“不着急。如果有机会的话，只是看一看我的假设是否有模糊之处，诸如此类的问题。我还会继续研究的，到时候会告诉你我是否想出了新东西。好吗？”

法布里希微笑道：“你准会今天下午就来，告诉我你已经发现了问题。”

“恐怕不会，这个问题需要我之外的另一副眼光。”

他摊开双手。“我试试吧。”

“谢谢。”法布里希不大可能充分理解她的体系，但她只需要某个人来检查公式的细节问题就行了。

４ｂ

卡尔是在一位同事举行的一次聚会上与雷内相识的。他被她那张脸吸引住了。那是一张异常平庸的脸，大多数时间不苟言笑，但在那次聚会期间他看见她微笑了两次，皱了两次眉。看她笑时觉得她不会皱眉，看她皱眉时又觉得她不会笑。卡尔很吃惊：他能够辨认出什么样的脸经常微笑，什么样的脸经常皱眉。但是对她那张脸，他却捉摸不透。

他花了很长一段时间来了解雷内，读懂她的表情。不过，这无疑是值得的。

此时，卡尔坐在书房里的安乐椅上，膝盖上放着一本最新一期的《海洋生物学》杂志，倾听雷内在客厅对面她自己的书房里揉皱纸张的沙沙声。整个晚上她都在工作，可以听出她愈来愈焦躁不安。不过他进去察看时，她又板着平时那张没有表情的脸，丝毫看不出什么来。

他将杂志放到一边，再次起身走到她的书房门口。只见书桌上摊开一册书，书页上布满难以辨识的公式，点缀着用俄语写的评注。

她浏览着一些资料，难以觉察地皱皱眉，啪的一声合上。卡尔听见她嘀咕一声“无用”，将书放回书架。

“这样下去你会弄出高血压的。”卡尔取笑道。

“别以我的保护人自居。”

卡尔吃了一惊，“我没有。”

雷内转身瞧着他，怒目相对。“我知道自己什么时候工作有效率，什么时候没有。”

心一凉。“那么，我就不打扰你了，”他退了出去。

“谢谢”说完，她的注意力又回到书架上。卡尔离开了，心里竭力猜测她的瞪视的含义。

５

在１９００年举行的国际数学大会上，大卫·希尔伯特⑤列出了二十三个悬而未决的重大数学问题。他列出的第二大问题是请证明算术在逻辑上的一致性。这个问题一旦证明，就将保证高等数学许多内容的一致性。就本质而言，这个证明所能保证的是这一点：不可能证明一等于二。认为这个问题具有重大意义的数学家寥寥无几。

５ａ

法布里希还没有开口，雷内就知道他要说什么了。

“简直是我见过的最要命的东西。还不大会走路的幼儿玩的玩具是把不同断面的积木嵌进不同形状的槽子，你知道吗？读你的形式体系，就好像观看一个人把一块积木滑进木板上的每一个洞里，每一次都做得天衣无缝。”

“这么说来，你发现不了错误？”

他摇摇头。“发现不了。我滑进了和你相同的套路：只能用你的方法思考这个问题。”

雷内却已经不在老套路上了：她另辟蹊径，想出了一条截然不同的路子来解决这个问题，但却仅仅证明了原先的体系确实存在矛盾。“不过，还是谢谢你费心了。”

“你要另外找人看一看吗？”

“是的。我想我要寄给伯克利的卡拉汉看。自去年春天那次会议以来，我们一直保持着联系。”

法布里希点了点头，“他上次发表的一篇文章真的给我留下很深的印象。如果他发现了问题，请一定告诉我。我感到很好奇。”

雷内宁愿用比“好奇”更强烈的字眼来表达她自己的心情。

５ｂ

雷内对自己的研究感到绝望了吗？卡尔知道她从来不觉得数学真的困难，而只是一种智力挑战。难道是她第一次遇到无法突破的难题吗？或者说，数学本身就是无解的吗？严格说来，卡尔自己是一个实验主义者，并不真正懂得雷内怎么创造新的数学体系。虽说听上去有点傻，但是——她是灵感枯竭了吗？

雷内是成年人，不会像神童那样，发现自己正在成为平庸的成年人而感到幻灭的痛苦。另一方面，许多数学家在三十岁之前就达到事业的巅峰。虽然她离三十岁还有几年，但也许她对这个年龄界限逼近自己而感到焦虑。

似乎不大可能，他又漫无边际地想了其他几种可能性。她会不会对学术感到愈来愈悲观？是对自己的研究过于专业化而感到悲哀吗？再不然，纯悴是对自己的工作感到厌倦了吗？

卡尔并不相信这些焦虑是雷内行为古怪的原因。果真是这样的话，他觉得自己肯定会发现蛛丝马迹。但他现在得到的印象却全然不是这么回事。令雷内感到苦恼的无论是什么，反正他猜不透。这使他感到烦恼。

６

１９３１年，库特·哥德尔⑥证明了两大定理。第一个定理实际上表明：数学包含或许是真实的、但在本质上却无法证明的陈述。甚至简单如算术的形式系统也可以包括精确，有意义，而且似乎真实无疑的陈述，但却无法用形式方法加以证明。

他的第二个定理表明：断言算术具有逻辑上的一致性，这就是上面所说的那种陈述之一，采用算术公理的任何方法都不能证明其真实性。也就是说，作为一种形式系统的算术无法保证不会得出１＝２这样的结果。这样的矛盾也许永远不会遇到，但却无法证明绝对不会遇到。

６ａ

卡尔再次走进雷内的书房。她站在书桌跟前，抬头看他。他鼓起勇气说：“雷内，显然是——”

她打断她的话，“你想知道我烦恼的原因吗？好吧，我告诉你。”说着雷内便拿出一张白纸，坐在书桌跟前，“等一下，这需要一点时间。”卡尔又张开嘴，但雷内挥手示意他保持沉默。接着，她深深地吸了一口气，开始写起来。

她画了一条线，穿过纸的中央，将纸分成两栏。然后，她在一行的顶部写下数字１，另一行的顶部写下数字２。接着在这两个数字下面迅速潦草地画一些符号，又在这些符号下面的行列里把它们扩展成一串串别的符号。她边写边咬牙切齿，写下那些文字时，感觉好像她正用指甲刮过黑板似的。

写到纸的三分之二左右时，雷内开始将长串长串的符号减少成连续的短串符号。她心里想，现在要到关键处了。她意识到自己在纸上用力过重了，下意识地放松握在手中的铅笔。在她下面写出的那一行上，符号串变成相等了。接着，她重重地写了个“＝”号，横过纸的底部中心线。

她将纸递给卡尔。他望着她，表示看不懂。“看一看顶部吧。”他照办了，“再看一看底部。”

他眉头紧锁。“我还是看不懂。”

“我发现了一种体系，可以使任何数字等于任何别的数字。这张纸上就证明了一和二是相等的。你随便挑两个数字，我都可以证明它们是相等的。”

卡尔似乎竭力在回忆什么。“里面肯定出现了以零为被除数的情况，对吗？”

“不对。没有不符合规则的运算，没有不严谨的术语，没有想当然假定的独立公理，全都没有。证明过程绝对没有采用任何规则禁止的东西。”

卡尔摇了摇头。“等一下。显然一和二是不相等的。”

“但在形式上它们是相等的：证明就在你手里。我使用的一切方法都是绝对无可争议的。”

“但这儿不就是矛盾吗？”

“说对了。也就是说，算术作为一种形式系统，是不一致的。”

６ｂ

“你找不出错误来，这就是你的意思吗？”

“不对，你没有听。你以为我是因为这种情况才焦头烂额的吗？证明本身并没有错误。”

“你的意思是说，用的方法都是对的，结果却出了错？”

“正确。”

“你肯定——”他戛然而止，却太晚了。她瞪着他。她当然清楚他想说的是什么。不知她的目光是什么意思。

“你懂吗？”雷内道，“我已经推翻了大半个数学：这门学问全都没意义了。”

她焦躁起来，几乎快发疯了。卡尔小心翼翼地选择着字眼，“你怎么能这么说？数学仍然有作用。科学和经济并不会因为你这个领悟而突然崩溃的。”

“这是因为他们使用的数学纯粹是骗人的把戏。是一种口诀式的小玩意儿，跟用指关节来计算哪些月份有三十一天一样。”

“不一样。”

“为什么不一样？现在，数学与现实绝对毫无关系。且不说像虚数或者无穷小数之类的概念，现在，就连该死的整数加法都跟用指头计算毫无关系。你用指头计算，一加一始终等于二，但在纸上我可以给你无穷多的答案，这些答案全都同样有效，这意味着它们全都同样无效。我可以写出你见过的最优美的定理，但它却不过是一个瞎扯淡等式。”她苦笑起来，“实证主义者曾经说一切数学都是同义反复。他们错了：数学是自相矛盾。”

卡尔试了试另一种方式。“等一下。刚才你提到虚数这类想像出来的概念，大家不也一样接受了吗？现在不也可以这样吗？数学家们曾经相信虚数没有意义，可是现在它们成了数学的基础概念。情况完全是一样的呀。”

“不一样。当时的解决方法只是扩展语境，用在这里不起作用。虚数给数学增添新的内容，而我的形式系统却是给已经存在在那里的东西下定义。”

“但是，如果你改变语境，从不同的角度探索——”

她翻了个白眼。“不可能！这个体系是从和加法一样明白无误的公理得出的结果，无法绕过。我可以担保。”

７

１９３６年，格哈德·根茨恩提出了一种对算术一致性的证明，可是要做出证明，他需要采用一种有争议的方法，即人们所知道的超限归纳法。这种方法不属于正常的证明方法，因此似乎难以恰当地保证算术的一致性。根茨恩所做的是使用可疑的方法来证明显而易见的东西。

７ａ

卡拉汉从贝克利大学打电话来说他也不能雪中送炭，但表示愿意继续研究她的论文，似乎她触及到了某种本质的、而又令人不安的东西。他想知道她是否打算发表她的形式体系，因为这个形式体系虽然的确包含他们两人都无法发现的错误，但数学界肯定会有人能够发现的。

雷内几乎没有听见他说话，只是嘀咕今后她会打电话联系他的，近来，她与人讲话很困难，尤其是自从那次与卡尔争论以来，情况更糟糕。系里的同事们都尽量避开她。她显得心不在焉，前一天夜里她做了一个噩梦，梦见她发现了一种形式体系，可以使她将主观概念转换成数学语言，然后，她证明了生与死是相同的。

有一种可能性让她十分惊恐：她正能正在失去理智。她肯定在失去清晰的思维，这与失去理智已经相差无几了。

她责备自己，你是一个多么可笑的女人。哥德尔证明他的不完全定理后自杀了吗？

但是，哥德尔的定理是优美的，让人肃然起敬，是雷内所见到的最优美的一个定理。

而她自己的证明却嘲讽她，讥笑她。就好像谜题书中的一道难题，它说：这下我可把你难住了。你跳过这个错误，查看自己在哪儿出了问题，结果绕了一圈又兜回来，那个难题再一次对你说：又把你难住了。

她估计卡拉汉会考虑她的发现对数学的意义。数学的许多内容并没有实际用处，她的理论也可以仅仅作为一种形式而存在，研究它只是为了它包含的智力美。但这是不能持久的。自相矛盾的理论实在太无意义了，绝大多数数学家只会厌恶地置之不理。

使雷内真正感到恼火的是她自己的直觉出卖了她。那个该死的定理大有道理。它以自己怪异的方式，给人一种感觉，它是正确的。她理解它，知道它是真实的，并且相信它。

７ｂ

想到她生日那天的情景，卡尔微笑起来。

“我不相信！你怎么可能知道？”她手里抱着一件毛衣，跑下楼来。

去年夏天，他们俩在苏格兰度假。爱丁堡一家百货商店有一件毛衣吸引住了雷内的眼光，但当时她没有买。于是他订购了这件毛衣，放在她的梳妆台抽屉里，等那天早晨给她一个惊喜。

“你这个人太容易被人一眼识破了。”他取笑她。夫妻俩都知道这话不是真话，但他还是喜欢这样告诉她。

那是两个月前的事情了。差点两个月。

现在情况不同了，需要改变一下做法。卡尔走进雷内的书房，发现她坐在椅子上，眺望窗外。“猜一猜我为我们俩搞到了什么？”

她抬起头来。“什么？”

“周末预订。在比尔特莫尔订了一套房间。我们可以放松放松，什么都不做——”

“请别说下去了。”雷内说，“卡尔，我明白你的心意。你想我们做点愉快的事情，好让我散散心，不去想这个形式体系。但不起作用。你不知道这个对我究竟是什么样的压力。”

“算了吧。算了吧。”他拉住她的手，想把她从椅子上拉起来，可是她挣开了。卡尔稍站片刻，突然她转过身来，死死盯着他。

“我想吃安眠药，这你知道吗？我几乎希望自己是一个白痴，用不着去思考形式体系。”

他大吃一惊，不知道说什么好。“你至少可以试试离开一段时间，为什么不呢？有益无害呀，说不准会分散你的心思呢。”

“没有什么可以使我分散心思。你不明白。”

“那就解释给我听吧。”

雷内呼出一门气，转身想了一下。“就好像我看见的一切都在向我大喊大叫那个矛盾。”她说，“现在我一直在给不同的数字列等号。”

卡尔陷入了沉默。突然间，他懂了。“这就好像面对量子力学问题的古典物理学家们。仿佛你一直相信的理论给取代了，而新的理论又没有意义，但不知怎么回事，所有证据却都支持这种新理论。”

“不对，压根儿不是那么一回事。”她几乎对他的说法嗤之以鼻，“这与证据没有丝毫关系；这完全是先验的。”

“怎么不同？你的推理和证据之间互相矛盾，这不正是你的问题吗？”

“基督呀，你在开玩笑吗？我测算一和二相等，现在我的直觉也告诉我它们相等。我的脑子里再也无法保持不同数量的概念了，它们对我来说全都是相同的。”

“你不是这个意思吧。”他说，“事实上谁也不可能经历这种事情。”

“你怎么知道我能够经历什么呢？”

“我在尽力去理解。”

“别操那份心了。”

卡尔失去了耐心。“那好吧。”说着他走出屋子，取消了预订。

从那之后，夫妻俩彼此寡言少语，只有必要时才说话。三天后，卡尔忘记带他需要用的一盒幻灯片，便驱车回家取，回到家里发现桌子上有一张妻子的留言条。

在接下来的时刻里，卡尔产生了两个直觉。他飞奔穿过房子，边跑边纳闷她是否从化学系搞到了氰化物。就在这时，他产生了第一个直觉：他意识到因为不明白什么原因导致她做出这种事，所以对她没有什么同情之类的感受，没有任何感受。

当他一边猛敲卧室门，一边向屋里的她吼叫的时候，他产生了第二个自觉：感受到一种记忆错觉。这种情形似曾相识，却又逆反得荒谬。他记得自己曾经待在一座建筑物房顶一道锁着的门内，听见一位朋友在外面一边猛力敲门，一边向他吼叫别寻短见。此刻他站在卧室门外，听见她羞愧地瘫倒在地板上哭泣，与他当年待在门里面时的情形毫无二致。

８

希尔伯特曾经说过：“如果连数学思维都有缺陷，我们还能在哪里找到真理与正确呢？”

８ａ

雷内暗自纳闷：她自杀未遂会给自己的一生蒙上阴影吗？她的目光对准躺在书桌上的论文的角落。从此以后，人们也许会无意识地把她视为行为反复无常吗？她从来没有问过卡尔他是否也有过这种焦虑感，也许是因为不愿对他提起他当年自杀的事。那是发生在多年以前的事了，如今，任何见到他的人都会立刻知道他是一个健全的人。

然而，雷内却不能说自己是个健全的人。眼下，她不能理性地讨沦数学，而且不敢肯定将来她是否能够恢复理智。现在，如果她的同事见到她，会不会说她丧失了数学才华？

雷内做完案头的工作，离开书房，走进起居室。她的形式体系传遍数学界后，将彻底动摇根深蒂固的数学基础，但是只有少数人会受到她这样的影响。大多数人会像法布里希一样，机械地理解她的证明，被它折服，但仅此而已。会几乎同她一样感受深切的人只是那些能够真正领会其中的矛盾，能够凭直觉感知这种矛盾的人。卡拉汉就是其中的一位。她心想，随着时间的推移，不知他会如何对付这个矛盾。

雷内用手指在铺满茶几的灰尘上画了一条曲线。如果是在以前，她可能会确定曲线的参数，检查曲线的一些特点。而现在这一切似乎都毫无意义了。她的想像力简直崩溃了。

她同许多人一样，以前一直都以为数学并不从宇宙那里获得意义，而是赋予宇宙以意义，物理实体彼此无所谓大或者小，无所谓相同或者不相同，它们纯粹是存在，数学是完全独立的，但它实际上赋予物理语义，提供范畴和关系。它并不描述任何内在的品质，仅仅提供一种可能的阐释。

然而，这一切都不复存在了。数学一旦从物理实体分离出来，就不一致了，而一种形式理论如果不一致，则就毫无意义。算术是经验主义的，仅此而已，引不起她的任何兴趣。

那么，现在她改行干什么呢？她知道曾经有个人放弃学术研究去卖手工皮革制品。她需要一段时间重新找回自我。而这正是卡尔一直努力帮助她做的。

８ｂ

卡尔的朋友中有两个女人，叫做马琳和安娜，她们俩是知心朋友。几年前，马琳曾经想自杀，她并没有寻求安娜的救助，而是求助于卡尔。有几次，他和马琳坐在一块，通宵达旦，或若促膝谈心，或者默默相视。卡尔知道安娜一直对他和马琳之间的心灵相通有一点儿嫉妒。他究竟又有什么奥妙，能走进马琳的心灵，对此安娜一直感到纳闷。其实答案很简单。这就是同情对方与感应对方心灵之间的差异。

卡尔一生不止一次在类似的情况下给予他人安慰。不用说，他为自己能够帮助他人感到高兴，但还不止这个。他觉得替别人设身处地，把自己当作另一个人，这种感觉很好。

迄今为止，他一直有理由认为富有同情心是他性格的底色。他珍视这一点，觉得自己如果不能感应他人就一无是处。可是，现在他却遭遇到他前所未遇的事情，在这件事面前，他平时的本能不起任何作用了。

如果有人在雷内的生日那天告诉他，两个月后他就会有这种感觉，那么他只会一笑置之。当然，这种事情会在几年后发生，卡尔知道时间的力量。可是两个月？

结婚六年后，卡尔对雷内的爱淡漠了。他憎恶自己有这个想法，但事实是她变了，现在他既不理解她，也不知道如何设身处地替她着想。由于雷内的精神生活和情感生活交织在一块，密不可分，因而她的情感生活令他不可捉摸。

随之而起的是自我宽恕的条件反射。他这样想：你不可能要求别人在任何危机中始终如一地支持你。如果一个人的妻子突然患了精神病，那么丈夫离开她是一种罪恶，但却是情有可原的。厮守在妻子身边就意味着接受一种不同的关系，这种关系并非适合每一个人，所以卡尔绝不谴责这种处境下的任何人。然而，始终存在一个没有提出来的问题：我怎么办？而他的回答始终是：我要待下去。

伪君子。

最糟糕的是，他曾经也有过同样的遭遇。他曾经沉浸在自己的痛苦里，他曾经折磨过别人的忍耐力，有人始终如一地呵护他。他离开雷内是不可避免的，但那将是一种他永远不可宽恕自己的罪恶。

９

阿尔伯特·爱因斯坦曾经说过：“只要数学定理描述现实，它们就不是确定的；只要它们是确定的，就不描述现实。”

９ａ＝９ｂ

卡尔在厨房里剥豆子准备晚餐这时候，雷内走进来说：“可以和你谈一下吗？”

“没问题。”于是夫妻俩坐在餐桌旁。她故意眺望窗外：这是她即将开始严肃谈话时的习惯。他突然对她要说什么害怕起来。在她完全康复之前他并不打算告诉她他要离开，而她康复需要几个月的时间。现在还为时过早。

“我知道我们一直没有明说——”

别，他暗自祈祷，别说出来、请别说。

“——不过，有你守在我身边，我真的十分感激。”

一针见血，卡尔闭上眼睛。谢天谢地，雷内依然望着窗外。情况会变得非常、非常难办。

她仍然在说。“一直萦绕在我脑际的东西——”她停顿了一下，“丝毫不像我所想像的一切。如果那是常见的抑郁，我知道你会理解的，而且我们可以对付。”

卡尔点了点头。

“可是，情况是这样的，我几乎像一个在证明并不存在上帝的神学家。我并不只是存在这种担心，而是知道这是事实。这听起来很荒唐吗？”

“不。”

“这是一种我无法向你表达的情感。这曾经是我深信不疑的东西，但现在它却不是真实的，而且还是我证明出来的。”

他张开嘴想说他完全明白她的意思，他与她有同样的感受。但他没有说出来。因为这种感应将使他们分离，而不是凝聚在一起，所以他不能告诉她。

①原文如此，作者对这个著名的“证明”推导可能有误。原证明步骤为：ａ＝ｂ→ａ２＝ｂ２→ａ２——ｂ２＝ａｂ——ｂ２→（ａ＋ｂ）（ａ——ｂ）＝ｂ（ａ——ｂ）→ａ＋ｂ＝ｂ→２ｂ＝ｂ→２＝１。——编者注

②伯纳德·罗素（１８７２——１９７０），英国哲学家、数学家、数理学家，获１９５０诺贝尔文学奖。

③艾尔弗雷德·怀特海（１８６１——１９４７），英国哲学家、数学家。

④诺伊曼（１９０３——１９５７），美国数学家，对数学逻辑、离子物理以及高速计算机的发展均有贡献。

⑤大卫·希尔伯特（１８６２——１９４３），德国数学家，发展了有关不变量的数学。

⑥库特·哥德尔（１９０６——１９７８），生于奥地利的美国数学家、逻辑学家。

后记

有一个著名的公式：ｅπｉ＋１＝０。第一次意识到这个公式可以推导出什么来时，我吃惊得合不拢嘴。让我详细解释一下：

我们最推崇的是这样的小说结尾：出乎意料，却又无可避免。当然，我们也知道，所谓无可避免，其实并不真的是无可避免，只是由于作者的才能，我们才觉得这种结局无法避免。

再回头看看上面这个公式。它才是真正的出乎意料。你很可能会无数次摆弄ｅ、π和ｉ的值，却意识不到其中的机关。在这种情况下，你就会觉得这个公式真的是无可避免的，它只能这样，这时你就会产生一种敬畏，好像你突然发现了一个绝对真理。

今后，也许会有人证明数学其实并不具备人们一直相信它具备的一致性，所谓数学的美只是虚幻。在我看来，世间再没有比这种事更煞风景的了。

（王荣生译）

Division by Zero

By Ted Chiang

Fiction · Reprints · December 13, 2003

1

Dividing a number by zero doesn’t produce an infinitely large number as an answer. The reason is that division is defined as the inverse of multiplication; if you divide by zero, and then multiply by zero, you should regain the number you started with. However, multiplying infinity by zero produces only zero, not any other number. There is nothing which can be multiplied by zero to produce a nonzero result; therefore, the result of a division by zero is literally “undefined.”

1a

Renee was looking out the window when Mrs. Rivas approached.

“Leaving after only a week? Hardly a real stay at all. Lord knows I won’t be leaving for a long time.”

Renee forced a polite smile. “I’m sure it won’t be long for you.” Mrs. Rivas was the manipulator in the ward; everyone knew that her attempts were merely gestures, but the aides wearily paid attention to her lest she succeed accidentally.

“Ha. They wish I’d leave. You know what kind of liability they face if you die while you’re on status?”

“Yes, I know.”

“That’s all they’re worried about, you can tell. Always their liability—”

Renee tuned out and returned her attention to the window, watching a contrail extrude itself across the sky.

“Mrs. Norwood?” a nurse called. “Your husband’s here.”

Renee gave Mrs. Rivas another polite smile and left.

1b

Carl signed his name yet another time, and finally the nurses took away the forms for processing.

He remembered when he had brought Renee in to be admitted, and thought of all the stock questions at the first interview. He had answered them all stoically.

“Yes, she’s a professor of mathematics. You can find her in Who’s Who.”

“No, I’m in biology.”

And:

“I had left behind a box of slides that I needed.”

“No, she couldn’t have known.”

And, just as expected:

“Yes, I have. It was about twenty years ago, when I was a grad student.”

“No, I tried jumping.”

“No, Renee and I didn’t know each other then.”

And on and on.

Now they were convinced that he was competent and supportive, and were ready to release Renee into an outpatient treatment program.

Looking back, Carl was surprised in an abstracted way. Except for one moment, there hadn’t been any sense of deja vu at any time during the entire ordeal. All the time he was dealing with the hospital, the doctors, the nurses: the only accompanying sensation was one of numbness, of sheer tedious rote.

2

There is a well-known “proof” that demonstrates that one equals two. It begins with some definitions: “Let a = 1; let b = 1.” It ends with the conclusion “a = 2a,” that is, one equals two. Hidden inconspicuously in the middle is a division by zero, and at that point the proof has stepped off the brink, making all rules null and void. Permitting division by zero allows one to prove not only that one and two are equal, but that any two numbers at all—real or imaginary, rational or irrational—are equal.

2a

As soon as she and Carl got home, Renee went to the desk in her study and began turning all the papers facedown, blindly sweeping them together into a pile; she winced whenever a corner of a page faced up during her shuffling. She considered burning the pages, but that would be merely symbolic now. She’d accomplish as much by simply never glancing at them.

The doctors would probably describe it as obsessive behavior. Renee frowned, reminded of the indignity of being a patient under such fools. She remembered being on suicide status, in the locked ward, under the supposedly round-the-clock observation of the aides. And the interviews with the doctors, who were so condescending, so obvious. She was no manipulator like Mrs. Rivas, but it really was easy. Simply say “I realize I’m not well yet, but I do feel better,” and you’d be considered almost ready for release.

2b

Carl watched Renee from the doorway for a moment, before he passed down the hallway. He remembered the day, fully two decades past, when he himself had been released. His parents had picked him up, and on the trip back his mother had made some inane comment about how glad everyone would be to see him, and he was just barely able to restrain himself from shaking her arm off his shoulders.

He had done for Renee what he would have appreciated during his period under observation. He had come to visit every day, even though she refused to see him at first, so that he wouldn’t be absent when she did want to see him. Sometimes they talked, and sometimes they simply walked around the grounds. He could find nothing wrong in what he did, and he knew that she appreciated it.

Yet, despite all his efforts, he felt no more than a sense of duty towards her.

3

In the Principia Mathematica, Bertrand Russell and Alfred Whitehead attempted to give a rigorous foundation to mathematics using formal logic as their basis. They began with what they considered to be axioms, and used those to derive theorems of increasing complexity. By page 362, they had established enough to prove “1 + 1 = 2.”

3a

As a child of seven, while investigating the house of a relative, Renee had been spellbound at discovering the perfect squares in the smooth marble tiles of the floor. A single one, two rows of two, three rows of three, four rows of four: the tiles fit together in a square. Of course. No matter which side you looked at it from, it came out the same. And more than that, each square was bigger than the last by an odd number of tiles. It was an epiphany. The conclusion was necessary: it had a rightness to it, confirmed by the smooth, cool feel of the tiles. And the way the tiles were fitted together, with such incredibly fine lines where they met; she had shivered at the precision.

Later on there came other realizations, other achievements. The astonishing doctoral dissertation at twenty-three, the series of acclaimed papers; people compared her to Von Neumann, universities wooed her. She had never paid any of it much attention. What she did pay attention to was that same sense of rightness, possessed by every theorem she learned, as insistent as the tiles’ physicality, and as exact as their fit.

3b

Carl felt that the person he was today was born after his attempt, when he met Laura. After being released from the hospital, he was in no mood to see anyone, but a friend of his had managed to introduce him to Laura. He had pushed her away initially, but she had known better. She had loved him while he was hurting, and let him go once he was healed. Through knowing her Carl had learned about empathy, and he was remade.

Laura had moved on after getting her own master’s degree, while he stayed at the university for his doctorate in biology. He suffered various crises and heartbreaks later on in life, but never again despair.

Carl marveled when he thought about what kind of person she was. He hadn’t spoken to her since grad school; what had her life been like over the years? He wondered whom else she had loved. Early on he had recognized what kind of love it was, and what kind it wasn’t, and he valued it immensely.

4

In the early nineteenth century, mathematicians began exploring geometries that differed from Euclidean geometry; these alternate geometries produced results that seemed utterly absurd, but they didn’t produce logical contradictions. It was later shown that these non-Euclidean geometries were consistent relative to Euclidean geometry: they were logically consistent, as long as one assumed that Euclidean geometry was consistent.

The proof of Euclidean geometry’s consistency eluded mathematicians. By the end of the nineteenth century, the best that was achieved was a proof that Euclidean geometry was consistent as long as arithmetic was consistent.

4a

At the time, when it all began, Renee had thought it little more than an annoyance. She had walked down the hall and knocked on the open door of Peter Fabrisi’s office. “Pete, got a minute?”

Fabrisi pushed his chair back from his desk. “Sure, Renee, what’s up?”

Renee came in, knowing what his reaction would be. She had never asked anyone in the department for advice on a problem before; it had always been the reverse. No matter. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor. You remember what I was telling you about a couple weeks back, about the formalism I was developing?”

He nodded. “The one you were rewriting axiom systems with.”

“Right. Well, a few days ago I started coming up with really ridiculous conclusions, and now my formalism is contradicting itself. Could you take a look at it?”

Fabrisi’s expression was as expected. “You want–sure, I’d be glad to.”

“Great. The examples on the first few pages are where the problem is; the rest is just for your reference.” She handed Fabrisi a thin sheaf of papers. “I thought if I talked you through it, you’d just see the same things I do.”

“You’re probably right.” Fabrisi looked at the first couple pages. “I don’t know how long this’ll take.”

“No hurry. When you get a chance, just see whether any of my assumptions seem a little dubious, anything like that. I’ll still be going at it, so I’ll tell you if I come up with anything. Okay?”

Fabrisi smiled. “You’re just going to come in this afternoon and tell me you’ve found the problem.”

“I doubt it: this calls for a fresh eye.”

He spread his hands. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Thanks.” It was unlikely that Fabrisi would fully grasp her formalism, but all she needed was someone who could check its more mechanical aspects.

4b

Carl had met Renee at a party given by a colleague of his. He had been taken with her face. Hers was a remarkably plain face, and it appeared quite somber most of the time, but during the party he saw her smile twice and frown once; at those moments, her entire countenance assumed the expression as if it had never known another. Carl had been caught by surprise: he could recognize a face that smiled regularly, or a face that frowned regularly, even if it were unlined. He was curious as to how her face had developed such a close familiarity with so many expressions, and yet normally revealed nothing.

It took a long time for him to understand Renee, to read her expressions. But it had definitely been worthwhile.

Now Carl sat in his easy chair in his study, a copy of the latest issue of Marine Biology in his lap, and listened to the sound of Renee crumpling paper in her study across the hall. She’d been working all evening, with audibly increasing frustration, though she’d been wearing her customary poker face when last he’d looked in.

He put the journal aside, got up from the chair, and walked over to the entrance of her study. She had a volume opened on her desk; the pages were filled with the usual hieroglyphic equations, interspersed with commentary in Russian.

She scanned some of the material, dismissed it with a barely perceptible frown, and slammed the volume closed. Carl heard her mutter the word “useless,” and she returned the tome to the bookcase.

“You’re gonna give yourself high blood pressure if you keep up like this,” Carl jested.

“Don’t patronize me.”

Carl was startled. “I wasn’t.”

Renee turned to look at him and glared. “I know when I’m capable of working productively and when I’m not.”

Chilled. “Then I won’t bother you.” He retreated.

“Thank you.” She returned her attention to the bookshelves. Carl left, trying to decipher that glare.

5

At the Second International Congress of Mathematics in 1900, David Hilbert listed what he considered to be the twenty-three most important unsolved problems of mathematics. The second item on his list was a request for a proof of the consistency of arithmetic. Such a proof would ensure the consistency of a great deal of higher mathematics. What this proof had to guarantee was, in essence, that one could never prove one equals two. Few mathematicians regarded this as a matter of much import.

5a

Renee had known what Fabrisi would say before he opened his mouth.

“That was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. You know that toy for toddlers where you fit blocks with different cross sections into the differently shaped slots? Reading your formal system is like watching someone take one block and sliding it into every single hole on the board, and making it a perfect fit every time.”

“So you can’t find the error?”

He shook his head. “Not me. I’ve slipped into the same rut as you. I can only think about it one way.”

Renee was no longer in a rut: she had come up with a totally different approach to the question, but it only confirmed the original contradiction. “Well, thanks for trying.”

“You going to have someone else take a look at it?”

“Yes, I think I’ll send it to Callahan over at Berkeley. We’ve been corresponding since the conference last spring.”

Fabrisi nodded. “I was really impressed by his last paper. Let me know if he can find it: I’m curious.”

Renee would have used a stronger word than “curious” for herself.

5b

Was Renee just frustrated with her work? Carl knew that she had never considered mathematics really difficult, just intellectually challenging. Could it be that for the first time she was running into problems that she could make no headway against? Or did mathematics work that way at all? Carl himself was strictly an experimentalist; he really didn’t know how Renee made new math. It sounded silly, but perhaps she was running out of ideas?

Renee was too old to be suffering from the disillusionment of a child prodigy becoming an average adult. On the other hand, many mathematicians did their best work before the age of thirty, and she might be growing anxious over whether that statistic was catching up to her, albeit several years behind schedule.

It seemed unlikely. He gave a few other possibilities cursory consideration. Could she be growing cynical about academia? Dismayed that her research had become overspecialized? Or simply weary of her work?

Carl didn’t believe that such anxieties were the cause of Renee’s behavior; he could imagine the impressions that he would pick up if that were the case, and they didn’t mesh with what he was receiving. Whatever was bothering Renee, it was something he couldn’t fathom, and that disturbed him.

6

In 1931, Kurt Godel demonstrated two theorems. The first one shows, in effect, that mathematics contains statements that may be true, but are inherently unprovable. Even a formal system as simple as arithmetic permits statements that are precise, meaningful, and seem certainly true, and yet cannot be proven true by formal means.

His second theorem shows that a claim of the consistency of arithmetic is just such a statement; it cannot be proven true by any means using the axioms of arithmetic. That is, arithmetic as a formal system cannot guarantee that it will not produce results such as

“1 = 2”; such contradictions may never have been encountered, but it is impossible to prove that they never will be.

6a

Once again, he had come into her study. Renee looked up from her desk at Carl; he began resolutely, “Renee, it’s obvious that—”

She cut him off. “You want to know what’s bothering me? Okay, I’ll tell you.” Renee got out a blank sheet of paper and sat down at her desk. “Hang on; this’ll take a minute.” Carl opened his mouth again, but Renee waved him silent. She took a deep breath and began writing.

She drew a line down the center of the page, dividing it into two columns. At the head of one column she wrote the numeral “1” and for the other she wrote “2”. Below them she rapidly scrawled out some symbols, and in the lines below those she expanded them into strings of other symbols. She gritted her teeth as she wrote: forming the characters felt like dragging her fingernails across a chalkboard.

About two thirds of the way down the page, Renee began reducing the long strings of symbols into successively shorter strings. And now for the masterstroke, she thought. She realized she was pressing hard on the paper; she consciously relaxed her grip on the pencil. On the next line that she put down, the strings became identical. She wrote an emphatic “=” across the center line at the bottom of the page.

She handed the sheet to Carl. He looked at her, indicating incomprehension. “Look at the top.” He did so. “Now look at the bottom.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve discovered a formalism that lets you equate any number with any other number. That page there proves that one and two are equal. Pick any two numbers you like; I can prove those equal as well.”

Carl seemed to be trying to remember something. “It’s a division by zero, right?”

“No. There are no illegal operations, no poorly defined terms, no independent axioms that are implicitly assumed, nothing. The proof employs absolutely nothing that’s forbidden.”

Carl shook his head. “Wait a minute. Obviously one and two aren’t the same.”

“But formally they are: the proof’s in your hand. Everything I’ve used is within what’s accepted as absolutely indisputable.”

“But you’ve got a contradiction here.”

“That’s right. Arithmetic as a formal system is inconsistent.”

6b

“You can’t find your mistake, is that what you mean?”

“No, you’re not listening. You think I’m just frustrated because of something like that? There is no mistake in the proof.”

“You’re saying there’s something wrong within what’s accepted?”

“Exactly.”

“Are you—” He stopped, but too late. She glared at him. Of course she was sure. He thought about what she was implying.

“Do you see?” asked Renee. “I’ve just disproved most of mathematics: it’s all meaningless now.”

She was getting agitated, almost distraught; Carl chose his words carefully. “How can you say that? Math still works. The scientific and economic worlds aren’t suddenly going to collapse from this realization.”

“That’s because the mathematics they’re using is just a gimmick. It’s a mnemonic trick, like counting on your knuckles to figure out which months have thirty-one days.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Why isn’t it? Now mathematics has absolutely nothing to do with reality. Never mind concepts like imaginaries or infinitesimals. Now goddamn integer addition has nothing to do with counting on your fingers. One and one will always get you two on your fingers, but on paper I can give you an infinite number of answers, and they’re all equally valid, which means they’re all equally invalid. I can write the most elegant theorem you’ve ever seen, and it won’t mean any more than a nonsense equation.” She gave a bitter laugh. “The positivists used to say all mathematics is a tautology. They had it all wrong: it’s a contradiction.”

Carl tried a different approach. “Hold on. You just mentioned imaginary numbers. Why is this any worse than what went on with those? Mathematicians once believed they were meaningless, but now they’re accepted as basic. This is the same situation.”

“It’s not the same. The solution there was to simply expand the context, and that won’t do any good here. Imaginary numbers added something new to mathematics, but my formalism is redefining what’s already there.”

“But if you change the context, put it in a different light—”

She rolled her eyes. “No! This follows from the axioms as surely as addition does; there’s no way around it. You can take my word for it.”

7

In 1936, Gerhard Gentzen provided a proof of the consistency of arithmetic, but to do it he needed to use a controversial technique known as transfinite induction. This technique is not among the usual methods of proof, and it hardly seemed appropriate for guaranteeing the consistency of arithmetic. What Gentzen had done was prove the obvious by assuming the doubtful.

7a

Callahan had called from Berkeley, but could offer no rescue. He said he would continue to examine her work, but it seemed that she had hit upon something fundamental and disturbing. He wanted to know about her plans for publication of her formalism, because if it did contain an error that neither of them could find, others in the mathematics community would surely be able to.

Renee had barely been able to hear him speaking, and mumbled that she would get back to him. Lately she had been having difficulty talking to people, especially since the argument with Carl; the other members of the department had taken to avoiding her. Her concentration was gone, and last night she had had a nightmare about discovering a formalism that let her translate arbitrary concepts into mathematical expressions: then she had proven that life and death were equivalent.

That was something that frightened her: the possibility that she was losing her mind. She was certainly losing her clarity of thought, and that came pretty close.

What a ridiculous woman you are, she chided herself. Was Godel suicidal after he demonstrated his incompleteness theorem?

But that was beautiful, numinous, one of the most elegant theorems Renee had ever seen.

Her own proof taunted her, ridiculed her. Like a brainteaser in a puzzle book, it said gotcha, you skipped right over the mistake, see if you can find where you screwed up; only to turn around and say, gotcha again.

She imagined Callahan would be pondering the implications that her discovery held for mathematics. So much of mathematics had no practical application; it existed solely as a formal theory, studied for its intellectual beauty. But that couldn’t last; a self-contradictory theory was so pointless that most mathematicians would drop it in disgust.

What truly infuriated Renee was the way her own intuition had betrayed her. The damned theorem made sense; in its own perverted way, it felt right. She understood it, knew why it was true, believed it.

7b

Carl smiled when he thought of her birthday.

“I can’t believe you! How could you possibly have known?” She had run down the stairs, holding a sweater in her hands.

Last summer they had been in Scotland on vacation, and in one store in Edinburgh there had been a sweater that Renee had been eyeing but didn’t buy. He had ordered it, and placed it in her dresser drawer for her to find that morning.

“You’re just so transparent,” he had teased her. They both knew that wasn’t true, but he liked to tell her that.

That was two months ago. A scant two months.

Now the situation called for a change of pace. Carl went into her study, and found Renee sitting in her chair, staring out the window. “Guess what I got for us.”

She looked up. “What?”

“Reservations for the weekend. A suite at the Biltmore. We can relax and do absolutely nothing—”

“Please stop,” Renee said. “I know what you’re trying to do, Carl. You want us to do something pleasant and distracting to take my mind off this formalism. But it won’t work. You don’t know what kind of hold this has on me.”

“Come on, come on.” He tugged at her hands to get her off the chair, but she pulled away. Carl stood there for a moment, when suddenly she turned and locked eyes with him.

“You know I’ve been tempted to take barbiturates? I almost wish I were an idiot, so I wouldn’t have to think about it.”

He was taken aback. Uncertain of his bearings, he said, “Why won’t you at least try to get away for a while? It couldn’t hurt, and maybe it’ll take your mind off this.”

“It’s not anything I can take my mind off of. You just don’t understand.”

“So explain it to me.”

Renee exhaled and turned away to think for a moment. “It’s like everything I see is shouting the contradiction at me,” she said. “I’m equating numbers all the time now.”

Carl was silent. Then, with sudden comprehension, he said, “Like the classical physicists facing quantum mechanics. As if a theory you’ve always believed has been superseded, and the new one makes no sense, but somehow all the evidence supports it.”

“No, it’s not like that at all.” Her dismissal was almost contemptuous. “This has nothing to do with evidence; it’s all a priori.”

“How is that different? Isn’t it just the evidence of your reasoning then?”

“Christ, are you joking? It’s the difference between my measuring one and two to have the same value, and my intuiting it. I can’t maintain the concept of distinct quantities in my mind anymore; they all feel the same to me.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said. “No one could actually experience such a thing; it’s like believing six impossible things before breakfast.”

“How would you know what I can experience?”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“Don’t bother.”

Carl’s patience was gone. “All right then.” He walked out of the room and canceled their reservations.

They scarcely spoke after that, talking only when necessary. It was three days later that Carl forgot the box of slides he needed, and drove back to the house, and found her note on the table.

Carl intuited two things in the moments following. The first came to him as he was racing through the house, wondering if she had gotten some cyanide from the chemistry department: it was the realization that, because he couldn’t understand what had brought her to such an action, he couldn’t feel anything for her.

The second intuition came to him as he was pounding on the bedroom door, yelling at her inside: he experienced deja vu. It was the only time the situation would feel familiar, and yet it was grotesquely reversed. He remembered being on the other side of a locked door, on the roof of a building, hearing a friend pounding on the door and yelling for him not to do it. And as he stood there outside the bedroom door, he could hear her sobbing, on the floor paralyzed with shame, exactly the same as he had been when it was him on the other side.

8

Hilbert once said, “If mathematical thinking is defective, where are we to find truth and certitude?”

8a

Would her suicide attempt brand her for the rest of her life? Renee wondered. She aligned the corners of the papers on her desk. Would people henceforth regard her, perhaps unconsciously, as flighty or unstable? She had never asked Carl if he had ever felt such anxieties, perhaps because she never held his attempt against him. It had happened many years ago, and anyone seeing him now would immediately recognize him as a whole person.

But Renee could not say the same for herself. Right now she was unable to discuss mathematics intelligibly, and she was unsure whether she ever could again. Were her colleagues to see her now, they would simply say, She’s lost the knack.

Finished at her desk, Renee left her study and walked into the living room. After her formalism circulated through the academic community, it would require an overhaul of established mathematical foundations, but it would affect only a few as it had her. Most would be like Fabrisi; they would follow the proof mechanically, and be convinced by it, but no more. The only persons who would feel it nearly as keenly as she had were those who could actually grasp the contradiction, who could intuit it. Callahan was one of those; she wondered how he was handling it as the days wore on.

Renee traced a curly pattern in the dust on an end table. Before, she might have idly parameterized the curve, examined some of its characteristics. Now there seemed no point. All of her visualizations simply collapsed.

She, like many, had always thought that mathematics did not derive its meaning from the universe, but rather imposed some meaning onto the universe. Physical entities were not greater or less than one another, not similar or dissimilar; they simply were, they existed. Mathematics was totally independent, but it virtually provided a semantic meaning for those entities, supplying categories and relationships. It didn’t describe any intrinsic quality, merely a possible interpretation.

But no more. Mathematics was inconsistent once it was removed from physical entities, and a formal theory was nothing if not consistent. Math was empirical, no more than that, and it held no interest for her.

What would she turn to, now? Renee had known someone who gave up academia to sell handmade leather goods. She would have to take some time, regain her bearings. And that was just what Carl had been trying to help her do, throughout it all.

8b

Among Carl’s friends were a pair of women who were each other’s best friend, Marlene and Anne. Years ago, when Marlene had considered suicide, she hadn’t turned to Anne for support: she had turned to Carl. He and Marlene had sat up all night on a few occasions, talking or sharing silence. Carl knew that Anne had always harbored a bit of envy for what he had shared with Marlene, that she had always wondered what advantage he held that allowed him to get so close to her. The answer was simple. It was the difference between sympathy and empathy.

Carl had offered comfort in similar situations more than once in his lifetime. He had been glad he could help, certainly, but more than that, it had felt right to sit in the other seat, and play the other part.

He had always had reason to consider compassion a basic part of his character, until now. He had valued that, felt that he was nothing if not empathic. But now he’d run up against something he’d never encountered before, and it rendered all his usual instincts null and void.

If someone had told him on Renee’s birthday that he would feel this way in two months’ time, he would have dismissed the idea instantly. Certainly such a thing could happen over years; Carl knew what time could do. But two months?

After six years of marriage, he had fallen out of love with her. Carl detested himself for the thought, but the fact was that she had changed, and now he neither understood her nor knew how to feel for her. Renee’s intellectual and emotional lives were inextricably linked, so that the latter had moved beyond his reach.

His reflex reaction of forgiveness cut in, reasoning that you couldn’t ask a person to remain supportive through any crisis. If a man’s wife were suddenly afflicted with mental illness, it would be a sin for him to leave her, but a forgivable one. To stay would mean accepting a different kind of relationship, something which not everyone was cut out for, and Carl never condemned a person in such a situation. But there was always the unspoken question: What would I do? And his answer had always been, I would stay.

Hypocrite.

Worst of all, he had been there. He had been absorbed in his own pain, he had tried the endurance of others, and someone had nursed him through it all. His leaving Renee was inevitable, but it would be a sin he couldn’t forgive.

9

Albert Einstein once said, “Insofar as the propositions of mathematics give an account of reality they are not certain; and insofar as they are certain they do not describe reality.”

9a = 9b

Carl was in the kitchen, stringing snow pea pods for dinner, when Renee came in. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.” They sat down at the table. She looked studiedly out the window: her habit when beginning a serious conversation. He suddenly dreaded what she was about to say. He hadn’t planned to tell her that he was leaving until she’d fully recovered, after a couple of months. Now was too soon.

“I know it hasn’t been obvious—”

No, he prayed, don’t say it. Please don’t.

“—but I’m really grateful to have you here with me.”

Pierced, Carl closed his eyes, but thankfully Renee was still looking out the window. It was going to be so, so difficult.

She was still talking. “The things that have been going on in my head—” She paused. “It was like nothing I’d ever imagined. If it had been any normal kind of depression, I know you would have understood, and we could have handled it.”

Carl nodded.

“But what happened, it was almost as if I were a theologian proving that there was no God. Not just fearing it, but knowing it for a fact. Does that sound absurd?”

“No.”

“It’s a feeling I can’t convey to you. It was something that I believed deeply, implicitly, and it’s not true, and I’m the one who demonstrated it.”

He opened his mouth to say that he knew exactly what she meant, that he had felt the same things as she. But he stopped himself: for this was an empathy that separated rather than united them, and he couldn’t tell her that.

Story Notes

There's a famous equation that looks like this:

When I first saw the derivation of this equation, my jaw dropped in amazement. Let me try to explain why.

One of the things we admire most in fiction is an ending that is surprising, yet inevitable. This is also what characterizes elegance in design: the invention that's clever yet seems totally natural. Of course we know that they aren't?really?inevitable; it's human ingenuity that makes them seem that way, temporarily.

“Division by Zero” was first published in Full Spectrum 3 (Bantam Spectra, 1991). It can be found, along with seven other great stories, in Ted Chiang’s recent collection Stories of Your Life and Others (Tor, 2002).

领悟

是一层冰，摩擦着我的脸，感觉粗糙，不过倒不觉得冷。没有任何可以支撑的东西，手套老是在冰上滑落。看见头上方有人跑来跑去，但他们都爱莫能助。我竭力挥拳敲打冰层，可是手臂动作缓慢，我的肺部准是迸裂了，大脑一片混沌。我觉得自己正在消融——一声惊叫，我醒了，心脏风钻般狂跳不止。基督呀！我揭去毯子，坐在床沿上。

以前，我想不起当时的情景，只记得掉进了冰窟；医生说是我的思维压抑了记忆。现在我想起来了，这是我一生中最可怕的噩梦。

我双手紧紧抓住羽绒被，浑身颤抖。我竭力镇定下来，缓慢呼吸，却止不住地呜咽起来。梦里的感觉太真实了：那是死亡的滋味。

我困在水里接近一个小时，等到人们把我救起来时，我简直成了植物人。如今我恢复了吗？这是医院首次对大脑严重受伤者使用新药。新药奏效吗？

我反复做噩梦。第三次噩梦后，我知道自己再也睡不着了。于是，我辗转反侧，忧心忡忡，一直折腾到天亮。新药就是这个效果？我会不会发疯？

明天要去医院做每周一次的体检，由医院的住院大夫检查。希望他能解答我的疑问。

我驱车前往波士顿市中心，半小时后就能见到胡珀医生了。我坐在诊断室里黄色屏风后面的轮床上。墙壁一面齐腰高的地方伸出一个水平荧光屏，角度经过调整，视域很窄，从我的角度看去是一片空白。医生敲击着键盘，估计在调出我的档案，然后开始检查我。他用笔形电筒检查我的眼球时，我告诉他我的噩梦。

“那次事故之前做过噩梦吗，利昂？”医生边问边掏出一把小锤子，敲击我的手肘、膝盖和脚踝。

“从来没有。这是药的副作用吗？”

“没有任何副作用。荷尔蒙Ｋ疗法能够使大量受损的神经细胞获得再生，对你的大脑来说，这是个很大的变化，大脑不得不作出大量调整以适应这种变化。你做的噩梦可能就是调整的一个迹象。”

“这种现象是永久性的吗？”

“不会的。”他说，“大脑习惯了所有这些通道后就没事了。现在，用食指摸一摸鼻尖，然后再摸一摸我的手指。”

我按照他的吩咐做了。接着他让我用每一根指头快速与拇指相触。随即又要求我走直线，有点像检验是否酒后驾车的测试。然后，他开始考问我。

“一般鞋子由哪些部分组成？”

“鞋底、鞋跟、鞋带。哦，鞋带穿过的孔，鞋眼，还有鞋舌，就是鞋带下面那种……”

“不错。重复这个数字：３９１７４……”

“……６２。”

这可出乎胡珀医生的意料。“什么？”

“３９１７４６２。你第一次检查我的时候用的就是这个数字，当时我还在住院。想来你经常用这个数字测试病人吧。”

“并不要求你把它背下来；这个数字是用来测试直觉记忆力的。”

“可我并不是硬背下来的。我是偶然记住的。”

“那么，你记得我第二次检查你时说的那个数字吗？”

我稍停片刻。“４０８１５９２。”

他吃了一惊。“大多数人如果只听一遍，是不可能记住这么多数字的。你用了记忆术？”

我摇了摇头。“没有，连电话号码我都懒得记，一直用自动拨号。”

他起身走到一台终端前，敲了敲数字键。“再试试这个数字。”他读了个十二位数，我重复给他。“你能倒着背吗？”我又倒背出来。只见他皱了皱眉头，开始往我的档案里输入什么东西。

我坐在精神病房诊断室里一台电脑终端前，这个地方是胡珀医生作智力测试用的。一堵墙上嵌进一面小小的镜子，镜子后面可能安有摄像机作记录。我朝镜子笑笑，挥挥手。每次我到自动取款机取款，总是对藏在机器里面的摄像机微笑挥手。

胡珀医生走进来，手里拿着一份我的测试结果。“嗨，利昂，你的测试结果……非常好。两个测试你都得了９９分。”

我吃惊得张大了嘴。“你开什么玩笑。”

“没有。没有。”他自己都有点难以置信，“这个分数并不表明你答对了多少问题，只是意味着相对于常人——”

“我知道是什么意思。”我心不在焉地说，“读中学时他们来测试我们，当时我只得了７０分。”９９分。我竭力在自己身上找出点高智商的迹象：高智商应该有什么感觉？

他坐在桌子上，目光依然盯着打印出来的数据。“你没有上过大学，是吗？”

我的注意力给拉了回来。“上过，不过没有毕业，因为我对教育的看法和教授们不一致。”

“我明白了。”也许他还以为我是成绩不及格呢。“唔，从那以后你显然取得了很大进步。三分是自然发展：岁数大了，成熟了，七分是荷尔蒙Ｋ疗法的结果。”

“好一个副作用。”

“这个嘛，你先别太高兴。测试分数并不预示你在现实生活中就能够得心应手。”趁胡珀医生没注意，我翻了个白眼。发生了这么神奇的事，他却只能说这些陈辞滥调。“我想再做一些测试，继续观察你这个病例。明天你能再来一次吗？”

我正埋头修整一张全息图，电话响了。接电话还是继续工作，我着实犹豫了一阵，最后还是不情愿地去接电话。我在编辑东西时，电话通常都让答录机接，但现在需要让人知道我又恢复工作了。我在住院期间失去了许多业务：这是自由职业者必须承担的风险之一。我拿起听筒说：“格雷科全息摄影制作公司，我是利昂·格雷科。”

“利昂你好。我是杰瑞。”

“你好杰瑞。什么事？”我仍然在研究荧光屏上的图像：是一对螺旋形丙轮，彼此咬合。比喻合作精神，这个比喻很陈腐，但客户偏偏要用这个做广告。

“今晚想去看电影吗？我和苏、托里要去看《金属眼睛》。”

“今晚？哦，去不成。今晚汉宁剧场要上演最后一场女演员主演的独角戏。”齿牙的表面有些划痕，看上去油乎乎的。我用光标凸显齿面，然后输入需要调整的参数。

“什么名字？”

“《对称》，是独角诗剧。”我调整亮度，消除齿牙啮合处的一些阴影，“想一块去吗？”

“是莎士比亚风格的独白吗？”

过分了：亮度太强，边沿的色彩太亮了。于是我为反光的强度设置了上限。“不是，是一部意识流作品，四种韵律交替，抑扬格只是其中的一种。所有的评论家都称之为风格十分显著。”

“想不到你这么喜欢诗歌。”

我再次检查了全部数字，然后让计算机再次计算啮合模式。“我一般不太喜欢诗歌，但这部剧好像真的挺有意思。想去吗？”

“谢了，我还是去看电影吧。”

“那好，玩得开心点。也许下周我们可以聚聚。”我们相互道了再见，挂上电话。我等着电脑结束二次计算。

突然，我又想起刚才发生的一切。以前我只要打电话，就无法同时做好编辑活儿。这次我却能一心二用，轻而易举。

这些惊喜会不会连绵不绝、始终如此？不做噩梦、身心放松之后，我首先注意到自己的阅读速度加快了，理解力增加了。我的书架上有些书我一直想读，却苦于没有时间，现在能够饱览了，连艰深的技术资料也能读懂了。早在大学时代，我就接受了这样一个现实：感兴趣的东西很多，全部涉猎却不可能。现在发现自己也许能够做到，真让人欢欣鼓舞。前几天，我兴高采烈地买了一大抱书回来。

现在又发现自己能够一心二用，同时做好两件事，从前绝不敢想像自己还有这个本事。我忍不住从书桌前站起来，放声大叫，好像我心爱的棒球队刚刚出人意料地打出一个本垒打。就是这个感觉。

神经病科主任医师谢伊把我的病历接过去了，估计他想抢头功。我几乎不认识他，可他那副模样仿佛我是他多年的病人似的。

他请我到他的办公室谈话。只见他十指交叉，手肘支在桌上，问我：“你对你的智力增强有什么感受？”

真是个蠢问题。“我觉得很高兴。”

“很好。”谢伊医生说，“到目前为止，我们没有发现荷尔蒙Ｋ治疗的任何负面后果。那次事故造成的大脑受伤，你没有要求我们作进一步治疗。”我点了点头。“不过，我们正在进行一项研究，目的是多方面了解荷尔蒙对智力的影响。如果你愿意的话，我们想给你再注射一针荷尔蒙，然后监测效果。”

这番话突然引起我的注意；终于有值得一听的东西了。“我愿意。”

“请你明白，这纯粹是出于研究目的，不是治疗。你可能会从中得益，提高智力。不过，从健康角度讲，你已经不需要再次注射了。”

“我明白。我想我得签一份协议书吧。”

“是的。参加这项研究，你可以得到一些酬劳。”他说了一个数字，但我几乎根本没在意。

“这样很好。”我不禁想像起注射之后的情景来，对我意味着什么。一股兴奋的寒颤掠过我的全身。

“我们还要求你签一份保密协定。当然，这种药的药效非常令人振奋，但在研制成熟之前我们不想过早对外公布。”

“那当然，谢伊医生。以前有人打过这种针剂吗？超出治疗目的？”

“当然有啰，你不会是实验品。我向你保证，这种药从来没有出现过任何有害作用。”

“那么，从那些试验者的结果看，这种药在他们身上产生了什么药效？”

“我们最好别给你暗示，否则的话，你就会想像自己正在体验我所提到的症状。”

大夫什么都知道。谢伊医生玩起这一套来得心应手。我继续追问：“至少，你该给我讲一讲他们的智力增加了多少？”

“因人而异。你不能用别人的体验来套自己。”

我掩饰住失望。“好吧，医生。”

关于荷尔蒙Ｋ的情况，即使谢伊医生不想告诉我，我自己也能发现。我用家里的计算机终端登录信息网络，进入联邦调查局的公共数据库，仔细阅读他们目前收到的新药实验申报资料，得知申请必须获得批准才能对人体进行实验。

研制荷尔蒙Ｋ的申请是由索瑞森制药公司提出的，这家公司正在研究可以促使中央神经系统细胞再生的合成荷尔蒙。我浏览了对失氧状态下的狗、狒狒进行的药物实验：所有动物都彻底痊愈了。这种药毒性很低，通过长期观察，没有发现任何副作用。

大脑皮层取样的结果令人振奋。大脑受伤的动物长出了新的神经细胞，而且更新后的细胞具有更多树突，然而健康动物服药后大脑却没有变化。研究人员的结论是：荷尔蒙Ｋ仅仅替换受伤的神经细胞，并不替换健康的神经细胞。对于大脑受伤的动物，新生的树突似乎并没有危害：经正电子射线层析照相扫描，大脑的新陈代谢没有显示出变化，动物在智力测试中的表现同样没有变化。

索瑞森公司的研究人员在人体实验申请资料中提出的方案是，先对健康人试验荷尔蒙Ｋ，然后将试验范围扩展到几种病人：中风者、老年痴呆症患者，以及我这种长期处于植物人状态的病人。我无法进入病历档案查阅试验进展报告——试验对象是匿名病人，只有参加试验的医生才有权查阅病历档案。

对动物的研究井没有解开人类智力提高之谜。有理由假定：智力提高的程度与荷尔蒙催生的神经细胞的数量成正比，而这个数量又取决于大脑最初受伤的程度。这就意味着，深度休克的病人智力提高反而会最大。当然，要证实这个理论，还需要了解其他病人的进展情况，这需要时间。

下一个问题是：智力达到一定高度后会不会趋于稳定？多注射荷尔蒙会不会进一步提高智力？我要赶在医生之前知道这个答案。

我并不紧张：事实上我感觉非常松弛。我只是俯卧着，舒缓地呼吸背部麻木，他们给我实施了局部麻醉，然后往我的脊髓里打了一针荷尔蒙Ｋ。这种药不能静脉注射，因为荷尔蒙无法通过血液——大脑保护屏。这是我记忆中的第一针，当然，人家告诉我，此前我打过两针：打第一针时仍然昏迷不醒，打第二针时虽然苏醒过来了，却没有认知能力。

又做噩梦。这些梦其实也不全都惊心动魄，却奇特无比、不可思议，很多情况下梦中的内容我完全是陌生的。我常常惊叫着醒来，躺在床上胡乱挥舞手臂。但这次，我知道噩梦会过去的。

目前，医院里有好几位心理学家在研究我。目睹他们如何分析我的智力十分有趣。一位医生观察我的技能的各个发展阶段，学习、记忆、应用与扩展。另一位医生则从数学和逻辑推理的角度观测我，如语言交流能力和空间想像力。

这使我回忆起我的大学时代。当年我就发现，这些专家每人都有一个自己偏爱的理论，每人都对证据削足适履。现在我对他们比从前更不信服了，他们依然没有什么可以教给我的东西。他们分门别类的观测对分析我的能力无济于事，因为——用不着否认——我样样都极其出色。

我可以学习一种全新的方程式、外语语法或者引擎的操作原理。无论学习什么，一切都自然而然、水到渠成。无论学习什么，我都不必死记硬背条条框框，然后机械地应用。我总能一眼看出那些系统如何作为整体、作为实体来运转的。当然，我也不忽视任何细节与具体的步骤，不过我并不需要苦思冥想，几乎凭直觉就能把握它们。

渗透计算机的安全措施实在枯燥乏味；我看得出这种事对某些人是一种诱惑，对这种人来说，只要稍稍撩拨一下他们的机灵劲儿，他们就按捺不住了。不过说实在的，黑客破解在智力方面没有一点美感。一幢锁着门的房子，你一扇扇拽门，找一扇锁没安好的——有用，却谈不上什么趣味。

进入医药管理局的保密数据库很容易。我用医院的一台终端调出他们的访问程序，显示地图和医护人员表。接着我从该程序切入系统级，编了一个诱饵程序模拟登录界面。然后我离开电脑，甩手不管了。终于，我的一位医生走过来查看她的一份文件。诱饵程序拒绝了她的密码，接着才调出真正的首页界面。医生又试了试登录，这次成功了；可是她的密码却留在我的诱饵程序里。

使用医生的密码，我获得许可查阅医药管理局病人档案数据库。第一阶段是对健康的自愿者进行试验，荷尔蒙没有效果。正在进行的第二阶段临床试验则是另一番景象。有八十二名病人的每周报告，每一位病人都用一个数字表示，对所有病人都采用荷尔蒙Ｋ治疗，大多数病人都是中风或者老年痴呆症患者，有些病人患的则是昏迷症。最新报告证实了我的预见：大脑受伤愈严重的人智力提高愈大。正电子Ｘ射线层析扫描显示出大脑新陈代谢水平大大增强。

为什么动物没有提高呢？我认为问题可能在于脑神经突触的数量。动物的突触数量太少，它们的大脑只支持最低限度的抽象思维，因此多余的突触对它们没有任何意义。而人类却超过这个数量，人类的大脑可以支持充分的自我意识，因此他们可充分地使用新的突触，记录反映的就是这种情形。

最令人兴奋的记录是关于刚刚开始的调查研究，研究对象是几个自愿者病人。多注射荷尔蒙的确进一步提高了智力，但最根本的还是取决于大脑受伤的程度。轻度中风的病人没有达到高智商，而受伤严重病人的智商却获得了大幅度提升。

最初处于深度昏迷状态的病人中，目前只有我打了第三针。我形成的新突触比先前任何一个接受研究的人多得多。至于我的智力会提高到哪种程度，还是一个悬念。每每想到这个问题，我都感到心脏狂跳不已。

时间一周周地过去了，我与医生们的周旋变得愈来愈乏味。他们似乎把我当作一个博学的白痴：一个显示出某些高智商迹象的病人，但依然不过是一个病人。在神经病学家的眼里，我只不过是正电子Ｘ射线层析扫描的对象，外加偶尔注射一小瓶脑脊液。心理学家们通过谈话了解一些我的思维状况。然而，他们先入为主，将我视为一个从深度昏迷中走出来的人，一个得了天大好处、却又懵懵懂懂的平常人物。

其实情况正相反，恰恰是医生们对正在发生的一切理解不了。他们断定药物虽然提高了我的智商，却改进不了我在现实生活中的行为表现，我的本事只能使我在智商测试取得好成绩。因此，他们不想在智商问题上浪费时间。但是，智商尺度是人为设定的，而且设得太低了：我的分数太高，曲线上没有可比较的参照系，测试分数对他们而言说明不了什么问题。

真正的变化正在发生，测试成绩仅仅反映了这种巨变的一个影子。如果医生们能够感觉到我的大脑里正在发生的一切该有多好：我正在认识到有多少信息先前我错过了，我明白这些信息多么有用。我的智商远远不是实验室的现象，而是实用的、高效的。我具有几乎完美无缺的记忆力、超强的整合能力，能够迅速判断形势，选择达到目的的最佳行动方案；决不会优柔寡断。日常生活中的种种早已不在话下，只有理论问题还算是个挑战。

无论学习什么，我都能发现其中的模式。任何东西——数学和科学、艺术和音乐、心理学和社会学——我都能掌握其本质结构，透过表面的音符，看见内在的旋律。每当阅读时，我不由自主地可怜那些作者：他们艰难地从一个论点磨蹭到下一个论点，摸索寻觅他们看不见的内在联系。他们如同一群不懂乐谱的人，偏偏要分析巴赫的大提琴奏鸣曲的总谱，试图解释这一个音符如何发展为下一个音符。

事物内在的模式真是美妙无比，我渴望了解更多的模式。还有别的模式等待着我去发现，更大、另一种层次的结构。这种上层结构我一无所知。它是无比恢宏的音乐，我所了解的几首奏鸣曲不过是其中彼此孤立的数据点。我不知道掌握这种结构后会发生些什么，到时候会知道的。我想发现它们，认识它们。这种渴望比以前任何欲望更加强烈。

这一次来看我的医生名叫克劳森，他的行为不像别的医生。从他的举止言谈来看，应该惯于在病人面前表现得亲切随和，可是今天他似乎有点不自在。他装出和蔼可亲的样子，但言谈显得别扭，没有其他医生的例行套话那么流畅。

“利昂，这次测试是这样的：你先读一些对各种情况的描叙，每种情况都有一个需要解决的难题。读过之后，请你告诉我你解决难题的方法。”

我点了点头。“这种测试以前我做过。”

“很好，很好。”说着他输入一个指令，我面前的荧光屏上出现了文本。我读了读情况介绍：这里的问题是计划安排、定出各项事务的处理顺序。现实生活中的问题，这很异常。大多数研究者会觉得这样的问题太绝对，对就是对，错就是错，不太恰当。我等了一会儿才回答，不过克劳森依然对我的速度感到吃惊。

“答得很好。”他在计算机上敲了一个键，“再试试这个。”

一个情况接着一个情况。我读第四个情况介绍时，克劳森精心摆出一副职业性的超然态度。他对我如何回答这个问题尤其感兴趣，却不想让我知道。这个情况说的是政府里的权力斗争，激烈竞争以求升迁。

我明白了克劳森是何许人也。他是政府的心理学家，也许是军方的人，更有可能是在中央情报局研究与发展署供职。这个测试旨在探测荷尔蒙Ｋ用于培养战略家的潜能。所以他和我在一起显得不自在：他习惯了同服从命令的军人和政府雇员打交道。

很可能是中央情报局希望把我扣下来，好做更多的试验；他们可能也根据其他病人的表现能力对他们进行过同样的试验。以后，中央情报局会从手下挑选自愿者，使他们的大脑缺氧，再用荷尔蒙Ｋ进行治疗。我当然不想成为中央情报局的资源，可是我已经显示出足以使他们感兴趣的才智。因此，我只能装聋卖傻，答错问题。

我在回答中选了一个差劲的办法，克劳森大感失望。尽管如此，我们还是继续测试。我读文本花的时间长了，反应也迟钝起来。无关紧要的问题中散见着两个关键问题：一个是如何避免被一家充满敌意的公司接管，另一个是如何动员人民阻止建设一座火力发电厂。这两个问题我都答错了。

测试一结束克劳森就打发我走，心里已经开始盘算如何撰写报告了。如果我把自己真实的能力表现出来，那么中央情报局就会立即招收我。我前后不一致的表现会给他们泼一盆冷水，但不会改变他们的主意。潜在的回报对他们的诱惑实在太大了，他们是不会放弃荷尔蒙Ｋ的。

我的处境发生了巨变；如果中央情报局决定扣住我作为试验对象，我同不同意都没什么区别。我必须计划对策。

四天后，谢伊吃惊地问我：“你想退出研究吗？”

“是的，立即退出。我要恢复工作。”

“如果是钱的问题，我肯定我们可以——”

“不是，不是钱的问题。这些测试我已经受够了。”

“我知道时间一长，测试就枯燥乏味了，不过我们学到了许多东西。再说，我们很感激你的参与，利昂。这不仅仅是——”

“我知道你们从这些测试中学到了多少东西。但我主意已定。我不想继续下去了。

谢伊还想劝说，我打断他的话。”我知道我依然受保密协议的约束；如果要我签个什么东西来确认，那就寄给我好了。“我起身向房门走去，”再见，谢伊医生。“两天后，谢伊打电话来。

”利昂，你一定要来做检查。我得到消息，在另一家医院接受荷尔蒙Ｋ治疗的病人发现了副作用。“他在撤谎；这种事情决不会在电话上告诉我。”什么副作用？“”失去视觉。视觉神经长得太快，而且迅速退化。“一定是中央情报局得知我退出研究的消息后下的命令。如果我回到医院，谢伊就会宣称我精神不健全，将我置护他们的监管之下。然后再把我转到一家政府研究机构。

我假装大吃一惊。”我马上就来。“

”好的。“谢伊舒了一口气，以为我相信了他的话。”你一到，我们就立即检查。“我挂上电话，打开计算机，搜寻药物管理局数据库里的最新信息。没有关于视觉神经或者其他部位副作用的消息。我并不排除这种副作用也许会在将来出现，但我要自己去发现。

是离开波士顿的时候了。我开始收拾行李。走的时候我要取走我在银行的全部存款。卖掉我的工作室的设备可以多换一些现金，可是大部分设备都太大了，运不走，我只好带走几台最小的设备。忙了几小时后，电话又响了。这次，我让自动答录机接电话。

”利昂，你在家吗？我是谢伊医生。我们等了你好一会儿了“他还会打一次电话来，再不行的话，就会派穿白大褂的男护上来，或者干脆派警察来把我带走。

晚上七点三十分。谢伊还待在氏院里等待我的消息。我转动点火钥匙，倒出医院停车场，驶到街对面。从现在起，他随时会留意到我悄悄放在他的办公室门下面的信。一拆开信就会知道是我写的。

你好，谢伊医生：

我猜你正在找我。

他会惊诧片刻，但仅仅是片刻；他马上会镇静下来，紧急通知保安搜查大楼，检查所有离开的车辆，搜寻我。接着，他会继续读下去。

你可以叫走守在我的房门边的那些大块头男护士了；我不想浪费他们宝贵的时间。可能你决心让警方发出对我的通缉令，所以我自作主张在警方计算机里插入了一个病毒，每当要检查我的车牌号的时候，这个病毒就会替换信息。你当然还可以详细描绘我开的车，可是你连我的车是什么模样都不知道，对吗？

利昂

他会通知警察，让他们的程序员对付病毒。他会得出结论：我有自我优越感情结，这是因为我在信中流露出傲慢的语气，冒不必要的风险返回医院送信，而且毫无必要地暴露一个本来不会被察觉的病毒。

不过，谢伊错了。我策划这些行动就是为了让警方和中央情报局低估我的能力，于是他们不会采取严密的防范措施，这对我很有利。警方程序员在计算机上清除掉我的病毒后，会认为我的编程技术好是好，但谈不上杰出，于是他们就会调出备份，重新安装，找出我的确切的车牌号。这就会激活第二个病毒，这个病毒要复杂得多，会同时修改备份以及激活的当前数据库。警方会沾沾自喜，以为查到了正确的车牌号，进而陷入迷魂阵浪费时间。

我的下一个目标是再弄一小瓶荷尔蒙Ｋ。不幸的是，这样做会让中央情报局查明我的真功夫。如果我没有送那封信，警方晚些时候仍然会发现我的病毒。到那时候，他们清除病毒时就会采取天衣无缝的严密措施。这样一来，我也许就无法从他们的文件里抹掉我的车牌号了。

我住进一家旅馆，开始在客房里的数据网络终端上干开了。

我进入了药物管理局的保密数据库，查出荷尔蒙Ｋ试验对象的地址，还有药管局的内部通讯情况。他们发布了暂停荷尔蒙Ｋ医疗试验的禁令，取消暂停禁令之前不得再进行任何试验。中央情报局坚持要先抓住我，对我的潜在威胁进行评估。在此之前，不允许药管局采取任何行动。

药物管理局要求所有医院通过信使退回剩余的荷尔蒙Ｋ。我必须抢在这之前弄一瓶。离我最近的病人在匹兹堡，于是我预订了一张第二天一早飞往匹兹堡的机票。我查看了匹兹堡地图，提出申请，要求宾夕法尼亚信使公司到匹兹堡市中心一家投资公司取一个包裹。最后，我在一台超级计算机上登录使用了好几个小时的中央处理器。

我坐在一辆租来的小车里，小车停在一座摩天大厦转角处。我身上的外套口袋里装了一只带键盘的小小的集成电路板。朝信使将要到达的方向望去，只见街上行人一半都戴着白色的空气过滤面罩，不过能见度很好。

从两个十字路口远的地方驶来一辆新型的家用面包车，车的侧面漆有”宾夕法尼亚信使公司“的字样。不是一辆戒备森严的押送车，看来药管局对我并不那么担心。我钻出小车，向摩天大厦走去。押送车不久到达，停在停车场，司机下了车。他一走进大厦，我就钻进面包车。

面包车是直接从医院开来的。司机正在上楼前往四十层，到那里的一家投资公司取一个包裹。至少要四分钟才会返回。

车厢地板上焊着一口大型保险柜，带双层钢壳和钢门。门上贴有一块抛光面板，司机只要手掌靠着面板，保险柜便自动打开。面板侧面有一个接口，用于输入程序。

昨天晚上，我进入了卢卡斯防盗系统公司的服务数据库，这家公司向宾夕法尼亚信使公司出售掌纹锁。我在数据库里找到了一份加密文件，该文件包含超越客户设置、打开掌纹锁的密码。

我得承认，渗入计算机防火墙通常没什么关感可言，但某些方面却间接涉及非常有趣的数学问题。譬如，连常见的加密方法超级计算机也需要数年的时间才能解密。然而，我在一次钻研数字理论期间，发现一种分解极大数字的奇妙技巧。配备这种诀窍，一台超级计算机在几小时内就可以破译这个密码。

我从衣袋里抽出电路板，用电线连接到接口上，输入一个十二位数，保险柜门旋开了。

当我带着那瓶荷尔蒙Ｋ返回波士顿的时候，药管局已经对失窃案作出了反应：可以通过网络进入的计算机上所有相关文件全部删除——意料之中的事。

我带上那瓶荷尔蒙Ｋ和随身物品，驱车前往纽约。

真奇怪，对我来说最快捷的弄钱方式居然是赌博。彩票赌马再简单不过了。我不愿惹人注目，只弄了一小笔钱，再投资到股市来维持生活。

我住在一套公寓的一间客房里。这是我在纽约附近能找到的最便宜的公寓，配有数据网接口。我使用几个化名投资，定期改变化名。我要在华尔街花一段时间，通过观察经纪人的身体语言来认准高回报的短期投资机会。每周我顶多去股市一次，我还有更重要的事情要做：事物的内在规律在向我招手。

随着我的智商发展，我对身体的控制力也在增强。有人以为人类在进化过程中智慧虽然发展了，却付出了身体能力下降的代价。这是一个误解，其实调动人的身体是一种神经活动。虽然我的体力没有增加，但身体的协调能力却超过了常人；甚至我的左右手都变得同样灵活。此外，由于我可以高度集中注意力，我能有效地把握自己的身体循环功能，经过一番小小的练习，就能提高或者降低我的心跳和血压了。

我编了一个程序来匹配我的头像，同时，只要我的名字出现，这个程序就能够捕获；然后我将程序并入一个病毒，扫描数据网上所有的公共显示文件。中央情报局会让全国数据网在新闻简报中展示我的照片，宣布我为危险的在逃精神病人，再不然就是杀人犯。病毒将会用空自形象取代我的照片。我将一个类似的病毒输入药管局和中央情报局的计算机，搜寻下载到各地方警察局计算机上的我的照片。他们的程序员就是绞尽脑汁，也对这些病毒无可奈何。

不用说，谢伊和别的医生正在同中央情报局的心理学家们一道磋商，揣测我的行踪。我父母双亡，因此中央情报局会把注意力转向我的朋友们，询问我是否同他们接触过；特工们还会对他们严密监视，以防我和他们接触。特工们会说，实在抱歉，侵犯了他们的隐私，但事情实在紧急。

中央情报局不大可能对任何特工使用荷尔蒙Ｋ，以找出我的下落。具有超级智商的人太难控制了，我自己就是一个例子。不过我要密切注视其他病人，说不定政府会决定雇用他们。

我不费吹灰之力就能看穿众生百相。漫步街头，我观察人们忙于各自的事情，虽然他们一言未发，但其心思昭然若揭。一对年轻的恋人慢悠悠地走过，其中之一醉心于爱情，另一个却只是勉强容忍对方。一位商人的眼里露出一丝忧虑的目光，那目光伴随着他，表明他害怕上司，开始怀疑他当天早些时候做出的决定是否正确。一位妇女披了一件似乎华丽的披风，可是与真格的披风擦肩而过时，就露馅了。

通常，一个人扮演的是什么角色，年纪更长、更为成熟的人一眼就能看出来。在我的眼里，世人就好像在游乐场游戏的孩童。我被他们的认真劲逗乐了，回想起当年我也如此，不免感到几分尴尬。他们的所作所为符合他们的身份，但我已经无法忍受加入他们的行列。我成人了，告别了孩童世界。我也会应付芸芸众生，无非是为了养活自己。

每周我都获得通常需要数年的教育，组合日益扩大的知识形态。我以比任何人都更为广阔的视野审视人类知识丰富多彩的织锦：学者们从未意识到的锦绣中的空白，我可以填补，并在他们以为已经完整的地方增添新的内容。

自然科学的内在模式最为清晰。例如物理学，如果不把眼光局限在基本因素的水平上，而是扩展它的范围和意义，那么它便具有一种美丽的统一性。诸如”光学“或者”热力学“之类的分门别类只不过是紧身衣，阻止物理学家看到无数学科间的纵横交错。即使抛开抽象的美感，单以应用而论，物理学上被忽视的领域多得无以胜数，比如人造球面对称重力场，工程师本该早就能够制造出来。

我虽然认识到这点，但自己却不会制造这样或者那样的装置。这需要许多定制的零部件，制造起来既费力耗时。再说，实际制造这种装置并不会给我带来什么特别的欣喜：我早已知道它定会运转，实际制造出来对我没有任何启发作用，不能借此发现新的规律。

我在写一首长诗。完成一章后，我就能够选择一种手法将各种艺术形式中的各种风格结合起来。我使用六种现代语言、四种古代语言，这些语言包含了人类文明的主要世界观，每一种语言都提供异彩纷呈的诗情画意；数种不同的语言并列在一起饶有趣味。每一诗行都同时包括旧词新意，赋予旧词以另一种语言的词性变化，从而凸显出新意。整首诗完成时，可以看作《芬尼根守灵夜》与庞德的《诗篇》的组合。

中央情报局打断了我的创作；他们正在给我设下圈套。捕风捉影两个月后，他们终于承认采用常规方法是找不到我的行踪的，于是便诉诸非常手段。新闻报道说一名疯子杀人犯的女友被指控帮助和纵容杀人犯潜逃。她名叫康妮·皮瑞特，在去年和该疯子有过一段交往。如果审判，她必然会被处以长期监禁。中央情报局的如意算盘是我不会对这种事听之任之，必定要策划营救，于是我便会暴露，束手就擒。

明天将举行康妮一案的预备听证会。他们会确保她获得保释，必要时通过一个保人，从而给我机会与她接触。然后，他们就会在她的住所周围布满便衣，守株待兔。

我开始在荧光屏上编辑第一个图像。这些数字照片远不能与全息图像相比，但能满足我的需要。照片是昨天拍摄的，显示康妮居住的公寓的外观、楼房正对着的大街、附近的十字路口。我移动鼠标，在图像上的某些地方画上几个小小的十字细线：楼房斜对面的一扇窗户，没有灯光，但窗帘却是敞开的；离楼房后面两个街区远处有一个自动售货机。

我一共标出六个位置。这些地点就是昨天晚上康妮回家时他们埋伏的地点。他们有我在医院期间拍摄的录像，知道如何在来往的男人或者模糊不清的行人中间寻找我：就是那个中等步伐、走起路来精神抖擞的人。然而，他们的如意算盘打错了；只需拉长步伐，头略微上下移动。减少手臂的动作，再加上一身奇装异服，便足以使我瞒过他们的眼睛穿过那个地区。

我在一张照片的底部输入特工们用以联络的无线电台频率以及一个分析他们使用的不规则加密算法的方程式。制作完成后，我将这些图像发送给中央情报局长，明白无误地表达出弦外之音：除非他的便衣撤走，否则我就要他们的命。

要使中央情报局撤销对康妮的起诉，要一劳永逸地遏制他们对我的干扰，我还得做更多的工作。

我又识别出了一种模式，但这一次与理论无关，完全是平淡无奇的繁杂世事。数以千页的报告、备忘录、来往信件；每一页都是一幅点彩画中的一个彩色小点。我从这幅全景画前倒退一步，注视线条和边缘出现，产生图形。我浏览了数以兆计的信息，这些信息仅占我调查的这一段时间里所有记载的极少部分，但也足够了。

我的发现平淡无奇，比侦探小说的情节简单多了。中央情报局长知道一伙恐怖分子阴谋炸毁华盛顿市的地铁系统，但为了获得国会授权采取极端手段打击那伙恐怖分子，他听任爆炸发生了。爆炸遇难者中有一位国会议员的儿子。于是国会授权中央情报局长放手对付恐怖分子。虽然中央情报局的档案里没有直接陈述他的这些策划，但其含义清清楚楚。有关备忘录只是转弯抹角地提及，这些计划漂浮在无伤大雅的文件形成的海洋中间，如果某个调查委员会审读全部档案，证据一定会淹没在杂音里。然而，只要对那些暗藏玄机的备忘录作一番分析过滤，新闻界便一定会相信。

我列了一份备忘录的目录，寄给中央情报局长，并附上一张条子：你不惹我，我也不惹你。他会意识到他别无选择。

这个小小的插曲加深了我对世事的信念：如果我随时了解时事，任何地方策划的任何阴谋都逃不过我的眼睛。不过，我对这些统统不感兴趣，我要继续我的研究。

我对身体的控制力在继续发展。现在我可以在火炭上行走，或者将针刺进我的手臂，只要我愿意。然而，我对东方式面壁修炼的兴趣仅限于这种方法对肉体的控制方面。我可以达到冥想状态，但从中得到的愉悦远远不能同从原始信息中拼缀出本质规律相比。

我正在设计一种新的语言。我己经达到了常规语言的极限，受这些语言的限制，我已经无法再取得什么进展了。它们无法表达我需要表达的概念，即使表达普通事物时也捉襟见肘。它们连表达话语都难以胜任，更谈不上表达思想了。

现存的语言学理论没有用处；我重新评估了基本逻辑，以确定哪些语言元素适合我的语言。这种语言的一部分将兼容一切数学语言，这样一来，我所写的任何数学公式都具有对应的语言表达形式。另外，数学仅仅是这种语言的一个很小的组成部分，远非全部；不同于莱布尼兹，我认识到了数理逻辑的极限。这种语言的其他部分则将包容我用以表达美学和认知理论的符号。这是一项耗时的浩大工程，一旦完成，将大大澄清我的思维。等我将自己的全部知识用这种语言译解一过，我所寻求的种种模式就将清晰呈现。

我的工作暂时停顿下来。在研究出美学符号之前，我必须建立一套词汇，可以将我所能想像的一切情感完全表达出来。

我体会到许多超越常人的情感，我看出常人情感的范围是多么狭窄。我不否认自己曾经经历过的爱与烦恼是实实在在的，但现在我看清了它们的真实面目：和我目前体验到的一切相比，过去的情感就像小孩子的痴迷与压抑，最多只是一点点先兆而已。我现在的情感纷繁异呈，随着自我意识的增强，所有情感都复杂了许多个数量级。如果我要完成那首长诗，就必须充分描写这些情感。

当然，与我能够体验的情感相比，我实际体验的不过是冰山的一角。我的情感发展受到周围人的智力以及我与他们稀疏交往的制约。我不时想起孔子的”仁“这个概念：”仁慈“这个词远不足以表达”仁“的内涵，”仁“浓缩了人性的精华，只有通过与人接触才能获得，孤独者是无缘问津的。而我，虽然与人同在，处处都与人同在，却没有与任何人往来。按照我的智商，我可以成为一个完人，可是目前我仅仅是完人的一小部分。

我不会以自怜自伤或者自大自傲来自欺欺人；我自始至终都能够以完全客观的态度评价自己的心态。我清楚地知道自己拥有哪些情感资源，缺乏哪些情感资源，重视哪一种情感，蔑视哪一种情感。我没有什么可遗憾的。

我创造的新语言成形了。它以事物的本质规律为导向，能够完美地承载我的思想，但却不适合于书写或者口语，无法以线形排列的字词把这种语言写下来，它的形式是无所不包的表意符号，只能整体吸收。这种表意符号比图画更微妙，能够表达上千个词都无法表达的意思。每个表意符号包含的信息愈多，它自身就愈复杂精微。我在怡然自得地构思一个庞大无比的表意符号，这个符号可以描述整个宇宙。

用印刷文本作为这种语言的载体太蹩脚、太呆板了。惟一可行的载体是录像或者全息图，可以显示时光流逝的图像。由于人的喉咙的音域有限，因此这种语言无法言说。

我思绪万千，头脑里充满古代和现代语言中的咒骂语，它们带着粗鲁嘲弄我，使我想起我的理想语言也应该有恶毒的词汇，以表达我的挫折感。

我无力完成我的人工智能语言，工程太浩大了，我目前的资源无法胜任。一连数个星期潜心研究，却一无所获。我独立创作，不借助任何外力，从我已经定义的基本语言着手，改写成为新语言，使新的版本更加丰富。然而，每一个新版本总是突出其缺陷，迫使我扩展我的终极目标，却又使目标注定误入歧途，遥不可及。真还不如推倒一切，从零开始。

动用第四瓶荷尔蒙Ｋ？这个念头萦绕脑际，挥之不去。目前停滞状态中所经历的每一次挫折都提醒我，我是有可能达到更高境界的。

当然，这要冒很大风险。这一针可能导致我的大脑受伤，再不然就是精神错乱。也许这是魔鬼的诱惑，但毕竟是诱惑。而且，我找不出抗拒的理由。

最好在医院注射，再不然就在家里，找个人陪着，都可以获得一定程度的安全保障。可转念一想，注射的结果只有两种：或者成功，或者造成不可挽回的损伤。于是我放弃了这些安全措施。

我从一家医疗器械公司订购了设备，装配成独自一人进行脊椎注射的器械。针剂的效应可能几天后才会充分呈现，因此我不得不待在卧室里。可能发生剧烈反应，于是我将屋里所有易碎的东西都搬出去，用皮带把自己松松地系在床上。邻居听见任何声音都会误以为是瘾君子在嚎叫。

我给自己注射了一针，然后等待。

我的大脑在燃烧，脊椎火辣辣地穿过背部，觉得自己快要中风了。什么也看不见，什么也听不见，头脑一片混沌。

我产生了幻觉。种种说不出的恐怖包围着我，历历在目，清晰得不可思议，剧烈冲突。一定是幻象。不是肉体的暴力，而是头脑心理的分裂。

精神上的剧痛与极度亢奋。恐怖与歇斯底里的狂笑。

我的知觉恢复了片刻。我躺在地板上，双手紧紧地抓住头发，一绺绺连根拔起的头发撒在我身边。我的衣服浸透了汗水。舌头咬烂了，喉咙红肿：估计是尖叫的缘故。反复痉挛致使我浑身上下青一块紫一块，后脑青肿，可能发生了脑震荡，可我什么都没有感觉到。持续了几小时还是几分钟？

接着，我的眼前一片模糊，头脑中的喧嚣咆哮又开始了。

药物突破临界量。

醍醐灌顶。

我认识自己的思维机制，我确切认识到自己了解事物的过程。这种认识经过反复验证。对自我的认识无比精微，不是一步步地，无休止地去了解，而是直接领悟极限。反观自身，清明朗照。在我这里，”自我意识“这个术语有了新的意义。

上帝说，要有光，于是便有了光。借助一种新的、比我所想像的更有表现力的语言，我更清楚地认识了自我。上帝用一句话便从混沌中创造出秩序，我则用这种新语言使自己焕发为一个全新的人。这种语言能够自我描述，自我编辑，不仅能描叙各种层次的思想，还能描述并修正自己在各种层面上的运作过程。在这种语言中，修改一个陈述句，整个语法都会作出相应变化，如果哥德尔在世，他宁愿抛弃一切也要见识一下这种语言。

用这种语言，我可以看见自己的大脑是如何活动的。我不自夸能看见自己的神经细胞在燃烧，这种豪迈属于约翰·李利和他在２０世纪６０年代的致幻药实验。我能做到的是洞见规律。我看着思维结构如何形成，如何相互作用。我看着自己在思考，看着描叙自己思考的方程式，看着这些方程式如何描叙它们被我理解的整个过程。

我知道这些方程式如何构成我的思想。

都是什么样的思想啊。

最初，我被所有这些输入的信息震撼了，洞悉我的全部自我，我因此惊骇得麻木了。过了好几小时，我才能够控制自我描述的信息潮。我没有将信息过滤掉，也没有将其推进背景里。它与我的思维过程融为一体，运用在我的日常生活中。以后我才能轻松自如地运用这种手段，犹如女舞蹈演员运用她的运动感觉一样。

从前我从理论上对我的意识所知道的一切，如今连细节都历历在目。性、侵略和自我保护的潜流，由我童年的环境生成，与理性发生冲突，有时候也乔装打扮成理性。我每一种情绪背后所有的原因、我每一个决定之下的动机，我无所不知。

我用这种知识能做什么呢？对于通常所谓的”人格“，我都能随心所欲；我的心理的更高级部分表明我现在是谁。我能够用我的大脑进入各种精神或者情感状态，同时对一切始终保持着清醒意识，能够随时恢复我的本来状态。既然我了解自己同时做两件事情时的运行机制，那么我就能将自己的意识划为几块，运用自己对于事物本质的把握，专心致志处理两个以上彼此分离的问题，自动意识到问题的所有方面。还有什么能难倒我呢？

我知道我的身体脱胎换骨了，如同截肢者的残肢突然换上了钟表匠的巧手，控制随意肌易如反掌。我具有超人的协调能力。通常需要重复数千次才能获得的技巧，我重复两三次就学会了。我找到一盘钢琴家弹琴时手指运动的录像带，不久，眼前不需键盘也能模仿钢琴家的手指动作。通过有选择地将肌肉一张一弛，我的力量和灵活性提高了。无论是自觉的动作还是条件反射，我的肌肉反应时间都只有三十五微秒。因此，学习杂技也好，武术也好，几乎全都不需要什么训练。

我对肝脏功能、营养吸收、腺的分泌作用具有直观的认识，甚至能意识神经传递素在我的思维活动中所起的作用。这种意识状态所涉及的精神活动，其剧烈程度远远超过任何由肾上腺素驱动导致的紧张度，我的一部分大脑所处的状态，换了一个正常的大脑和肉体，数分钟内便能将它们置于死地。我重新调整安排了我的意识，能感受到意识的潮涨潮落，这些涨落触发我的情感反应，提高我的注意力，或者微妙地决定我的态度。

然后，我将视线投向身体之外的世界。

我周围满是令人目眩、欢快而又恐惧的对称。一切都与内在规律暗合，乃至于大千宇宙即将成为一幅丝丝入扣的图画。我正在接近终极规律：知识万象尽入其中，光芒万丈，是宇宙的洪钟大吕。

我追求光明，不是精神的光明，而是理性的光明。我必须更上一层楼。达到光明的彼岸。这一次目标不会从我的手指间滑走了。有了自己的思维语言，我与光明彼岸的距离可以精确地推算出来。我的终极目标已经遥遥在望。

现在，我必须计划下一步行动。首先，需要简单地加强自我保护能力，开始习武。我要观看一些武术比赛，研究可能使用的进攻手段，尽管我只采取防卫；我的动作神速，足以避开速度最快的进攻。这样，一旦遭到地痞流氓的攻击，我就能够保护自己，解除对方的武装。与此同时，虽然我的新陈代谢的效率已经大为增加，我还是必须多吃多喝，加强大脑的营养。我头部的血液循环速度比常人快得多，所以我还要剃光头发，让头部散热更快。

接下来，我将着眼于我的主要目标：破译世界的规律。要进一步提高我的思维能力，人工强化措施是惟一可行的手段。我需要把自己的大脑与电脑直接联接，下载思维。要实现这一步，我必须创造出一种新技术。任何数字式计算机都不足以满足我的要求，我在设想基于神经网络的纳米结构电脑。

一旦想出了基本思路，我的大脑就开始并行处理：大脑的一部分求出反映神经网络行为的数学模型；另一部分发展一种方法，借助具备自修复功能的生物陶瓷，在分子层次模拟神经路径的形成；第三部分则研究如何指导私营企业的研发工作，让它们有能力制造出我所需要的东西。时间不等人：我要做出理论与技术的重大突破，让我的新兴工业成长、迅跑。

我进入大千世界，重新观察社会百态。过去我的眼里是种种表达感情的语言、迹象，现在我看到的则是一个种种因素交叉关联的矩阵。人与人之间、物与物之间、机构与机构之间、观念与观念之间，力的线条扭曲、延伸。其中的个人是可悲的，如同牵线木偶，一个个原本活跃的个体被他们视而不见的网络缠住。如果他们有这个愿望，本来是可以抗拒的，但是这样做的人却寥寥无几。

此时此刻，我坐在一家酒吧里。离我右边三只凳子远的地方坐着一个男人，他熟悉这种环境，只见他环顾四周，注意到角落一个黑暗小包间里有一对情人。于是，他露出微笑，示意侍者过来，然后俯身悄悄地对那对情人说三道四。我不必听也知道他在说什么。

他在向侍者撒谎，谎言脱口而出。这是一个不能控制自己的撒谎者，他撒谎不是为了寻求更有刺激的生活，而是觉得欺骗他人很快乐。他知道侍者很淡漠，仅仅装着感兴趣——这是真的，但他也知道侍者依然上当了——这也是真的。

我对人体语言愈来愈敏感，已经达到眼不看耳不听也能读出对方心思的高度：我能嗅到对方肌肤散发出来的信息素。我的肌肉在某种程度上甚至可以觉察到对方肌肉的紧张，也许是我感应到了他们周围电磁场的变化。这些手段还不能提供精确的信息，但我获得的印象为我进一步推论提供了丰富的素材。

常人也许在潜意识状态下可以探测到这些从体内散发出来的信息素。我要进一步修炼，更加适应这些信息素，也许可以由此有意识地控制自己散发出的信息素。

我开发出来的种种潜能不由得使我联想起小报广告所吹嘘的意识控制术。我能够控制自己体内信息素的散发，从而在他人身上引发准确的反应。通过控制信息素与肌肉张弛度，我可以使对方产生愤怒、恐惧、同情或者性亢奋等方面的反应。不用说，这足以使我交上朋友，左右他人。

我引发别人的反应后，还能使他自动强化这种反应。通过将特定的反应与满足感结合起来，我便可以创造出一种自激效应，如同生物信息反馈一样，使对方的身体自我强化其反应。我要将这个用在公司总裁们身上，促使他们支持开发我所需要的工业技术。

我再也无法正常做梦了。我缺乏任何可以叫做潜意识的东西，大脑的全部功能尽在我的控制之下，于是，梦成了过时货，不存在了。偶尔我对大脑的控制也会松懈，但这说不上是睡眠。也许可以称作超幻觉，简直是一种折磨。这些时候，我处于分离状态：知道我的大脑是如何产生幻觉的，却神志恍惚，不能做出反应，难以辨认我看见的一切，只是些怪异的，超限的自我观照、自我修正的意象，即使是我都觉得荒诞不经。

我的意识大耗大脑资源。头脑有限的容量和生理结构只能勉强支撑这种对自我无所不知的意识。不过，这种意识也可以作出一定程度的自我调节，我让我的意识充分利用现有的资源，不要超越这一范围。这很困难：我仿佛局处笼中，既坐不下去，也站不起来。一旦要松弛或者伸直身体，接踵而来的便是剧痛、疯狂。

我处于幻觉之中，看见我的意识在想像它能够产生的种种结构，结构纷至沓来，又一一消散。我目睹自己的幻觉，我在幻想：一旦掌握终极规律，我的意识将会以什么样的形态出现。

我会获得终极自我意识吗？我的意识形成终极形态所需的种种，我能够发现吗？我会洞悉人类的种族记忆吗？我会发现道德规范的内在本质吗？也许我可以确定意识是否能够从物质中自发产生，可以理解是什么东西将意识与宇宙的其他一切联系起来。也许我可以看见主体与客体是如何融为一体的：元经验。

或者，也许我会发现自己的意识无法形成终极形态，这项工作必需某种外力干预。也许我会看见灵魂——超越物质、形成意识的要素是对上帝存在的证明吗？我会看见本体、存在的真正本质。

我将大彻大悟。一定是一种狂喜的体验……

我的意识收缩到正常状态。我必须牢牢地控制自我。我的意识处于能生成其他程序的程序母机的层面，一般情况下我能控制住自我，意识一旦游离，立即可以进行完美的自我修复，从酷似妄想症或者遗忘症的状态中恢复自我。然而，如果我在这个层面漂移得太远，意识就可能变成不稳定结构，我便会滑进深渊，比单纯的疯狂更加可怕。我必须对意识编制程序，约束它自动生成程序的范围。

这些幻觉使我创造人工大脑的决心更加坚定。只有拥有这种结构，我才能够真正把握我追求的本质，而不是仅仅停留在梦想里。要获得大彻大悟，我的脑神经衍生物还需要大量增生，突破临界值。

我睁开眼睛。我合上眼睛已经有两小时二十八分十秒了，只是闭目养神，不是睡觉。我翻身起床。

我在计算机上调出我的股票交易情况。俯身向荧光屏瞧去，顿时浑身冰凉。

荧光屏向我吼叫，告诉我另一个人也且有超级意识。

我的五种股票显示亏损，虽然不是猛跌，但也够大了，我察觉到股票经纪人的身体语言都发生了变化。我的眼光扫过以字母顺序排列的一览表，发现股值下跌的公司的首写字母是：Ｃ，Ｅ，Ｇ，Ｏ和Ｒ。经过重新排列，就是ＧＲＥＣＯ。我的名字格雷科。

有人给我发送了一条信息。

那边有一个人和我一样，一定也是一个昏迷不醒的病人，注射了三针荷尔蒙Ｋ。他在我进入医管局数据库之前就将他的文件抹去，在他的医生的账户中输入假信息，从而混淆视听。他还偷走了另一瓶荷尔蒙Ｋ，促使医管局关闭有关荷尔蒙Ｋ的文件。在当局不知道他的行踪的情况下，他修炼到了我的水平。

他一定是通过我以假身份投资的模式识别出了我；要做到这一点，他必须具备洞察入微的眼光。作为一个超人，他有能力精密地动动手脚，给我造成损失，从而引起我的注意。

我借各种数据咨询公司了解股市行情；我的各种股票全都没有问题，说明对手并不是简单地修改我的账户。他改变了五家互不相干的公司的股票交易模式，仅仅为了一个词。真是好身手。做到这一点真不简单。

估计他比我先开始接受治疗，这就意味着他走在我前面了。走得多远？我开始推测他的进展，一获得新的信息立即汇总。

关键在于，他是朋友还是敌人？他的所作所为仅仅是善意地展示他的本领，还是表明他要毁掉我？我的股票损失不大不小——关心我？抑或是关心他做手脚的公司？为了引起我的注意，他便做出不少小动作，虽说危害不大，我却不得不假定他怀有一定程度的敌意。

如果情况果真如此，我就危险了。对方可能采取的手段可以是恶作剧，也可以是致命的攻击。小心起见，我要立刻避开。不用说，如果他对我充满敌意的话，我现在已经是个死人。他发给我的信息意味着他希望我们俩玩一玩游戏。但我必须在同等条件下和他玩：隐蔽我的住处，确定他的身份，然后设法同他联系。

随机选择一座城市：孟菲斯。我关掉电脑，穿上衣服，收拾旅行包，将住所里准备的应付紧急情况的现钞全部带走。

我在孟菲斯一家旅馆住下，立即开始在屋里安装数据网络终端。首先，我通过几个假终端改变我的网络活动路径；如果警方追踪我，我的询问看上去来自犹他州的不同终端。军事情报部门也许能够查出这些询问来自休斯敦的一个终端，从那里继续追踪的话便有可能查到孟菲斯。不过万一真的查到那里，我在休斯敦的的预警程序就会通知我。

我那位孪生兄弟抹去了多少有关他身份的线索？联邦药物管理局数据库没有他的文件，我开始查询各城市信使公司服务点的文件，搜寻荷尔蒙Ｋ研究期间药管局与医院之间的包裹传递情况。然后，检查当时医院保存的脑损伤病历，理出了线索。

他名叫雷诺兹。最初来自凤凰城，早期发展与我差不多同步。他注射第三针是在六个月零四天前，领先我十五天。他并没有抹掉任何明显的档案，着样子是等着我去找他。估计他成为超人已经有十二天了，比我早一半时间。

我现在可以看见他的手在股市搅动，但要找到他的下落却异常艰难。我检查了整个数据网的用户注册表，以查明他渗透的账户。我在终端上同时开通十二条线，使用两个单手键盘和一个语音话筒，同时进行三处查询。我的身体大部分静止不动，为了防止疲劳，我保证血液循环适度，肌肉适当收缩，排除乳酸。我吸收所有看到的信息，透过音符研究下面的旋律，搜寻网上每一次轻微震颤的源头。

时间一小时一小时地过去了。我们俩都在浏览数以千兆字节的数据，与对方周旋。

他在费城，等着我。

我乘一辆溅满稀泥的出租车前往雷诺兹的公寓。

根据几个月来雷诺兹所查询的数据库和各种机构判断，他个人的研究涉及以生物工程微生物处理有毒废物、实用核聚变的惰性控制以及对社会各阶层潜意识地传播信息。他计划拯救世界，保护世界免遭自我毁灭。另外，他对我的印象不好。

我对外部世界的事物没有表示出任何兴趣，也没有进行任何调查研究来帮助芸芸众生。我们俩都无法改变对方。我认为外部世界跟我的终极目标关系不大，他则不能容忍一个具有超常智慧的人单纯做个自了汉，置苍生于不顾。我的人脑——电脑联接计划将会在世界上产生巨大反响，引发政府、公众的反应，进而干扰他的计划。正如格言所云，我不仅无助于解决问题，自己反倒成了问题的一部分。

如果我们仅仅是超人社会的成员，我俩互相交往的性质就完全不一样了。不幸的是，我们俩都生活在现实社会，不可避免要成为主宰万物的角色。常人的所作所为对我们没什么影响。但我们两人，即使远隔千山万水，也无法忽略对方。必须拿出一个解决办法。

我们俩已经避免了好几次交锋。我们可以采用上千种方法置对方于死地，从在门把手上涂抹含有神经毒素的二甲亚砜到借用军方的攻击卫星进行外科手术式打击。我们俩都拥有无数手段，可以扫平对方身体所处的空间和他的数据网络，也可以事先设下圈套，静候攻来的对手上钩。然而，我们俩都按兵不动，觉得有必要先等等再说。转念一想，我们俩都放弃了千百万种攻击手段。最具决定意义的是事先准备，这些准备工作中哪些才会最终决定胜负却是我们无法预测的。

出租车停下，我付了车钱，然后步行到公寓大楼。大门的电子锁为我开着。我脱下大衣，爬上四楼。

雷诺兹的房门也开着。我穿过门廊，走进客厅。一只数字音响合成器以超波频率播放着复调音乐。这显然是他的杰作。声波经过调制，常人的耳朵无法听见，连我也听不出其中的模式。也许是他的高信息密度音乐实验。

屋里有一把大转椅，椅背朝着我。看不见雷诺兹，他将身体信息素的传递控制在惰怠状态。我发出信息，表示我到了，认出了他的身份。

雷诺兹。

他也传出信息，表示收到。格雷科。

转椅轻轻地、缓缓地转过来。他对我微微一笑，关掉他身边的音响合成器。答话。很高兴见到你。

我们用常人的身体语言交流：这是普通对话的精简。身体发出一条信息只需要十分之一秒。我传达遗憾之情。真不幸，一定要成为敌人。

带着伤感同意，作出假想。是呀。想一想如果我们珠联璧合，可以怎样改造世界。两个超人。如此良机却错过了。

真的，假如我们俩合作，一定会创建单独行事无法比拟的伟业。我们两人无论以什么形式合作都会结出令人难以置信的硕果。他的谈话速度和我一样快，他能够提出令我耳目一新的主意，他和我一样能够认知万物的本质，与这样的人讨论问题是多么惬意。他也怀着同样的渴望。一想到我们俩有一个不会活着离开这间屋子，怎不令人痛心疾首。

他提议。想交流六个月来咱们学到的东西吗？

他知道我的回答是什么。

身体语言缺乏专门术语，于是我们出声交谈。雷诺兹说得又轻又快，只说了五个词。短短五个词意味深长，超过任何一段诗节：每一个词都提供一个逻辑立足点，弄清楚前面的词所隐含的全部意义后我便能登上这个立足点。这五个词加在一块，简明扼要地概括出社会学领域具有革命性的新观点；他用身体语言表示这个观点是他最初获得的成果之一。他所认识的我也领悟到了，但组织形式却不一样。我立刻发出七个词回应，其中四个词概括了我们之间的观点区别，另外三个词推导出以上区别所阐明的一个隐含结论。他也做出回应。

我们继续谈下去。我们如同两位吟唱诗人，互相提示对方即兴吟唱另一诗节，共同谱写一首知识的史诗。片刻之后，我们加快交谈速度，同时开口，又能听出对方话中每一个细微之处。渐渐地我们开始吸收、下结论、应和，连续不断、同步并举。

时间一分分过去。我从他那里学会了许多，他也从我这里学会了许多。突然沐浴在思想的光辉里令人多么心旷神怡，这些思想的含义本来会耗费我数天的时间去琢磨的。但是，与此同时，我们也在汲取具有战略意义的信息：我推测出他所掌握、却没有说出的知识的范围，与我自己的领域相比较，揣测他做出的类似推测。因为，自始至终，我们都意识到，这一切必然会结束的。交流的结果，我们世界观的差异显现无遗。

雷诺兹没有看到我所见到的美。他站在顿悟所展示的美景面前，却视而不见。激发他灵感的惟一的本体规律恰恰又是我所忽视的，即地球社会的规律、地球生物圈的规律。我热爱美，他热爱人类。彼此都觉得对方忽视了大好机会。

他有一个计划没有提到，那就是为了世界的繁荣，建立一个具有全球影响的网络。为了实施这个计划，他准备雇用不少人，其中一些人他要赋予简单的增强型智力，另一些人则要赋予高级自我意识。其中的少数人会对他构成威胁。何苦为了凡人冒险？

你获得了大彻大悟，对常人淡漠是情有可原的。毕竟你的王国与他们的世界互不相干。但只要你我仍然能够理解他们的疾苦，那就不可能超脱。

我可以准确地测出我们各自道德立场之间的距离，它们互不兼容、各走各路，我能看出其中的对立。他的动机不仅仅是出于同情心和利他主义，他的动机大得多，将同情心和利他主义包容其中。另一方面，我却只潜心于认识尽善尽美的境界。从大彻大悟中显现出来的美呢？难道对你没有吸引力吗？

要达到大彻大悟的意识需要什么样的结构，这你是知道的。时间不等人，我不想把时间花在等待建立必要的产业上。

他视智慧为手段，我却视智慧为终极目标。再高超的智慧对他都没有多大用处。他目前的水平不仅能够找到解决人类经验王国中任何问题的最佳途径，还能解决许多超越人类经验的问题。他所需要的只是足够的时间来实施他的方案。

没有必要再讨论下去了。经过双方同意，我们开始了。

对我们来说，突然袭击毫无意义。当然，事先声明也不是出于骑土风度——即使知道动手时间，我们也不可能比不知道时更加警觉。不过是把不可避免的事具体化而已。

通过交流，我们对对方都作出了推论，但这些推论中仍然存在缺失，存在空白。我们不知道对方在内在心理方面有什么发现，取得了什么进展。在这个方面，我们从未流露出一丝迹象，整个世界对我们这方面的发现毫无线索。

我开始了。

我集中意念在他的身上激发两种自激效应。一条十分简单：急剧增高血压。如果不加以遏止，而是听任这种自激循环增强继续一秒钟以上，它就会将血压增高到中风的程度——也许高压４００，低压３００——他的大脑毛细血管就会破裂。

雷诺兹立即觉察到了。从我们的交谈中看来，显然他从来没有调查过在别人身上产生生物信息正负反馈循环自激的情况。尽管如此，他却立即明白了。他当即减慢心跳速度，扩张全身的血管。

可是，另一条更精妙的自激线路才是我的秘密武器。这个撒手锏我自从开始搜寻雷诺兹以来就一直在研制。这一招会导致他的神经细胞急剧产生过量的神经传递阻挠素，阻止神经冲动穿过突轴，进而关闭大脑活动。这条自激线路上我施加的强度远远高于前一条线路。

雷诺兹抵御我的佯攻时，觉得注意力稍稍有点不集中，好像血压增高一样。转瞬间，他的身体开始放大对自身的效应。他惊骇地感到他的思维在逐渐模糊。于是，他搜寻起因，很快就会查明我的战术，但却没有仔细审视的时间。

一旦他的大脑功能降低到常人的水平，我就能够轻易地操纵他的思维。采用催眠术，可使他那超级意识所拥有的信息大部分都倒流出来。

我观察他的身体语言，注意到身体语言暴露出他的智力在减弱。减弱的迹象清晰可辨，决不会错。

就在这时候，倒退停止了。

雷诺兹稳住了。我惊呆了。他居然能够打破自激效应。他遏止住了我最厉害的进攻手段。

接着，他开始修复所遭受的创伤。尽管他的能力已经减弱，但还是能够恢复神经传递素的平衡。短短几秒钟，他完全恢复了。

他也同样看透了我。在我们交淡期间，他就推测出我研究过正负反馈循环自激效应。趁着交流的机会，他瞒过我的耳目，找到了基本的预防措施。在我实施攻击时，他观察其具体细节，分析出化险为夷之道。真是火眼金睛，行动神速，神不知鬼不觉，令我惊叹不已。

他承认我的功夫。一种非常有意思的技术，让你这样全神关注自身的人用来，真是再合适不过了。我没有看出预兆，它就——突然，他发出一种不同的身体信号，我立刻辨认出来了。三天前，我在一家杂货店，他尾随在我的身后，当时他使用的就是这个身体信号。杂货店的走道挤满了人，我身旁有一位老年妇女，气喘吁吁地跟在她买的空气过滤器后面，还有一位吸毒的瘦削的年轻人，穿了一件饰以不断变幻的迷幻图案的幻彩衫。雷诺兹溜到我身后，有意将自己的意识转到黄色书摊上面。他虽然没有获得我的自激武器的信息，但确实对我的意识有了更详细的了解。

我预感到一种可能性。于是我重新调整了自己的意识，在其要素中植入随机数，组合后的意识将不可预见。我现在的意识方式与往常大相径庭，雷诺兹怎么也不会猜中，他的心理武器于是丧失了用武之地。

我微微一笑。

他报以微笑。你考虑过——突然打住。他会说出来，我却无法预见他要说出什么。接着，来了，轻得像耳语：”自我毁灭指令吗？格雷科？“话一出口，我对他的推想中存在的一处空白迅速填充，满溢出来。这处空白一填充，他在我头脑中的形象立即大不一样，他指的是语辞：一句话，一旦出口，便会摧毁听话人的意识。雷诺兹表示，那个传说千真万确。也就是说，每一个大脑都有一个内置的触发器，对于每一个人，都有一个特定的句子，可以将他化为一个白痴、一个疯子、一个紧张症患者。而且，他声称知道毁灭我的那一句话。

我立刻转移全部用于输入的感官，将它们指向一块抗干扰的短期缓冲记忆。接着，我编制出一个自我意识的模拟器，用来接受输入，慢速吸收。我的意识则作为高端编程者，间接检测模拟器。只有确认了传感信息是安全的，我才会实际接收。如果模拟器遭到毁灭，我的意识就应该被隔绝起来，我会顺着原来的路径，一步一步折回毁灭点，获取信息，重新编制我的意识。

雷诺兹说出我的名字时，我已经一切就绪；下一句话可能是毁灭指令。此刻，我以一百二十毫秒的时间滞后接收我的传感输入。我再次审视我对人类意识的分析结果，以检验他的论断是否真实。

与此同时，我平静、淡漠地发出信息。有什么高招就使出来吧。

别着急，还没到舌头上呢。

我搜寻到了某个东西。我不禁咒骂自己：人类意识中有一道十分隐秘的暗门，可我的意识没有调校好，无法辨识。我的武器产生于对自身的观照，而他的武器却只有操纵他人者才能创造出来。

雷诺兹知道我已经建立起防御系统；他的触发装置指令是专门用来挫败我的防御系统吗？我继续探测触发指令的性质。

还等什么？他胸有成竹，这么短的时间内，我不可能建立起有效的防御系统。

猜一猜吧。他太自鸣得意了。他真的能够这样轻易摆弄我吗？

现在，我能够从理论上描述触发装置对常人的影响了。仅仅一个指令就能将任何普通人脑沦为一片空白，但要抹去超级意识，却需要巧计智取。抹去意识的指令有明显先兆，我的模拟装置会对我发出警报。可是，这些先兆我虽然可以计算出来，毁灭指令本身，按其定义，应该是某种我的想像范围的句子；我的超级意识在诊断模拟器的状态时会崩溃吗？

你对常人使用过毁灭指令？我开始测算需要什么东西才能产生出一个特定的毁灭指令？

用过一次，是对一个毒贩子做实验。随后，我一拳打在毒贩子的太阳穴上，把证据隐藏起来了。

我豁然开朗。原来创造指令是一项浩繁的工作。创造触发令，需要对我的意识了如指掌。我推测他对我究竟知道多少。就我能够重编程序来看，他了解得还不够，不过他或许另有观察技术，只是我不知道罢了。我深深地意识到，由干他对外界进行了研究，所以对我占有优势。

这种事你肯定得练习很多次。

雷诺兹的内疚显而易见。要实施他的计划，不死更多的人是不可能的。有普通人，还有几个他的超人助手，这些人一心希望达到更高境界，受这个欲望的诱惑，他们会干扰他的计划。发出指令后，他可能会重新给他们——或者给我——编程，使我们沦为他的仆人，心无旁鹜，自我超级编程能力受到制约。死人是实施他的计划所付出的必要代价。

我没有自称圣人。

仅仅是拯救者。

芸芸众生也许会将他看作一个独裁者，因为他们误以为他也是一个常人。庸人缺乏明智的判断，他们怎么也看不出他能胜任拯救世界的伟业。他对常人的判断具有远见卓识，而常人却无法将贪婪与野心等观念套用于超人身上。

雷诺兹以一种戏剧化的姿势举起手来，食指前伸，似乎要强调一个论点。我的信息不够，看不出他的毁灭指令，所以暂时只能招架。如果我抵挡住了他的进攻，就有时间发动反击。

他竖起食指。他说道：”领悟。“

起初我没有领悟。接着，恐怖的一刻——我领悟了。

他设计的指令不是为了宣之于口，甚至根本不是传感触发器。它是一个记忆触发器：该指令产生于一连串的知觉，这些知觉单个是无害的，但他却将它们成批植入我的大脑，如同一颗颗定时炸弹。由这些记忆结果所形成的神经结构此时消解收缩，成为一个模式，形成一种心理形态，这个形态注定了我的死亡。我其实等于自己吐出了那一句言辞。

我的大脑立刻高速运转，比以往任何时候都迅速。我不由自主地产生一种自我毁灭意识。我竭力止住联想，可是抑制不了这些记忆。我的意识导致联想过程，这一过程正在发生，冷酷无情、不可遏止。我仿佛从高峰坠落，不得不目睹这个过程。

时间一毫秒一毫秒地过去了。我的死亡历历在目。

是雷诺兹经过杂货店的图像。还有那年轻人身上穿的幻彩衫。幻彩衫上是雷诺兹编制的图像，在我的大脑中植入一个暗示，其结果就是，尽管我转移了自己的输入感官，但心理仍然处于接受状态。即使作出转移这个行为的同一时间，我的意识仍然是敞开的。

没有时间了。只有以飞快的速度重新以随机模式编织意识。这是绝望的挣扎，也许是走向自我毁灭。

刚刚踏进雷诺兹的屋子时，我听到经过调制的奇特声音。我吸收了这个关键的暗示——在做出防御姿态之前。

我的意识分裂了，但结论却愈来愈凸出，愈来愈清晰。

是我自己亲手建立的那个模拟器。为了设计这一防御手段，我的感知力作出了改变，调整到最易受他那个触发令影响的状态。

我承认他比我更富有创造力。这是他的事业的吉兆。对于拯救者来说，实用主义远比唯美主义实用。

我不知道，拯救了世界以后他想做什么？

我领悟了那个词及其发挥威力的方式。接着，我死了。

后记

我写这个故事的灵感来自我读大学时一位室友随口发出的一句感慨。当时他正在阅读法国存在主义大师萨特的小说《恶心》。小说的主人公发现他所看到的一切都毫无意义。我那位室友纳闷，如果你从你所看到的一切中发现意义与秩序，那该是怎样一番景象。我认为，这种能力也就是一种非凡的洞察力，这种洞察力进而意味着超级智力。于是，我开始思考这样一个临界点，即从量变——更强的记忆力、更迅速的模式认知能力——到质变，到一种全新的认知模式。

此外，我还纳闷，有没有可能真正理解我们的意识是如何工作的？有些人用”你不可能亲眼看见你自己的脸“之类比喻来断定我们不可能理解。但我觉得这种论断缺乏说服力。到头来，也许事实会证明，就”理解“与”意识“的某些方面而言，我们无法理解自己的意识——但要我信服这种观点，还需要更有说服力的论据。

（王荣生译）

Understand

by Ted Chiang

A layer of ice; it feels rough against my face, but not cold. I've got nothing to hold on to; my gloves just keep sliding off it. I can see people on top, running around, but they can't do anything. I'm trying to pound the ice with my fists, but my arms move in slow motion, and my lungs must have burst, and my head's going fuzzy, and I feel like I'm dissolving-

I wake up, screaming. My heart's going like a jackhammer. Christ. I pull off my blankets and sit on the edge of the bed.

I couldn't remember that before. Before I only remembered falling through the ice; the doctor said my mind had suppressed the rest. Now I remember it, and it's the worst nightmare I've ever had.

I'm grabbing the down comforter with my fists, and I can feel myself trembling. I try to calm down, to breathe slowly, but sobs keep forcing their way out. It was so real I could feel it: feel what it was like to die.

I was in that water for nearly an hour; I was more vegetable than anything else by the time they brought me up. Am I recovered? It was the first time the hospital had ever tried their new drug on someone with so much brain damage. Did it work?

○○○

The same nightmare, again and again. After the third time, I know I'm not going to sleep again. I spend the remaining hours before dawn worrying. Is this the result? Am I losing my mind?

Tomorrow is my weekly checkup with the resident at the hospital. I hope he'll have some answers.

○○○

I drive into downtown Boston, and after half an hour Dr. Hooper can see me. I sit on a gurney in an examining room, behind a yellow curtain. Jutting out of the wall at waist height is a horizontal flatscreen, adjusted for tunnel vision so it appears blank from my angle. The doctor types at the keyboard, presumably calling up my file, and then starts examining me. As he's checking my pupils with a penlight, I tell him about my nightmares.

"Did you ever have any before the accident, Leon?" He gets out his little mallet and taps at my elbows, knees, and ankles.

"Never. Are these a side effect of the drug?"

"Not a side effect. The hormone K therapy regenerated a lot of damaged neurons, and that's an enormous change that your brain has to adjust to. The nightmares are probably just a sign of that."

"Is this permanent?"

"It's unlikely," he says. "Once your brain gets used to having all those pathways again, you'll be fine. Now touch your index finger to the tip of your nose, and then bring it to my finger here."

I do what he tells me. Next he has me tap each finger to my thumb, quickly. Then I have to walk a straight line, as if I'm taking a sobriety test. After that, he starts quizzing me.

"Name the parts of an ordinary shoe."

"There's the sole, the heel, the laces. Um, the holes that the laces go through are eyes, and then there's the tongue, underneath the laces…."

"Okay. Repeat this number: three nine one seven four-"

"-six two."

Dr. Hooper wasn't expecting that. "What?"

"Three nine one seven four six two. You used that number the first time you examined me, when I was still an inpatient. I guess it's a number you test patients with a lot."

"You weren't supposed to memorize it; it's meant to be a test of immediate recall."

"I didn't intentionally memorize it. I just happened to remember it."

"Do you remember the number from the second time I examined you?"

I pause for a moment. "Four zero eight one five nine two."

He's surprised. "Most people can't retain so many digits if they've only heard them once. Do you use mnemonic tricks?"

I shake my head. "No. I always keep phone numbers in the autodialer."

He goes to the terminal and taps at the numeric keypad. "Try this one." He reads a fourteen-digit number, and I repeat it back to him. "You think you can do it backwards?" I recite the digits in reverse order. He frowns, and starts typing something into my file.

○○○

I'm sitting in front of a terminal in one of the testing rooms in the psychiatric ward; it's the nearest place Dr. Hooper could get some intelligence tests. There's a small mirror set in one wall, probably with a video camera behind it. In case it's recording, I smile at it and wave briefly. I always do that to the hidden cameras in automatic cash machines.

Dr. Hooper comes in with a printout of my test results. "Well, Leon, you did… very well. On both tests you scored in the ninety-ninth percentile."

My jaw drops. "You're kidding."

"No, I'm not." He has trouble believing it himself. "Now that number doesn't indicate how many questions you got right; it means that relative to the general population-"

"I know what it means," I say absently. "I was in the seventieth percentile when they tested us in high school." Ninety-ninth percentile. Inwardly, I'm trying to find some sign of this. What should it feel like?

He sits down on the table, still looking at the printout. "You never attended college, did you?"

I return my attention to him. "I did, but I left before graduating. My ideas of education didn't mesh with the professors'."

"I see." He probably takes this to mean I flunked out. "Well, clearly you've improved tremendously. A little of that may have come about naturally as you grew older, but most of it must be a result of the hormone K therapy."

"This is one hell of a side effect."

"Well, don't get too excited. Test scores don't predict how well you can do things in the real world." I roll my eyes upward when Dr. Hooper isn't looking. Something amazing is going on, and all he can offer is a truism. "I'd like to follow up on this with some more tests. Can you come in tomorrow?"

○○○

I'm in the middle of retouching a holograph when the phone rings. I waver between the phone and the console, and reluctantly opt for the phone. I'd normally have the answering machine take any calls when I'm editing, but I need to let people know I'm working again. I lost a lot of business when I was in the hospital: one of the risks of being a freelancer. I touch the phone and say, "Greco Holographics, Leon Greco speaking."

"Hey Leon, it's Jerry."

"Hi Jerry. What's up?" I'm still studying the image on the screen: it's a pair of helical gears, intermeshed. A trite metaphor for cooperative action, but that's what the customer wanted for his ad.

"You interested in seeing a movie tonight? Me and Sue and Tori were going to see Metal Eyes."

"Tonight? Oh, I can't. Tonight's the last performance of the one-woman show at the Hanning Playhouse." The surfaces of the gear teeth are scratched and oily-looking. I highlight each surface using the cursor, and type in the parameters to be adjusted.

"What's that?"

"It's called Symplectic. It's a monologue in verse." Now I adjust the lighting, to remove some of the shadows from where the teeth mesh. "Want to come along?"

"Is this some kind of Shakespearean soliloquy?"

Too much: with that lighting, the outer edges will be too bright. I specify an upper limit for the reflected light's intensity. "No, it's a stream-of-consciousness piece, and it alternates between four different meters; iambic's only one of them. All the critics called it a tour de force."

"I didn't know you were such a fan of poetry."

After checking all the numbers once more, I let the computer recalculate the interference pattern. "Normally, I'm not, but this one seemed really interesting. How's it sound to you?"

"Thanks, but I think we'll stick with the movie."

"Okay, you guys have fun. Maybe we can get together next week." We say goodbye and hang up, and I wait for the recalc to finish.

Suddenly it occurs to me what's just happened. I've never been able to do any serious editing while talking on the phone. But this time I had no trouble keeping my mind on both things at once.

Will the surprises never end? Once the nightmares were gone and I could relax, the first thing I noticed was the increase in my reading speed and comprehension. I was actually able to read the books on my shelves that I'd always meant to get around to, but never had the time; even the more difficult, technical material. Back in college, I'd accepted the fact that I couldn't study everything that interested me. It's exhilarating to discover that maybe I can; I was positively gleeful when I bought an armload of books the other day.

And now I find I can concentrate on two things at once; something I never would have predicted. I stand up at my desk and shout out loud, as if my favorite baseball team had just surprised me with a triple play. That's what it feels like.

○○○

The neurologist-in-chief, Dr. Shea, has taken over my case, presumably because he wants to take the credit. I scarcely know him, but he acts as if I've been his patient for years.

He's asked me into his office to have a talk. He interlaces his fingers and rests his elbows on his desk. "How do you feel about the increase in your intelligence?" he asks.

What an inane question. "I'm very pleased about it."

"Good," says Dr. Shea. "So far, we've found no adverse effects of the hormone K therapy. You don't require any further treatment for the brain damage from your accident." I nod. "However, we're conducting a study to learn more about the hormone's effect on intelligence. If you're willing, we'd like to give you a further injection of the hormone, and then monitor the results."

Suddenly he's got my attention; finally, something worth listening to. "I'd be willing to do that."

"You understand that this is purely for investigational purposes, not therapeutic. You may benefit from it with further gains in your intelligence, but this is not medically necessary for your health."

"I understand. I suppose I have to sign a consent form."

"Yes. We can also offer you some compensation for participating in this study." He names a figure, but I'm barely listening.

"That'll be fine." I'm imagining where this might lead, what it might mean for me, and a thrill runs through me.

"We'd also like you to sign a confidentiality agreement. Clearly this drug is enormously exciting, but we don't want any announcements to be made prematurely."

"Certainly, Dr. Shea. Has anyone been given additional injections before?"

"Of course; you're not going to be a guinea pig. I can assure you, there haven't been any harmful side effects."

"What sort of effects did they experience?"

"It's better if we don't plant suggestions in your mind: you might imagine you were experiencing the symptoms I mention."

Shea's very comfortable with the doctor-knows-best routine. I keep pushing. "Can you at least tell me how much their intelligence increased?"

"Every individual is different. You shouldn't base your expectations on what's happened to others."

I conceal my frustration. "Very well, Doctor."

○○○

If Shea doesn't want to tell me about hormone K, I can find out about it on my own. From my terminal at home I log on to the datanet. I access the FDA's public database, and start perusing their current INDs, the Investigational New Drug applications that must be approved before human trials can begin.

The application for hormone K was submitted by Sorensen Pharmaceutical, a company researching synthetic hormones that encourage neuron regeneration in the central nervous system. I skim the results of the drug tests on oxygen-deprived dogs, and then baboons: all the animals recovered completely. Toxicity was low, and long-term observation didn't reveal any adverse effects.

The results of cortical samples are provocative. The brain-damaged animals grew replacement neurons with many more dendrites, but the healthy recipients of the drug remained unchanged. The conclusion of the researchers: hormone K replaces only damaged neurons, not healthy ones. In the brain-damaged animals, the new dendrites seemed harmless: PET scans didn't reveal any change in brain metabolism, and the animals' performance on intelligence tests didn't change.

In their application for human clinical trials, the Sorensen researchers outlined protocols for testing the drug first on healthy subjects, and then on several types of patients: stroke victims, sufferers of Alzheimer's, and persons- like me- in a persistent vegetative state. I can't access the progress reports for those trials: even with patient anonymity, only participating doctors have clearance to examine those records.

The animal studies don't shed any light on the increased intelligence in humans. It's reasonable to assume that the effect on intelligence is proportional to the number of neurons replaced by the hormone, which in turn depends on the amount of initial damage. That means that the deep-coma patients would undergo the greatest improvements. Of course, I'd need to see the progress of the other patients to confirm this theory; that'll have to wait.

The next question: Is there a plateau, or will additional dosages of the hormone cause further increases? I'll know the answer to that sooner than the doctors.

○○○

I'm not nervous; in fact, I feel quite relaxed. I'm just lying on my stomach, breathing very slowly. My back is numb; they gave me a local anesthetic, and then injected the hormone K intraspinally. An intravenous wouldn't work, since the hormone can't get past the blood-brain barrier. This is the first such injection I can recall having, though I'm told that I've received two before: the first while still in the coma, the second when I had regained consciousness but no cognitive ability.

○○○

More nightmares. They're not all actually violent, but they're the most bizarre, mind-blowing dreams I've ever had, often with nothing in them that I recognize. I often wake up screaming, flailing around in bed. But this time, I know they'll pass.

○○○

There are several psychologists at the hospital studying me now. It's interesting to see how they analyze my intelligence. One doctor perceives my skills in terms of components, such as acquisition, retention, performance, and transfer. Another looks at me from the angles of mathematical and logical reasoning, linguistic communication, and spatial visualization.

I'm reminded of my college days when I watch these specialists, each with a pet theory, each contorting the evidence to fit. I'm even less convinced by them now than I was back then; they still have nothing to teach me. None of their categorizations are fruitful in analyzing my performance, since- there's no point in denying it- I'm equally good at everything.

I could be studying a new class of equation, or the grammar of a foreign language, or the operation of an engine; in each case, everything fits together, all the elements cooperate beautifully. In each case, I don't have to consciously memorize rules, and then apply them mechanically. I just perceive how the system behaves as a whole, as an entity. Of course, I'm aware of all the details and individual steps, but they require so little concentration that they almost feel intuitive.

○○○

Penetrating computer security is really quite dull; I can see how it might attract those who can't resist a challenge to their cleverness, but it's not intellectually aesthetic at all. It's no different than tugging on the doors of a locked house until you find an improperly installed lock. A useful activity, but hardly interesting.

Getting into the FDA's private database was easy. I played with one of the hospital wall terminals, running the visitor information program, which displays maps and a staff directory. I broke out of the program to the system level, and wrote a decoy program to mimic the opening screen for logging on. Then I simply left the terminal alone; eventually one of my doctors came by to check one of her files. The decoy rejected her password, and then restored the true opening screen. The doctor tried logging on again, and was successful this time, but her password was left with my decoy.

Using the doctor's account, I had clearance to view the FDA patient-record database. In the Phase I trials, on healthy volunteers, the hormone had no effect. The ongoing Phase II clinical trials are a different matter. Here are weekly reports on eighty-two patients, each identified by a number, all treated with hormone K, most of them victims of a stroke or Alzheimer's, some of them coma cases. The latest reports confirm my prediction: those with greater brain damage display greater increases in intelligence. PET scans reveal heightened brain metabolism.

Why didn't the animal studies provide a precedent for this? I think the concept of critical mass provides an analogy. Animals fall below some critical mass in terms of synapses; their brains support only minimal abstraction, and gain nothing from additional synapses. Humans exceed that critical mass. Their brains support full self-awareness, and- as these records indicate- they use any new synapses to the fullest possible extent.

The most exciting records are those of the newly begun investigational studies, using a few of the patients who volunteered. Additional injections of the hormone do increase intelligence further, but again it depends on the degree of initial damage. The patients with minor strokes haven't even reached genius levels. Those with greater damage have gone further.

Of the patients originally in deep-coma states, I'm the only one thus far who's received a third injection. I've gained more new synapses than anyone previously studied; it's an open question as to how high my intelligence will go. I can feel my heart pounding when I think about it.

○○○

Playing with the doctors is becoming more and more tedious as the weeks go by. They treat me as if I were simply an idiot savant: a patient who exhibits certain signs of high intelligence, but still just a patient. As far as the neurologists are concerned, I'm just a source of PET scan images and an occasional vial of cerebrospinal fluid. The psychologists have the opportunity to gain some insight into my thinking through their interviews, but they can't shed their preconception of me as someone out of his depth, an ordinary man awarded gifts that he can't appreciate.

On the contrary, the doctors are the ones who don't appreciate what's happening. They're certain that real-world performance can't be enhanced by a drug, and that my ability exists only according to the artificial yardstick of intelligence tests, so they waste their time with those. But the yardstick is not only contrived, it's too short: my consistently perfect scores don't tell them anything, because they have no basis for comparison this far out on the bell curve.

Of course, the test scores merely capture a shadow of the real changes occurring. If only the doctors could feel what's going on in my head: how much I'm recognizing that I missed before, how many uses I can see for that information. Far from being a laboratory phenomenon, my intelligence is practical and effectual. With my near-total recall and my ability to correlate, I can assess a situation immediately, and choose the best course of action for my purposes; I'm never indecisive. Only theoretical topics pose a challenge.

○○○

No matter what I study, I can see patterns. I see the gestalt, the melody within the notes, in everything: mathematics and science, art and music, psychology and sociology. As I read the texts, I can think only that the authors are plodding along from one point to the next, groping for connections that they can't see. They're like a crowd of people unable to read music, peering at the score for a Bach sonata, trying to explain how one note leads to another.

As glorious as these patterns are, they also whet my appetite for more. There are other patterns waiting to be discovered, gestalts of another scale entirely. With respect to those, I'm blind myself; all my sonatas are just isolated data points by comparison. I have no idea what form such gestalts might assume, but that'll come in time. I want to find them, and comprehend them. I want this more than anything I've ever wanted before.

○○○

The visiting doctor's name is Clausen, and he doesn't behave like the other doctors. Judging by his manner, he's accustomed to wearing a mask of blandness with his patients, but he's a bit uncomfortable today. He affects an air of friendliness, but it isn't as fluent as the perfunctory noise that the other doctors make.

"The test works this way, Leon: you'll read some descriptions of various situations, each presenting a problem. After each one, I want you to tell me what you'd do to solve that problem."

I nod. "I've had this kind of test before."

"Fine, fine." He types a command, and the screen in front of me fills with text. I read the scenario: it's a problem in scheduling and prioritizing. It's realistic, which is unusual; scoring such a test is too arbitrary for most researchers' tastes. I wait before giving my answer, though Clausen is still surprised at my speed.

"That's very good, Leon." He hits a key on his computer. "Try this one."

We continue with more scenarios. As I'm reading the fourth one, Clausen is careful to display only professional detachment. My response to this problem is of special interest to him, but he doesn't want me to know. The scenario involves office politics and fierce competition for a promotion.

I realize who Clausen is: he's a government psychologist, perhaps military, probably part of the CIA's Office of Research and Development. This test is meant to gauge hormone K's potential for producing strategists. That's why he's uncomfortable with me: he's used to dealing with soldiers and government employees, subjects whose job is to follow orders.

It's likely that the CIA will wish to retain me as a subject for more tests; they may do the same with other patients, depending on their performance. After that, they'll get some volunteers from their ranks, starve their brains of oxygen, and treat them with hormone K. I certainly don't wish to become a CIA resource, but I've already demonstrated enough ability to arouse their interest. The best I can do is to downplay my skills and get this question wrong.

I offer a poor course of action as my answer, and Clausen is disappointed. Nonetheless, we press on. I take longer on the scenarios now, and give weaker responses. Sprinkled among the harmless questions are the critical ones: one about avoiding a hostile corporate takeover, another about mobilizing people to prevent the construction of a coal-burning plant. I miss each of these questions.

Clausen dismisses me when the test ends; he's already trying to formulate his recommendations. If I'd shown my true abilities, the CIA would recruit me immediately. My uneven performance will reduce their eagerness, but it won't change their minds; the potential returns are too great for them to ignore hormone K.

My situation has changed profoundly; when the CIA decides to retain me as a test subject, my consent will be purely optional. I must make plans.

○○○

It's four days later, and Shea is surprised. "You want to withdraw from the study?"

"Yes, effective immediately. I'm returning to work."

"If it's a matter of compensation, I'm sure we can-"

"No, money's not the problem. I've simply had enough of these tests."

"I know the tests become tiring after a while, but we're learning a great deal. And we appreciate your participation, Leon. It's not merely-"

"I know how much you're learning from these tests. It doesn't change my decision: I don't wish to continue."

Shea starts to speak again, but I cut him off. "I know that I'm still bound by the confidentiality agreement; if you'd like me to sign something confirming that, send it to me." I get up and head for the door. "Good-bye, Dr. Shea."

○○○

It's two days later when Shea calls.

"Leon, you have to come in for an examination. I've just been informed: adverse side effects have been found in patients treated with hormone K at another hospital."

He's lying; he'd never tell me that over the phone. "What sort of side effects?"

"Loss of vision. There's excessive growth of the optic nerve, followed by deterioration."

The CIA must have ordered this when they heard that I'd withdrawn from the study. Once I'm back in the hospital, Shea will declare me mentally incompetent, and confine me to their care. Then I'll be transferred to a government research institution.

I assume an expression of alarm. "I'll come down right away."

"Good." Shea is relieved that his delivery was convincing. "We can examine you as soon as you arrive."

I hang up and turn on my terminal to check the latest information in the FDA database. There's no mention of any adverse effects, on the optic nerve or anywhere else. I don't discount the possibility that such effects might arise in the future, but I'll discover them by myself.

It's time to leave Boston. I begin packing. I'll empty my bank accounts when I go. Selling the equipment in my studio would generate more cash, but most of it is too large to transport; I take only a few of the smallest pieces. After I've been working a couple of hours, the phone rings again: Shea wondering where I am. This time I let the machine pick it up.

"Leon, are you there? This is Dr. Shea. We've been expecting you for quite some time."

He'll try calling one more time, and then he'll send the orderlies in white suits, or perhaps the actual police, to pick me up.

○○○

Seven-thirty p.m. Shea is still in the hospital, waiting for news about me. I turn the ignition key and pull out of my parking spot across the street from the hospital. Any moment now, he'll notice the envelope I slipped under the door to his office. As soon as he opens it he'll realize that it's from me.

Greetings, Dr. Shea;

I imagine you're looking for me.

A moment of surprise, but no more than a moment; he'll regain his composure, and alert security to search the building for me, and check all departing vehicles. Then he'll continue reading.

You can call off those burly orderlies who are waiting at my apartment; I don't want to waste their valuable time. You're probably determined to have the police issue an APB on me, though. Therefore, I've taken the liberty of inserting a virus in the DMV computer that will substitute information whenever my license plate number is requested. Of course, you could give a description of my car, but you don't even know what it looks like, do you?

Leon

He'll call the police to have their programmers work on that virus. He'll conclude that I have a superiority complex, based on the arrogant tone of the note, the unnecessary risk taken in returning to the hospital to deliver it, and the pointless revelation of a virus which might otherwise have gone undetected.

Shea will be mistaken, though. Those actions are designed to make the police and CIA underestimate me, so I can rely on their not taking adequate precautions. After cleaning my virus from the DMV computer, the police programmers will assess my programming skills as good but not great, and then load the backups to retrieve my actual license number. This will activate a second virus, a far more sophisticated one. This will modify both the backups and the active database. The police will be satisfied that they've got the correct license number, and spend their time chasing that wild goose.

My next goal is to get another ampule of hormone K. Doing so, unfortunately, will give the CIA an accurate idea of how capable I really am. If I hadn't sent that note, the police would discover my virus later, at a time when they'd know to take super-stringent precautions when eradicating it. In that case, I might never be able to remove my license number from their files.

Meanwhile, I've checked into a hotel, and am working out of the room's datanet terminal.

○○○

I've broken into the private database of the FDA. I've seen the addresses of the hormone K subjects, and the internal communications of the FDA. A clinical hold was instituted for hormone K: no further testing permitted until the hold is lifted. The CIA has insisted on capturing me and assessing my threat potential before the FDA goes any further.

The FDA has asked all the hospitals to return the remaining ampules by courier. I must get an ampule before this happens. The nearest patient is in Pittsburgh; I reserve a seat on a flight leaving early tomorrow morning. Then I check a map of Pittsburgh, and make a request to the Pennsylvania Courier company for a pickup at an investment firm in the downtown area. Finally I sign up for several hours of CPU time on a supercomputer.

○○○

I'm parked in a rental car around the corner from a skyscraper in Pittsburgh. In my jacket pocket is a small circuit board with a keypad. I'm looking down the street in the direction the courier will arrive from; half the pedestrians wear white air filter masks, but visibility is good.

I see it two intersections away; it's a late-model domestic van, Pennsylvania Courier painted on the side. It's not a high-security courier; the FDA isn't that worried about me. I get out of my car and begin walking toward the skyscraper. The van arrives shortly, parks, and the driver gets out. As soon as he's inside, I enter the vehicle.

It's just come from the hospital. The driver is on his way to the fortieth floor, expecting to pick up a package from an investment firm there. He won't be back for at least four minutes.

Welded to the floor of the van is a large locker, with double-layered steel walls and door. There is a polished plate on the door; the locker opens when the driver lays his palm against its surface. The plate also has a dataport in its side, used for programming it.

Last night I penetrated the service database for Lucas Security Systems, the company that sells handprint locks to Pennsylvania Courier. There I found an encrypted file containing the codes to override their locks.

I must admit that, while penetrating computer security remains generally unaesthetic, certain aspects of it are indirectly related to very interesting problems in mathematics. For example, a commonly used method of encryption normally requires years of supercomputer time to break. However, during one of my forays into number theory, I found a lovely technique for factoring extremely large numbers. With this technique, a supercomputer could break this encryption scheme in a matter of hours.

I pull the circuit board from my pocket and connect it to the dataport with a cable. I tap in a twelve-digit number, and the locker door swings open.

○○○

By the time I'm back in Boston with the ampule, the FDA has responded to the theft by removing all pertinent files from any computer accessible through the datanet: as expected.

With the ampule and my belongings, I drive to New York City.

○○○

The fastest way for me to make money is, oddly enough, gambling. Handicapping horse races is simple enough. Without attracting undue attention, I can accumulate a moderate sum, and then sustain myself with investments in the stock market.

I'm staying in a room in the cheapest apartment I could find near New York that has datanet outlets. I've arranged several false names under which to make my investments, and will change them regularly. I shall spend some time on Wall Street, so that I can identify high-yield, short-term opportunities from the body language of brokers. I won't go more than once a week; there are more significant matters to attend to, gestalts beckoning my attention.

○○○

As my mind develops, so does my control over my body. It is a misconception to think that during evolution humans sacrificed physical skill in exchange for intelligence: wielding one's body is a mental activity. While my strength hasn't increased, my coordination is now well above average; I'm even becoming ambidextrous. Moreover, my powers of concentration make biofeedback techniques very effective. After comparatively little practice, I am able to raise or lower my heart rate and blood pressure.

○○○

I write a program to perform a pattern match for photos of my face and search for occurrences of my name; I then incorporate it into a virus for scanning all public display files on the datanet.

The CIA will have the national datanet news briefs display my picture and identify me as a dangerously insane escaped patient, perhaps a murderer. The virus will replace my photo with video static. I plant a similar virus in the FDA and CIA computers, to search for copies of my picture in any downloads to regional police. These viruses should be immune to anything that their programmers can come up with.

Undoubtably Shea and the other doctors are in consultation with the psychologists of the CIA, guessing where I might have gone. My parents are dead, so the CIA is turning its attention to my friends, asking whether I've contacted them; they'll maintain surveillance on them in the event I do. A regrettable invasion of their privacy, but it isn't a pressing matter.

It's unlikely that the CIA will treat any of their agents with hormone K to locate me. As I myself demonstrate, a superintelligent person is too difficult to control. However, I'll keep track of the other patients, in case the government decides to recruit them.

○○○

The quotidian patterns of society are revealed without my making an effort. I walk down the street, watching people go about their business, and though not a word is spoken, the subtext is conspicuous. A young couple strolls by, the adoration of one bouncing off the tolerance of the other. Apprehension flickers and becomes steady as a businessman, fearful of his supervisor, begins to doubt a decision he made earlier today. A woman wears a mantle of simulated sophistication, but it slips when it brushes past the genuine article.

As always, the roles one plays become recognizable only with greater maturity. To me, these people seem like children on a playground; I'm amused by their earnestness, and embarrassed to remember myself doing those same things. Their activities are appropriate for them, but I couldn't bear to participate now; when I became a man, I put away childish things. I will deal with the world of normal humans only as needed to support myself.

○○○

I acquire years of education each week, assembling ever-larger patterns. I view the tapestry of human knowledge from a broader perspective than anyone ever has before; I can fill gaps in the design where scholars never even noticed a lack, and enrich the texture in places that they felt were complete.

The natural sciences have the clearest patterns. Physics admits of a lovely unification, not just at the level of fundamental forces, but when considering its extent and implications. Classifications like "optics" or "thermodynamics" are just straitjackets, preventing physicists from seeing countless intersections. Even putting aside aesthetics, the practical applications that have been overlooked are legion; years ago engineers could have been artifically generating spherically symmetric gravity fields.

Having realized this, however, I won't build such a device, or any other. It would require many custom-built components, all difficult and time-consuming to procure. Furthermore, actually constructing the device wouldn't give me any particular satisfaction, since I already know it would work, and it wouldn't illuminate any new gestalts.

○○○

I'm writing part of an extended poem, as an experiment; after I've finished one canto, I'll be able to choose an approach for integrating the patterns within all the arts. I'm employing six modern and four ancient languages; they include most of the significant worldviews of human civilization. Each one provides different shades of meaning and poetic effects; some of the juxtapositions are delightful. Each line of the poem contains neologisms, born by extruding words through the declensions of another language. If I were to complete the entire piece, it could be thought of as Finnegans Wake multiplied by Pound's Cantos.

○○○

The CIA interrupts my work; they're baiting a trap for me. After two months of trying, they've accepted that they can't locate me by conventional methods, so they've turned to more drastic measures. The news services report that the girlfriend of a deranged murderer has been charged with aiding and abetting his escape. The name given is Connie Perritt, someone I was seeing last year. If it goes to trial, it's a foregone conclusion that she'll be sentenced to a lengthy prison term; the CIA is hoping that I won't allow that. They expect me to attempt a maneuver that will expose me to capture.

Connie's preliminary hearing is tomorrow. They'll ensure that she's released on bail, through a bondsman if necessary, to give me an opportunity to contact her. Then they'll saturate the area around her apartment with undercover agents to wait for me.

○○○

I begin editing the first image onscreen. These digital photos are so minimal compared to holos, but they serve the purpose. The photos, taken yesterday, show the exterior of Connie's apartment building, the street out front, and nearby intersections. I move the cursor across the screen, drawing small crosshairs in certain locations on the images. A window, with lights out but curtains open, in the building diagonally opposite. A street vendor two blocks from the rear of the building.

I mark six locations altogether. They indicate where CIA agents were waiting last night, when Connie went back to her apartment. Having been cued by the videotapes of me in the hospital, they knew what to look for in all male or ambiguous passerbys: the confident, level gait. Their expectations worked against them; I simply lengthened my stride, bobbed my head up and down a bit, reduced my arm motion. That and some atypical clothes were sufficient for them to ignore me as I walked through the area.

At the bottom of one photo I type the radio frequency used by the agents for communication, and an equation describing the scrambling algorithm employed. Once I've finished, I transmit the images to the Director of the CIA. The implication is clear: I could kill his undercover agents at any time, unless they withdraw.

To have them drop charges against Connie, and for a more permanent deterrent against the CIA's distractions, I shall have to do some more work.

○○○

Pattern recognition again, but this time it's of a mundane variety. Thousands of pages of reports, memos, correspondence; each one is a dot of color in a pointillist painting. I step back from this panorama, watching for lines and edges to emerge and create a pattern. The megabytes that I scanned constituted only a fraction of the complete records for the period I investigated, but they were enough.

What I've found is rather ordinary, far simpler than the plot of a spy novel. The Director of the CIA was aware of a terrorist group's plan to bomb the Washington, D.C., metro system. He let the bombing occur, in order to gain congressional approval for the use of extreme measures against that group. A congressman's son was among the casualties, and the CIA director was given a free hand in handling the terrorists. While his plans aren't actually stated in CIA records, they're implied quite clearly. The relevant memos make only oblique references, and they float in a sea of innocuous documents; if an investigating committee were to read all of the records, the evidence would be drowned out by the noise. However, a distillation of the incriminating memos would certainly convince the press.

I send the list of memos to the director of the CIA, with a note: Don't bother me, and I won't bother you. He'll realize that he has no alternative.

This little episode has reinforced my opinion of the affairs of the world; I could detect clandestine ploys everywhere if I kept informed about current events, but none of them would be interesting. I shall resume my studies.

○○○

Control over my body continues to grow. By now I could walk on hot coals or stick needles in my arm, if I were so inclined. However, my interest in Eastern meditation is limited to its application to physical control; no meditative trance I can attain is nearly as desirable to me as my mental state when I assemble gestalts out of elemental data.

○○○

I'm designing a new language. I've reached the limits of conventional languages, and now they frustrate my attempts to progress further. They lack the power to express concepts that I need, and even in their own domain, they're imprecise and unwieldy. They're hardly fit for speech, let alone thought.

Existing linguistic theory is useless; I'll reevaluate basic logic to determine the suitable atomic components for my language. This language will support a dialect coexpressive with all of mathematics, so that any equation I write will have a linguistic equivalent. However, mathematics will be only a small part of the language, not the whole; unlike Leibniz, I recognize symbolic logic's limits. Other dialects I have planned will be coexpressive with my notations for aesthetics and cognition. This will be a time-consuming project, but the end result will clarify my thoughts enormously. After I've translated all that I know into this language, the patterns I seek should become evident.

○○○

I pause in my work. Before I develop a notation for aesthetics, I must establish a vocabulary for all the emotions I can imagine.

I'm aware of many emotions beyond those of normal humans; I see how limited their affective range is. I don't deny the validity of the love and angst I once felt, but I do see them for what they were: like the infatuations and depressions of childhood, they were just the forerunners of what I experience now. My passions now are more multifaceted; as self-knowledge increases, all emotions become exponentially more complex. I must be able to describe them fully if I'm to even attempt the composing tasks ahead.

Of course, I actually experience far fewer emotions than I could; my development is limited by the intelligence of those around me, and the scant intercourse I permit myself with them. I'm reminded of the Confucian concept of ren: inadequately conveyed by "benevolence," that quality which is quintessentially human, which can only be cultivated through interaction with others, and which a solitary person cannot manifest. It's one of many such qualities. And here am I, with people, people everywhere, yet not a one to interact with. I'm only a fraction of what a complete individual with my intelligence could be.

I don't delude myself with either self-pity or conceit: I can evaluate my own psychological state with the utmost objectivity and consistency. I know precisely which emotional resources I have and which I lack, and how much value I place on each. I have no regrets.

○○○

My new language is taking shape. It is gestalt-oriented, rendering it beautifully suited for thought, but impractical for writing or speech. It wouldn't be transcribed in the form of words arranged linearly, but as a giant ideogram, to be absorbed as a whole. Such an ideogram could convey, more deliberately than a picture, what a thousand words cannot. The intricacy of each ideogram would be commensurate with the amount of information contained; I amuse myself with the notion of a colossal ideogram that describes the entire universe.

The printed page is too clumsy and static for this language; the only serviceable media would be video or holo, displaying a time-evolving graphic image. Speaking this language would be out of the question, given the limited bandwidth of the human larynx.

○○○

My mind seethes with expletives from ancient and modern languages, and they taunt me with their crudeness, reminding me that my ideal language would offer terms with sufficient venom to express my present frustration.

I cannot complete my artificial language; it's too large a project for my present tools. Weeks of concentrated effort have yielded nothing usable. I've attempted to write it via bootstrapping, by employing the rudimentary language that I've already defined to rewrite the language and produce successively fuller versions. Yet each new version only highlights its own inadequacies, forcing me to expand my ultimate goal, condemning it to the status of a Holy Grail at the end of a divergent infinite regress. This is no better than trying to create it ex nihilo.

○○○

What about my fourth ampule? I can't remove it from my thoughts: every frustration I experience at my present plateau reminds me of the possibility for still greater heights.

Of course, there are significant risks. This injection might be the one that causes brain damage or insanity. Temptation by the Devil, perhaps, but temptation nonetheless. I find no reason to resist.

I'd have a margin of safety if I injected myself in a hospital, or, failing that, with someone standing by in my apartment. However, I imagine the injection will either be successful or else cause irreparable damage, so I forego those precautions.

I order equipment from a medical supply company, and assemble an apparatus for administering the spinal injection by myself. It may take days for the full effects to become evident, so I'll confine myself to my bedroom. It's possible that my reaction will be violent; I remove breakables from the room and attach loose straps to the bed. The neighbors will interpret anything they hear as an addict howling.

I inject myself and wait.

○○○

My brain is on fire, my spine burns itself through my back, I feel near apoplexy. I am blind, deaf, insensate.

I hallucinate. Seen with such preternatural clarity and contrast that they must be illusory, unspeakable horrors loom all around me, scenes not of physical violence but of psychic mutilation.

Mental agony and orgasm. Terror and hysterical laughter.

For a brief moment, perception returns. I'm on the floor, hands clenched in my hair, some uprooted tufts lying around me. My clothes are soaked in sweat. I've bitten my tongue, and my throat is raw: from screaming, I surmise. Convulsions have left my body badly bruised, and a concussion is likely, given the contusions on the back of my head, but I feel nothing. Has it been hours or moments?

Then my vision clouds and the roar returns.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Critical mass.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Revelation.

I understand the mechanism of my own thinking. I know precisely how I know, and my understanding is recursive. I understand the infinite regress of this self-knowing, not by proceeding step by step endlessly, but by apprehending the limit. The nature of recursive cognition is clear to me. A new meaning of the term "self-aware."

Fiat logos. I know my mind in terms of a language more expressive than any I'd previously imagined. Like God creating order from chaos with an utterance, I make myself anew with this language. It is meta-self-descriptive and self-editing; not only can it describe thought, it can describe and modify its own operations as well, at all levels. What G?del would have given to see this language, where modifying a statement causes the entire grammar to be adjusted.

With this language, I can see how my mind is operating. I don't pretend to see my own neurons firing; such claims belong to John Lilly and his LSD experiments of the sixties. What I can do is perceive the gestalts; I see the mental structures forming, interacting. I see myself thinking, and I see the equations that describe my thinking, and I see myself comprehending the equations, and I see how the equations describe their being comprehended.

I know how they make up my thoughts.

These thoughts.

○○○

Initially I am overwhelmed by all this input, paralyzed with awareness of my self. It is hours before I can control the flood of self-describing information. I haven't filtered it away, nor pushed it into the background. It's become integrated into my mental processes, for use during my normal activities. It will be longer before I can take advantage of it, effortlessly and effectively, the way a dancer uses her kinesthesic knowledge.

All that I once knew theoretically about my mind, I now see detailed explicitly. The undercurrents of sex, aggression, and self-preservation, translated by the conditioning of my childhood, clash with and are sometimes disguised as rational thought. I recognize all the causes of my every mood, the motives behind my every decision.

What can I do with this knowledge? Much of what is conventionally described as "personality" is at my discretion; the higher-level aspects of my psyche define who I am now. I can send my mind into a variety of mental or emotional states, yet remain ever aware of the state and able to restore my original condition. Now that I understand the mechanisms that were operating when I attended to two tasks at once, I can divide my consciousness, simultaneously devoting almost full concentration and gestalt recognition abilities to two or more separate problems, meta-aware of all of them. What can't I do?

○○○

I know my body afresh, as if it were an amputee's stump suddenly replaced by a watchmaker's hand. Controlling my voluntary muscles is trivial; I have inhuman coordination. Skills that normally require thousands of repetitions to develop, I can learn in two or three. I find a video with a shot of a pianist's hands playing, and before long I can duplicate his finger movements without a keyboard in front of me. Selective contraction and relaxation of muscles improve my strength and flexibility. Muscular response time is thirty-five milliseconds, for conscious or reflex action. Learning acrobatics and martial arts would require little training.

I have somatic awareness of kidney function, nutrient absorption, glandular secretions. I am even conscious of the role that neurotransmitters play in my thoughts. This state of consciousness involves mental activity more intense than in any epinephrine-boosted stress situation; part of my mind is maintaining a condition that would kill a normal mind and body within minutes. As I adjust the programming of my mind, I experience the ebb and flow of all the substances that trigger my emotional reactions, boost my attention, or subtly shape my attitudes.

○○○

And then I look outward.

Blinding, joyous, fearful symmetry surrounds me. So much is incorporated within patterns now that the entire universe verges on resolving itself into a picture. I'm closing in on the ultimate gestalt: the context in which all knowledge fits and is illuminated, a mandala, the music of the spheres, kosmos.

I seek enlightenment, not spiritual but rational. I must go still further to reach it, but this time the goal will not be perpetually retreating from my fingertips. With my mind's language, the distance between myself and enlightenment is precisely calculable. I've sighted my final destination

○○○

Now I must plan my next actions. First, there are the simple enhancements to self-preservation, starting with martial arts training. I will watch some tournaments to study possible attacks, though I will take only defensive action; I can move rapidly enough to avoid contact with even the fastest striking techniques. This will let me protect myself and disarm any street criminals, should I be assaulted. Meanwhile, I must eat copious amounts of food to meet my brain's nourishment requirements, even given increased efficiency in my metabolism. I shall also shave my scalp, to allow greater radiative cooling for the heightened blood flow to my head.

Then there is the primary goal: decoding those patterns. For further improvements to my mind, artificial enhancements are the only possibility. A direct computer-mind link, permitting mind downloading, is what I need, but I must create a new technology to implement it. Anything based on digital computation will be inadequate; what I have in mind requires nano-scale structures based on neural networks.

Once I have the basic ideas laid out, I set my mind to multiprocessing: one section of my mind deriving a branch of mathematics that reflects the networks' behavior; another developing a process for replicating the formation of neural pathways on a molecular scale in a self-repairing bioceramic medium; a third devising tactics for guiding private industrial R & D to produce what I'll need. I cannot waste time: I will introduce explosive theoretical and technical breakthroughs so that my new industry will hit the ground running.

○○○

I've gone into the outside world to reobserve society. The sign language of emotion I once knew has been replaced by a matrix of interrelated equations. Lines of force twist and elongate between people, objects, institutions, ideas. The individuals are tragically like marionettes, independently animate but bound by a web they choose not to see; they could resist if they wished, but so few of them do.

At the moment I'm sitting at a bar. Three stools to my right sits a man, familiar with this type of establishment, who looks around and notices a couple in a dark corner booth. He smiles, motions for the bartender to come over, and leans forward to speak confidentially about the couple. I don't need to listen to know what he's saying.

He's lying to the bartender, easily, extemporaneously. A compulsive liar, not out of a desire for a life more exciting than his own, but to revel in his facility for deceiving others. He knows the bartender is detached, merely affecting interest- which is true- but he knows the bartender is still fooled- which is also true.

My sensitivity to the body language of others has increased to the point that I can make these observations without sight or sound: I can smell the pheromones exuded by his skin. To an extent, my muscles can even detect the tension within his, perhaps by their electric field. These channels can't convey precise information, but the impressions I receive provide ample basis for extrapolation; they add texture to the web.

Normal humans may detect these emanations subliminally. I'll work on becoming more attuned to them; then perhaps I can try consciously controlling my own expressions.

○○○

I've developed abilities reminiscent of the mind-control schemes offered by tabloid advertisements. My control over my somatic emanations now lets me provoke precise reactions in others. With pheromones and muscle tension, I can cause another person to respond with anger, fear, sympathy, or sexual arousal. Certainly enough to win friends and influence people.

I can even induce a self-sustaining reaction in others. By associating a particular response with a sense of satisfaction, I can create a positive reinforcement loop, like biofeedback; the person's body will strengthen the reaction on its own. I'll use this on corporate presidents to create support for the industries I'll need.

I can no longer dream in any normal sense. I lack anything that would qualify as a subconscious, and I control all the maintenance functions performed by my brain, so normal REM sleep tasks are obsolete. There are moments when my grasp on my mind slips, but they cannot be called dreams. Meta-hallucinations, perhaps. Sheer torture. These are periods during which I'm detached: I understand how my mind generates the strange visions, but I'm paralyzed and unable to respond. I can scarcely identify what I see; images of bizarre transfinite self-references and modifications that even I find nonsensical.

My mind is taxing the resources of my brain. A biological structure of this size and complexity can just barely sustain a self-knowing psyche. But the self-knowing psyche is also self-regulating, to an extent. I give my mind full use of what's available, and restrain it from expanding beyond that. But it's difficult: I'm cramped inside a bamboo cage that doesn't let me sit down or stand up. If I try to relax, or try to extend myself fully, then agony, madness.

○○○

I'm hallucinating. I see my mind imagining possible configurations it could assume, and then collapsing. I witness my own delusions, my visions of what form my mind might take when I grasp the ultimate gestalts.

Will I achieve ultimate self-awareness? Could I discover the components that make up my own mental gestalts? Would I penetrate racial memory? Would I find innate knowledge of morality? I might determine whether mind could be spontaneously generated from matter, and understand what relates consciousness with the rest of the universe. I might see how to merge subject and object: the zero experience.

Or perhaps I'd find that the mind gestalt cannot be generated, and some sort of intervention is required. Perhaps I would see the soul, the ingredient of consciousness that surpasses physicality. Proof of God? I would behold the meaning, the true character of existence.

I would be enlightened. It must be euphoric to experience….

My mind collapses back into a state of sanity. I must keep a tighter rein over my self. When I'm in control at the meta-programming level, my mind is perfectly self-repairing; I could restore myself from states that resemble delusion or amnesia. But if I drift too far on the meta-programming level, my mind might become an unstable structure, and then I would slide into a state beyond mere insanity. I will program my mind to forbid itself from moving beyond its own reprogramming range.

These hallucinations strengthen my resolve to create an artificial brain. Only with such a structure will I be able to actually perceive those gestalts, instead of merely dreaming about them. To achieve enlightenment, I'll need to exceed another critical mass in terms of neuronal analogs.

○○○

I open my eyes: it's two hours, twenty-eight minutes, and ten seconds since I closed my eyes to rest, though not to sleep. I rise from bed.

I request a listing of my stocks' performance on my terminal. I look down the flatscreen, and freeze.

The screen shouts at me. It tells me that there is another person with an enhanced mind.

Five of my investments have demonstrated losses; they're not precipitous, but large enough that I'd have detected them in the body language of the stockbrokers. Reading down the alphabetical list, the initial letters of the corporations whose stock values have dropped are: C, E, G, O, and R. Which, when rearranged, spell GRECO.

Someone is sending me a message.

There's someone else out there like me. There must have been another comatose patient who received a third injection of hormone K. He erased his file from the FDA database before I accessed it, and supplied false input to his doctors' accounts so that they wouldn't notice. He too stole another ampule of the hormone, contributing to the FDA's closing of their files, and with his whereabouts unknown to the authorities, he's reached my level.

He must have recognized me through the investment patterns of my false identities; he'd have to have been supercritical to do that. As an enhanced individual, he could have effected sudden and precise changes to trigger my losses, and attract my attention.

I check various data services for stock quotes; the entries on my listing are correct, so my counterpart didn't simply edit the values for my account alone. He altered the selling patterns of the stock of five unrelated corporations, for the sake of a word. It makes for quite a demonstration; I consider it no mean feat.

Presumably his treatment began before mine did, meaning that he is farther along than I, but by how much? I begin extrapolating his likely progress, and will incorporate new information as I acquire it.

The critical question: Is he friend or foe? Was this merely a good-natured demonstration of his power, or an indication of his intent to ruin me? The amounts I lost were moderate; does this indicate concern for me, or for the corporations which he had to manipulate? Given all the harmless ways he could have attracted my attention, I must assume that he is to some degree hostile.

In which case, I am at risk, vulnerable to anything from another prank to a fatal attack. As a precaution, I will leave immediately. Obviously, if he were actively hostile, I'd be dead already. His sending a message means that he wishes us to play games. I'll have to place myself on equal terms with him: hide my location, determine his identity, and then attempt to communicate.

I pick a city at random: Memphis. I switch off the flatscreen, get dressed, pack a travel bag, and collect all the emergency cash in the apartment.

In a Memphis hotel, I begin working at the suite's datanet terminal. The first thing I do is reroute my activities through several dummy terminals; to an ordinary police trace, my queries will appear to originate from different terminals all over the state of Utah. A military intelligence facility might be able to track them to a terminal in Houston; continuing the trace to Memphis would try even me. An alarm program at the Houston terminal will alert me if someone has successfully traced me there.

○○○

How many clues to his identity has my twin erased? Lacking all FDA files, I'll begin with the files of courier services in various cities, looking for deliveries from the FDA to hospitals during the time of the hormone K study. Then a check of the hospital's brain-damage cases at that time, and I'll have a place to start.

Even if any of this information remains, it's of minor value. What will be crucial is an examination of the investment patterns, to find the traces of an enhanced mind. This will take time.

○○○

His name is Reynolds. He's originally from Phoenix, and his early progress closely parallels mine. He received his third injection six months and four days ago, giving him a head start over me of fifteen days. He didn't erase any of the obvious records. He waits for me to find him. I estimate that he's been supercritical for twelve days, twice as long as I've been.

I now see his hand in the investment patterns, but the task of locating Reynolds is Herculean. I examine usage logs across the datanet to identify the accounts he's penetrated. I have twelve lines open on my terminal. I'm using two single-hand keyboards and a throat mike, so I can work on three queries simultaneously. Most of my body is immobile; to prevent fatigue, I'm ensuring proper blood flow, regular muscle contraction and relaxation, and removal of lactic acid. While I absorb all the data I see, studying the melody within the notes, looking for the epicenter of a tremor in the web.

Hours pass. We both scan gigabytes of data, circling each other.

○○○

His location is Philadelphia. He waits for me to arrive.

I'm riding in a mud-splattered taxi to Reynolds's apartment.

Judging by the databases and agencies Reynolds has queried over the past months, his private research involves bioengineered microorganisms for toxic waste disposal, inertial containment for practical fusion, and subliminal dissemination of information through societies of various structures. He plans to save the world, to protect it from itself. And his opinion of me is therefore unfavorable.

I've shown no interest in the affairs of the external world, and made no investigations for aiding the normals. Neither of us will be able to convert the other. I view the world as incidental to my aims, while he cannot allow someone with enhanced intelligence to work purely in self-interest. My plans for mind-computer links will have enormous repercussions for the world, provoking government or popular reactions that would interfere with his plans. As I am proverbially not part of the solution, I am part of the problem.

If we were members of a society of enhanced minds, the nature of human interaction would be of a different order. But in this society, we have unavoidably become juggernauts, by whose measure the actions of normals are inconsequential. Even if we were twelve thousand miles apart we couldn't ignore each other. A resolution is necessary.

Both of us have dispensed with several rounds of games. There are a thousand ways we could have attempted to kill the other, from painting neurotoxin-laced DMSO on a doorknob to ordering a surgical strike from a military killsat. We both could have swept the physical area and datanet for each of the myriad possibilities beforehand, and set more traps for each other's sweeps. But neither of us has done any of that, has felt a need to check for those things. A simple infinite regression of second-guessing and double-thinking has dismissed those. What will be decisive are those preparations that we could not predict.

The taxi stops; I pay the driver and walk up to the apartment building. The electric lock on the door opens for me. I take off my coat and climb four flights.

The door to Reynolds' apartment is also open. I walk down the entryway to the living room, hearing a hyperaccelerated polyphony from a digital synthesizer. Evidently it's his own work; the sounds are modulated in ways undetectable to normal hearing, and even I can't discern any pattern to them. An experiment in high-information-density music, perhaps.

There is a large swivel chair in the room, its back turned toward me. Reynolds is not visible, and he is restricting his somatic emanations to comatose levels. I imply my presence and my recognition of his identity.

<Reynolds.>

Acknowledgment. <Greco.>

The chair turns around smoothly, slowly. He smiles at me and shuts off the synthesizer at his side. Gratification. <A pleasure to meet you.>

To communicate, we are exchanging fragments from the somatic language of the normals: a shorthand version of the vernacular. Each phrase takes a tenth of a second. I give a suggestion of regret. <A shame it must be as enemies.>

Wistful agreement, then supposition. <Indeed. Imagine how we could change the world, acting in concert. Two enhanced minds; such an opportunity missed.>

True, acting cooperatively would produce achievements far outstripping any we might attain individually. Any interaction would be incredibly fruitful: how satisfying it would be simply to have a discussion with someone who can match my speed, who can offer an idea that is new to me, who can hear the same melodies I do. He desires the same. It pains us both to think that one of us will not leave this room alive.

An offer. <Do you wish to share what we've learned in the past six months?>

He knows what my answer is.

We will speak aloud, since somatic language has no technical vocabulary. Reynolds says, quickly and quietly, five words. They are more pregnant with meaning than any stanza of poetry: each word provides a logical toehold I can mount after extracting everything implicit in the preceding ones. Together they encapsulate a revolutionary insight into sociology; using somatic language he indicates that it was among the first he ever achieved. I came to a similar realization, but formulated it differently. I immediately counter with seven words, four that summarize the distinctions between my insight and his, and three that describe a nonobvious result of the distinctions. He responds.

We continue. We are like two bards, each cueing the other to extemporize another stanza, jointly composing an epic poem of knowledge. Within moments we accelerate, talking over each other's words but hearing every nuance, until we are absorbing, concluding, and responding, continuously, simultaneously, synergistically.

○○○

Many minutes pass. I learn much from him, and he from me. It's exhilarating, to be suddenly awash in ideas whose implications would take me days to consider fully. But we're also gathering strategic information: I infer the extent of his unspoken knowledge, compare it with my own, and simulate his corresponding inferences. For there is always the awareness that this must come to an end; the formulation of our exchanges renders ideological differences luminously clear.

Reynolds hasn't witnessed the beauty that I have; he's stood before lovely insights, oblivious to them. The sole gestalt that inspires him is the one I ignored: that of the planetary society, of the biosphere. I am a lover of beauty, he of humanity. Each feels that the other has ignored great opportunities.

He has an unmentioned plan for establishing a global network of influence, to create world prosperity. To execute it, he'll employ a number of people, some of whom he'll give simple heightened intelligence, some meta-self-awareness; a few of them will pose threats to him. <Why assume such a risk for the sake of the normals?>

<Your indifference toward the normals would be justified if you were enlightened; your realm wouldn't intersect theirs. But as long as you and I can still comprehend their affairs, we can't ignore them.>

I can measure the distance between our respective moral stances precisely, see the stress between their incompatible radiating lines. What motivates him is not simply compassion or altruism, but something that entails both those things. On the other hand, I concentrate only on understanding the sublime. <What about the beauty visible from enlightenment? Doesn't it attract you?>

<You know what kind of structure would be required to hold an enlightened consciousness. I have no reason to wait the time it would take to establish the necessary industries.>

He considers intelligence to be a means, while I view it as an end in itself. Greater intelligence would be of little use to him. At his present level, he can find the best possible solution to any problem within the realm of human experience, and many beyond. All he'd require is sufficient time to implement his solution.

There's no point in further discussion. By mutual assent, we begin.

It's meaningless to speak of an element of surprise when we time our attacks; our awareness can't become more acute with forewarning. It's not affording a courtesy to each other when we agree to begin our battle, it's actualizing the inevitable.

In the models of each other that we've constructed from our inferences, there are gaps, lacunae: the internal psychological developments and discoveries that each has made. No echoes have radiated from those spaces, no strands have tied them to the world web, until now.

I begin.

I concentrate on initiating two reinforcing loops in him. One is very simple: it increases blood pressure rapidly and enormously. If it were to continue unchecked for over a second, this loop would raise his blood pressure to stroke levels- perhaps 400 over 300- and burst capillaries in his brain.

Reynolds detects it immediately. Though it's clear from our conversation that he never investigated the inducement of biofeedback loops in others, he recognizes what is happening. Once he does, he reduces his heart rate and dilates the blood vessels throughout his body.

But it is the other, subtler reinforcing loop that is my real attack. This is a weapon I've been developing ever since my search for Reynolds began. This loop causes his neurons to dramatically overproduce neurotransmitter antagonists, preventing impulses from crossing his synapses, shutting down brain activity. I've been radiating this loop at a much higher intensity than the other.

As Reynolds is parrying the ostensible attack, he experiences a slight weakening of his concentration, masked by the effects of the heightened blood pressure. A second later, his body begins to amplify the effect on its own. Reynolds is shocked to feel his thoughts blurring. He searches for the precise mechanism: he'll identify it soon, but he won't be able to scrutinize it for long.

Once his brain function has been reduced to the level of a normal, I should be able to manipulate his mind easily. Hypnotic techniques can make him regurgitate most of the information his enhanced mind possesses.

I inspect his somatic expressions, watching them betray his diminishing intelligence. The regression is unmistakable.

And then it stops.

Reynolds is in equilibrium. I'm stunned. He was able to break the reinforcing loop. He has stopped the most sophisticated offensive I could mount.

Next, he reverses the damage already done. Even starting with reduced capabilities, he can correct the balance of neurotransmitters. Within seconds, Reynolds is fully restored.

I too was transparent to him. During our conversation he deduced that I had investigated reinforcing loops, and as we communicated, he derived a general preventative without my detecting it. Then he observed the specifics of my particular attack while it was working, and learned how to reverse its effects. I am astonished at his discernment, his speed, his stealth.

He acknowledges my skill. <A very interesting technique; appropriate, given your self-absorption. I saw no indication when- > Abruptly he projects a different somatic signature, one that I recognize. He used it when he walked behind me at a grocery store, three days ago. The aisle was crowded; around me were an old woman, wheezing behind her air filter, and a thin teenager on an acid trip, wearing a liquid crystal shirt of shifting psychedelic patterns. Reynolds slipped behind me, his mind on the porn mag stands. His surveillance didn't inform him of my reinforcing loops, but it did permit a more detailed picture of my mind.

A possibility I anticipated. I reformulate my psyche, incorporating random elements for unpredictability. The equations of my mind now bear little resemblance to those of my normal consciousness, undermining any assumptions Reynolds may have made, and rendering ineffectual any psyche-specific weapons of his.

I project the equivalent of a smile.

Reynolds smiles back. <Have you ever considered- > Suddenly he projects only silence. He is about to speak, but I can't predict what. Then it comes, as a whisper: "self-destruct commands, Greco?"

As he says it, a lacuna in my reconstruction of him fills and overflows, the implications coloring all that I know about him. He means the Word: the sentence that, when uttered, would destroy the mind of the listener. Reynolds is claiming that the myth is true, that every mind has such a trigger built in; that for every person, there is a sentence that can reduce him to an idiot, a lunatic, a catatonic. And he is claiming he knows the one for me.

I immediately tune out all sensory input, directing it to an insulated buffer of short-term memory. Then I conceive a simulator of my own consciousness to receive the input and absorb it at reduced speed. As a metaprogrammer I will monitor the equations of the simulation indirectly. Only after the sensory information has been confirmed as safe will I actually receive it. If the simulator is destroyed, my consciousness should be isolated, and I'll retrace the individual steps leading to the crash and derive guidelines for reprogramming my psyche.

I get everything in place by the time Reynolds has finished saying my name; his next sentence could be the destruct command. I'm now receiving my sensory input with a one-hundredand-twenty-millisecond time lag. I reexamine my analysis of the human mind, explicitly searching for evidence to verify his assertion.

Meanwhile I give my response lightly, casually. <Hit me with your best shot.>

<Don't worry; it's not on the tip of my tongue.>

My search produces something. I curse myself: there's a very subtle back door to a psyche's design, which I lacked the necessary mind-set to notice. Whereas my weapon was one born of introspection, his is something only a manipulator could originate.

Reynolds knows that I've built my defenses; is his trigger command designed to circumvent them? I continue deriving the nature of the trigger command's actions.

<What are you waiting for?> He's confident that additional time won't allow me to construct a defense.

<Try to guess.> So smug. Can he actually toy with me so easily?

I arrive at a theoretical description of a trigger's effects on normals. A single command can reduce any subcritical mind to a tabula rasa, but an undetermined degree of customization is needed for enhanced minds. The erasure has distinctive symptoms, which my simulator can alert me to, but those are symptoms of a process calculable by me. By definition the destruct command is that specific equation beyond my ability to imagine; would my metaprogrammer collapse while diagnosing the simulator's condition?

<Have you used the destruct command on normals?> I begin calculating what's needed to generate a customized destruct command.

<Once, as an experiment on a drug dealer. Afterward I concealed the evidence with a blow to the temple.>

It becomes obvious that the generation is a colossal task. Generating a trigger requires intimate knowledge of my mind; I extrapolate what he could have learned about me. It appears to be insufficient, given my reprogramming, but he may have techniques of observation unknown to me. I'm acutely aware of the advantage he's gained by studying the outside world.

<You will have to do this many times.>

His regret is evident. His plan can't be implemented without more deaths: those of normal humans, by strategic necessity, and those of a few enhanced assistants of his, whose temptation by greater heights would interfere. After using the command, Reynolds may reprogram them- or me- as savants, having focused intentions and restricted self-metaprogrammers. Such deaths are a necessary cost of his plan.

<I make no claims of being a saint.>

Merely a savior.

Normals might think him a tyrant, because they mistake him for one of them, and they've never trusted their own judgment. They can't fathom that Reynolds is equal to the task. His judgment is optimal in questions of their affairs, and their notions of greed and ambition do not apply to an enhanced mind.

In a histrionic gesture, Reynolds raises his hand, forefinger extended, as if to make a point. I don't have sufficient information to generate his destruct command, so for the moment I can only attend to defense. If I can survive his attack, I may have time to launch another one of my own.

With his finger upraised, he says, "Understand."

At first I don't. And then, horrifyingly, I do.

He didn't design the command to be spoken; it's not a sensory trigger at all. It's a memory trigger: the command is made out of a string of perceptions, individually harmless, that he planted in my brain like time bombs. The mental structures that were formed as a result of those memories are now resolving into a pattern, forming a gestalt that defines my dissolution. I'm intuiting the Word myself.

Immediately my mind is working faster than ever before. Against my will, a lethal realization is suggesting itself to me. I'm trying to halt the associations, but these memories can't be suppressed. The process occurs inexorably, as a consequence of my awareness, and like a man falling from a height, I'm forced to watch.

Milliseconds pass. My death passes before my eyes.

An image of the grocery store when Reynolds passed by. The psychedelic shirt the boy was wearing; Reynolds had programmed the display to implant a suggestion within me, ensuring that my "randomly" reprogrammed psyche remained receptive. Even then.

No time. All I can do is metaprogram myself over randomly, at a furious pace. An act of desperation, possibly crippling.

The strange modulated sounds that I heard when I first entered Reynolds' apartment. I absorbed the fatal insights before I had any defenses raised.

I tear apart my psyche, but still the conclusion grows clearer, the resolution sharper.

Myself, constructing the simulator. Designing those defense structures gave me the perspective needed to recognize the gestalt.

I concede his greater ingenuity. It bodes well for his endeavor. Pragmatism avails a savior far more than aestheticism.

I wonder what he intends to do after he's saved the world.

I comprehend the Word, and the means by which it operates, and so I dissolve.

Story Notes

This is the oldest story in this volume and might never have been published if it weren't for Spider Robinson, one of my instructors at Clarion. This story had collected a bunch of rejection slips when I first sent it out, but Spider encouraged me to resubmit it after I had Clarion on my resume. I made some revisions and sent it out, and it got a much better response the second time around.

The initial germ for this story was an offhand remark made by a roommate of mine in college; he was reading Sartre's Nausea at the time, whose protagonist finds only meaninglessness in everything he sees. But what would it be like, my roommate wondered, to find meaning and order in everything you saw? To me that suggested a kind of heightened perception, which in turn suggested superintelligence. I started thinking about the point at which quantitative improvements— better memory, faster pattern recognition— turn into a qualitative difference, a fundamentally different mode of cognition.

Something else I wondered about was the possibility of truly understanding how our minds work. Some people are certain that it's impossible for us to understand our minds, offering analogies like "you can't see your face with your own eyes." I never found that persuasive. It may turn out that we can't, in fact, understand our minds (for certain values of "understand" and "mind"), but it'll take an argument much more persuasive than that to convince me.

你一生的故事

你的父亲很快便会向我提出那个问题，这将是我们夫妻生活中最重要的一刻，我希望专注地倾听，记下每一下细节。夜深人静，你父亲和我在外消磨了一个晚上，用餐，看演出，我们刚刚回来。我们俩来到院子里，天上是一轮圆月。我对你爸爸说我想跳舞，他答应了。我们跳的是一支慢舞，一对三十来岁的夫妻在溶溶月光下舞动身躯，就像两个孩子。夜气中有一丝凉意，可是我一点儿也不觉得冷。然后，你父亲说：“你想要个孩子吗？”

那个时候，你父亲和我结婚已经两年了，住在埃利斯路。搬出那里时你还很小，不记得那所房子。但我们会给你看它的照片，告诉你发生在那所房子里的故事。以后的日子里，我会迫不及待，盼望着告诉你那个晚上的事，就是我怀上你的那个晚上。但时间还没到，最适当的时机应该是你准备好自己要个孩子的时候。但是，我们永远也不会有那个机会了。

过早告诉你是没用的。在你的一生里，你难得会耐住性子，安安静静坐着，听我说这样一个浪漫故事。你会说这种事多愁善感，傻气。我记得你说为什么会有你时的情景，那时你十二岁。

“你们生我，完全是为了找个不花钱的佣人。”说这话时你会很生气，一边说，一边从壁橱里往外拽着吸尘器。

“一点没错。”我会说，“十三年前我就知道大约这时候地毯需要打扫了，生个孩子做这种事情看来最省钱，最方便。至于现在，麻烦你赶紧做。”

你会回答我说，“你要不是我妈妈，这种事呀，犯法。”你气呼呼地拉出电源线，插进墙壁插座。

这一幕将发生在贝尔蒙街的房子里。在我的有生之年，我将亲眼目睹陌生人住进我们这两个家。以后，等你来到人间两三年后，你爸爸和我将卖掉第一所房子。等到你离开人世，我将卖掉第二所。到那个时候，我会和内尔森搬进农场的房子里，而你的爸爸将和那个我不记得名字的女人一起生活。

我很清楚这个故事的结局，对这个故事我想得很多很多。我也曾反复这个故事是如何开始的，那是几年前事，太空中飞来外星飞船，外星物体出现在草地上。对这些事，政府近乎绝口不提，而小报则穷极想像，刊登了无数千奇百怪的消息。

就在那个时候，我接到一个电话，有人要来见我。

我看见他们等在我办公室外的走廊里。这两个人真是奇特的组合：一个身穿军装，发式是军队里的板刷头，手提铝制公文箱，不满地打量四周环境。另一个一看就知道是个学院型：一圈络腮胡子，上唇也留着髭须，穿一身灯芯绒，正浏览着重重叠叠钉在附近布告板上的招贴告示。

“韦伯上校吗？”我同那位军人握了握手，“我是露易斯·班克斯。”

“班克斯博士，谢谢你百忙之中抽出时间和我们谈话。”他说。

“才不是呢，我很高兴能有个借口躲过系里的那些会。”

韦伯上校介绍他的同伴，“这位是盖雷·唐纳利博士，我电话里提到的物理学家。”

“叫我盖雷好了。”我俩握手时他说，“非常希望听听你的意见。”

我们进了办公室，我把几摞书从第二把客人坐的椅子上搬走，大家坐了下来。“你说想让我听一段录音，我猜跟外星人有关？”

“我能提供给你的只有录音。”韦伯上校道。

“好吧，咱们先听听看。”

韦伯上校从公文箱里取出一台录音机，按下播放键，放出的声音与一只湿漉漉的狗抖掉毛皮上的水时发出的声音有些相似。

“对这个，你有什么看法？”他问。

我没说湿漉漉的狗。“我想了解与这段录音相关的前后事件。”

“这方面的情况我无权透露。”

“这些情况有助于我理解这些声音的含意。外星人说话时你能看见它们吗？当时它们在做什么？”

“我能向你提供的只有这段录音。”

“就算告诉我你们看见了外星人，这也不算泄露了什么机密呀。外间消息推测你们看见了。”

韦伯上校的立场毫不动摇。“这段话语言学方面的特点，你有什么看法？”他问道。

“这个嘛，它们的发音器官与人类有本质区别，这一点很清楚。我猜这些外星人的形状与人类很不一样。”

上校正准备说些模棱两可的话，盖雷·唐纳利开口了。“根据这段录音，你能做出什么推测？”

“推测不出什么。听上去这些话不是通过喉腔发出来的。不过知道了这一点后，我还是推想不出它们的长相。”

“你有——除此之外，你还有什么看法？任何看法都行。”韦伯上校道。

看得出来，他很习惯咨询一个平民的意见。“只有一点。和它们之间建立沟通将极其困难，因为我们与它们在身体构造方面完全不同。几乎可以肯定，它们的某些声音人类发音器官发不出来，可能还会有些音，人类的耳朵分辨不出。”

“你是指音频，次声波，或者超声波？”盖雷·唐纳利问道。

“不完全是这样。我的意思是：人类的听觉器官算不上一套准确客观的听音系统，它已经经过调整，最适合分辨人类喉腔发音器官发出的声音。对于异种发音系统，我们分辨起来就很困难了。”我耸耸肩，“也许经过一段时间的练习，我们可以辨识外星语言中各音位的区别。但还是存在一种可能，为了表达不同的意义，它们的语言中各个音之间存在区别，可我们人类的听觉器官就是分辨不出这些区别来。如果出现这种情况，我们只好使用声谱仪来了解外星人说的话是什么意思。”

韦伯上校问道：“如果我给你一个小时的录音，你需要多长时间才能判断是否需要声谱仪？”

“不管录音有多长，我都无法作出判断。只有直接与外星人对话才行。”

上校连连摇头，“办不到。”

我尽力心平气和地解释给他听，“这当然由你说了算。但要学习一种未知语言，只有与以这种语言为母语的人交流，这是惟一的途径。我说的交流是指提问、谈话之类。除此之外别无他法。所以说，如果你们想了解外星语言，最终不得不派出受过语言训练、能够与操异种语言者作实地交流的人，让他与外星人对话，不管这个人是不是我。仅凭分析录音是不够的。”

上校皱起眉头，“照你说来，外星人也不可能靠收听我们的广播学会人类语言。”

“我想它们做不到。要学会人类语言，它们需要教学材料，而且是专门设计、向非人类成员传授人类语言的教学材料。有了这些材料，它们便能够从电视里学会很多东西。否则不行，缺乏一个出发点，一个立足点。”

上校大感兴趣。外星人知道得越少，就越好。看来这是他的观点为。盖雷·唐纳利也看出了上校的表情，翻了个白眼。我勉强忍住没笑出来。

韦伯上校接着问：“我们假设你跟外星人对话，借此学习它们的语言。你能不能做到既学了它们的语言，又不让它们通过你学习英语？”

“这取决于它们在多大程序上愿意与我们合作。我学习它们语言时，几乎可以肯定，它们可以同时学习英语的一点只言片语。如果它们只单纯教我说它们的话，它们能学会的英语就不可能很多。可另一方面，如果它们的目的只在于学习英语，而不是教我们说它们的语言，那么，事情就非常难办了。”

上校点头：“这件事，我还会跟你联系。”

约我见面的这个电话或许是我一生中接到的第二个意义重大的电话。头一位的，当然，将来自登山搜救队。到那个时候，你爸爸和我之间的关系将会非常冷淡，一年最多通一次话。可当我接到那个电话后，我做的头一件事，将是打电话给你的父亲。

他和我一起驾车去辨认尸体，一路长旅，默默无语。我记得太平间的样子，铺着磁砖，到处是不锈钢，冷冻设备嗡嗡低鸣，弥漫着防腐剂的味道。会有一个勤杂工掀开罩单，露出你的脸。你的脸会有些不对劲，但我将知道，那就是你。

“是的，是她，”我会说，“是我的女儿。”

那个时候，你是二十五岁。

宪兵查对我的证章，在他的书写板上做了个记号，然后打开大门。我驾着越野车驶进营地。这是一个农场，晒干的草地上扎着军队的帐篷，形成一个小小村落。营地中央就是那些外星装置中的一个，别名“视镜”。

我参加的情况通报会上说，这种装置美国领土上有九个，全世界一共一百一十二个。它们是某种双向交流设施，把我们与外星人联系起来。这些外星人估计就是太空中外星飞船上那一批。没有谁知道它们为什么不肯和我们面对面谈话，可能是怕招上虱子吧。每一个视镜都各自分配了一个研究小组，包括一位物理学家，一位语言学家。眼前这个就是我和盖雷·唐纳利的研究对象。

盖雷在停车区等着我。我俩绕过迷宫式的水泥障碍物，来到里面放着那个“视镜”的大帐篷前。帐篷外放着一辆手推车，上面装满从大学语音实验室里借来的器材。全是好东西，这些器材我提前送来，供军队检查。

帐篷外还有三台摄像机，支在三脚支架上，镜头对准帐篷的窗口，拍摄里头那个大间里发生的一切。盖雷和我的一举一动都会受到无数人的审查，其中包括军队的情报机关。除此之外，我们必须递交每日报告。在我的报告中，还必须包括一份评估：我认为外星人掌握了多少英语。

盖雷撩起帐篷站，示意我进去。“进来看看吧，”他用马戏团招徕顾客的口气说，“神奇的生物啊，上帝创造的绿色地球上从来没有出现过，包你大开眼界。”

“只花微不足道的一毛钱。”我嘟囔了一句，走进帐篷。这个时候，视镜毫无变化，和寻常一块半圆形玻璃相似。它有十英尺高，直径二十英尺。视镜前褐色的干草地上喷了一道弧形白线，标出视镜的激活区域。眼下这个区域里只有一张桌子，两把折叠椅，一条电源线连着外面的发电机。帐篷四周支柱上悬着日光灯，发出低低的嗡鸣，和飞舞在热浪中的飞虫扑翅声混在一起。

盖雷和我对视一眼，动手把载着仪器的手推车推到桌旁。我们刚跨过那道白线，视镜便开始渐渐转为透亮，好像有人在那层暗色玻璃后面慢慢燃起一盏灯。视镜给人造成一种神奇的纵深感，我感到自己可以一步步走进它里面。视镜彻底点亮后，看上去就像一个半圆形的房间，几乎可以乱真。这是透视的效果。房间里有几个很大的东西，可能是家具，但没有外星人。弧形后墙上有一扇门。

我们忙着把各种仪器连接起来：麦克风、声谱仪、便携电脑、扬声器。我手上忙着，不时瞄一眼视镜，知道外星人随时可能露面。可即使这样，一个外星人当真出现时我还是大吃一惊，跳了起来。

外星人有七根长肢，从四方向中央辐辏，轴心处挂着一个圆桶，整个形体极度对称，七肢中任何一肢都可以起到腿到作用，同时任何一肢也都可以当作手臂。在我面前这一位用四只腿走动，另外不相连的三肢分别各自一侧蜷着。盖雷管它们叫“七肢桶”。

之前我看过录像，可现在还是瞠目结舌。它的七肢上没有明显的关节，解剖学家推测它们可能直接由脊柱支撑。不管支撑结构如何，七肢桶们靠它们的七肢活动自如，惊人地轻畅流利。七条皱巴巴的肢腿上是“躯干”，稳稳当当，像艘气垫船。

七肢桶的身体周围排着一圈眼睛，共有七只，没有眼皮。它走到刚才从那里进来的门口，发出一声短促的、像溅水声似的声音，接着又回到视镜里的房间中央，后面跟着另一个七肢桶。这一系列动作中它根本没转过身。真怪，但完全符合逻辑：它身体各个方向上都有眼睛，任何方向对它来说都是“正前方”。

盖雷一直注视着我的反应。“准备好了？”它问道。

我深吸一口气，“够充分的。”我从前在亚马逊河流域作过大量实地语言考察，但那时总能通过其他语言沟通。有时我的调查对象中有人懂葡萄牙语，我可以用这种语言和他交流，有时可以事先从传教士那里得到有关当地语言的介绍。现在，生平头一回，我只能依靠一种语言作单向考察。这种事从理论上说来倒是简单。

我朝视镜走上前去，对方一个七肢桶作出了相同举动。视镜里的形象清晰到让我有点毛骨悚然的地步，我连它灰色皮肤上的纹理都能看到：一圈一圈的螺纹皱起来，像灯芯绒。通过视镜嗅不到对方的体味，整个情形于是更加怪诞。

我指着自己，缓慢地说：“人。”我又指向盖雷，“人。”接着我挨个指着七肢桶，说：“你们是什么？”

没有反应。我又试了一次，然后再试了一次。

一个七肢桶用一肢指向自己，肢端四个指头紧紧并在一起。算我走运。有些种族的人用自己的下巴示意，如果七肢桶也像那样，而不是用它的肢，那我简直无迹可循，也不知如何入手。我听见一声短促的振动音，看见它身体顶端一个褶皱的孔道颤动了一下。它在说话！接着它指向它的同伴，又发出一声振动音。

我来到电脑旁。显示屏上出现两幅声谱图，代表两个颤音，它们一模一样。我标出一幅声谱准备重播。我指向自己，重新说道，“人。”指着盖雷又说了一遍。然后，我指着七肢桶，通过扬声器播放出刚才标出的那一声颤音。

那个七肢桶发出更多的振动音。声谱图显示，这一组音的后一半看上去像是第一次那个振动音的重复，如果我们将第一次发音标记为〔振动音１〕。那么，这次的一组音就是〔振动音２＋振动音１〕。

我指着视镜一个物体，可能是七肢桶的椅子吧，“那里什么？”

七肢桶顿了顿，指着那把“椅子”，又发了一个音，它的声谱图明显不同于前面的音——标为〔振动音３〕。我再一次指向“椅子”，同时播出〔振动音３〕。

七肢桶作出回应。从声谱图看，这一次的音看上去像〔振动音３＋振动音２〕。乐观解释：七肢桶是在证实我播放的音节，这说明七肢桶与人类在说话模式方面有相通之处；悲观解释：真气人，它在咳嗽。

我用电脑将声谱图划定为几组，试着注明每一组的意思：〔振动音１〕指“七肢桶”，〔振动音２〕指“是的”，〔振动音３〕即“椅子”。这几组音之上，我打下一个标题，“七肢桶语言：Ａ”。

盖雷瞧着我打字，“为什么写个Ａ？”

“七肢桶可能有多种语言，这个Ａ就是指它们目前使用的语言。”我答道。他点了点头。

“现在咱们试点别的，只当逗乐解闷。”我分别指指两个七肢桶，尽力模仿出〔振动音１〕（意思是“七肢桶”）的声音。外星人停顿了好长时间，接着第一个七肢桶说了点什么，第二个七肢桶跟着说了点别的什么。这两组音的声谱图跟刚才记下的一点相似之处都没有。我不清楚它们是彼此交谈还是在跟我说话，因为它们没有脸，也不转身。我又试着再度发出〔振动音１〕。毫无反应。

“差得太远了。”我咕哝道。

“能把这种音发出来，我已经佩服得五体投地了。”盖雷说。

“你该听听我学驼鹿叫，吓得它们没命地逃。”

我重复尝试了好几遍，但没有一个七肢桶作出任何我能够识别的反应。只有当我重播七肢桶发音的录音时它们才表示确认：发出〔振动音２〕——“是的”。

“看来咱们只好完全依赖录音了？”盖雷问道。

我点点头，“至少目前是这样。”

“我们现在做什么？”

“现在要做的就是弄清楚，它们刚才那些话说的是不是‘这些家伙可真逗’，或者‘瞧它们在干啥’。接下来，等那第二个七肢桶发这些音时，我们再看看能不能把它们的意思确定下来，哪怕确定其中一个音也好。”我示意让他坐下，“让自己舒服点儿，这件活计还得花不少时间呢。”

１７７０年，库克船长的“努力”号抵达澳大利亚昆士兰海岸。库克留下一些船员维修船只，自己率领一支队伍出发探险。遇上当地土著居民后，一个船员手指着身体袋囊里揣着幼崽跳来跳去的动物，问一个土著，这东西叫什么。土著说，“Ｋａｎｇｕｒｕ。”从此以后，库克和他的手下便用这个词称呼这种动物（袋鼠）。很久以后他们才明白，Ｋａｎｇｕｒｕ在土著语言中的意思是，“你说什么来着？”

我每年给学生作课程简介时都要讲这个故事。几乎可以肯定，这个故事是瞎编的。这一点我以后会向学生说明。不过作为轶事趣闻，它妙极了。我年年都说。当然，未来的岁月里，直到教学生涯结束，大学生们真正想听是有关七肢桶的轶事。他们当中很多人之所以选我的课，目的便在于此。

于是我会给他们看我在视镜前与七肢桶对话的录像带，以及别的语言学家和外星人对话的录像。这些带子很有教育意义，如果再有外星人来访，它们会发挥很大作用。不过，这些录像里没有多少轶闻。

说到学习语言的轶事，我最喜欢幼儿园的语言习得过程，这里头的轶事简直取之不尽用之不竭。我记得有一天下午，那时你才五岁大，刚从幼儿园回家。你将用蜡笔东涂西抹，而我呢，那时会正在批改作业。

“妈咪，”你会这么叫我。你小心翼翼装出漫不经心的语气，只有想提出什么要求时你才会这么说话。“我可以问你一个问题吗？”

“当然可以，宝贝，问吧。”

“我能，嗯，伴吗？”

我会从手下批改的作业上抬起眼睛，“你说什么？”

“幼儿园里莎朗说她会当伴。”

“真的？她跟你说过什么伴吗？”

“她姐姐要出嫁了，她说，嗯，只有一个人可以，嗯，伴。就是她。”

“哦，我明白了。你是说莎朗要当姐姐的伴娘？”

“对了，就是这个。我可以当伴娘吗？”

我和盖雷走进充当针对这一视镜的行动中心的预测屋。屋里的情形好像在准备一场进攻战役，或者全面撤退。大堆剃着板刷头的军人围聚在这个地区的大地图前，其他人坐在体积庞大的电子仪器前，对着通话器叽哩呱啦。我们被领到韦伯上校的办公室。这个房间的位置靠后，有空调，很凉爽。

我们将第一天的结果向上校作了汇报。“好像没多大进展。”他说，“我有个想法，可以加快速度。”我说，“但前提是你批准我们使用更多的设备。”

“你还需要什么设备？”

“一台数字摄像机，一台大屏幕电视。”我给他看一幅图，上面画着我想像的设备。“我的想法是通过文字书写的方式来探索它们的语言。我把写下的文字显示在屏幕上，用摄像机摄下它们写的文字。我希望七肢桶会照搬我们的方法，作出同样举动。”

韦伯上校怀疑地看着我画的图，“这样做有什么好处？”

“迄今为止，我都是通过扬声器与它们作口头交流，这种方法一般针对没有文字的纯口头语言。我想，七肢桶肯定同我们一样，也有文字表述。”

“又怎么样？”

“如果七肢桶的语言中存在书写系统，那么它们的文字一定存在某种前后连贯的规律。对我来说，分辨字形比分辨音位容易得多。前者就像从一段印刷出来的句子中辨别字母，后者则相当于在对方说话同时听出各个字母。”

“我同意你的看法。”他说，“问题是这样一来，你怎么对它们的话作出回应？用他们显示的字句写出你自己的话，再反馈给它们看？”

“基本上是这样。如果字句中存在中断，那么写下的句子比口述的句子容易辨识得多，我们再也不用自己动手给录下来的话加标点了。”

他在自己椅子里向后一靠，“我们希望尽可能少地向外星人展示我们掌握的技术，这你也知道。”

“这我理解。但现在我们已经使用了很多机器，充当双方之间的媒介。如果我们能让它们把说出的话写下来，我相信我们的进展会大大加快，比受限于声谱仪时快得多。”

上校转身问盖雷，“你的意见呢？”

“我觉得这个点子不错。我只担心七肢桶从我们的显示器上读出信息会不会有困难。它们的视镜和我们的显示器分属不同的技术领域，两者的原理截然不同。就我们所知，它们的视镜没有采用像素或者扫描线，刷新方式也不一样，不以逐帧扫描为基础。”

“你是说，咱们显示器的工作原理是扫描，也许会让它们读不出屏幕上的显示信息？”

“有这个可能。”盖雷道，“只有尝试之后才知道。”

韦伯在思索。对我来说这根本不是个问题，但从他的观点，这个决心很难下。不过和一般军人一样，他很快便做出决定。“同意你们的请求。告诉外头的军士，让他把你们需要的东西送来。作好准备，明天就用。”

我还记得未来的那一天，那是你十六岁那年的夏季。这一次，等着男友到来的人是我。当然你也会等着他，你会非常好奇，想瞧瞧他长什么样。你会带上自己的一个朋友，一个金发女孩儿，名字怪得很，叫洛克茜。你们两个，咯咯咯地，笑成一团。

“见了他之后，你肯定憋不住，急着想说说看法对吧。”我会一面对着走廊里的镜子打量自己一边对你说：“忍着点儿，等我们走了以后再说。”

“别担心，妈。”你会这么说，“你们自有办法，他一点儿也不会知道。洛克茜，到时候你问我今晚天气会怎么样，妈的男朋友要是不错，我就说天气好，否则的话，就说糟得很。”

“行。”洛克茜会满口答应。

我会说：“不行，不许你们这么做。”

“妈，你别紧张啦。他才不会知道呢。我们一向这么干。”

“听了真让人放心。”

过了不多久，内尔森会开车来接我，我会给大家作介绍，我们几个会在门廊里聊上一会。内尔森长得粗犷帅气，看得出来你很欣赏他。我们正要走，洛克茜会假装随随便便地问你：“哎，你觉得今儿晚上天气会什么样？”

“要我说，今晚准火辣。”你会这么回答。

洛克茜会大表赞同，直点脑袋。内尔森问：“是吗？可我觉得今天晚上会挺凉快的。”

“说起这种事儿，我有第六感。”你会这么说，脸上一本正经，“我的感觉是，今晚大热。妈，幸好你穿得不多，跟晚上的气温挺合拍。”

我会狠狠瞪你一眼，说一声再见。

我和内尔森向他的车子走去，我在前头，他跟在后面。他会笑着问我：“你们打什么哑谜？”

“这是我们母女俩之间的事儿，”我会恨恨地说，“别逼我跟你解释。”

我们又来到视镜前，这是第二次。我们重复了上回的程序，但这一次，我们在说话的同时把话显示在电脑屏幕上：我们说“人”，同时在电脑屏幕上显示出“人”这个字，依此类推。七肢桶终于明白了我们的想法，它们也弄来了一个平平的圆形屏幕，安在一个小底座上。一个七肢桶说完话后，将一肢伸入底座的一个大插孔里，一堆胡涂乱画便会出现在屏幕上。略微有些像连笔草书。不久我们便形成了一套固定做法。我也汇编成两套它们的语言系统：一是七肢桶发出的语音，另一套是它们的书写样本。后者好像是某种语标式文字，这是我的第一印象。我很失望。我一直希望它们的文字以字母为基础，便于理解我们理解它们的口头语言。当然语标式文字也可能包含某些语音信息，但要找出这些信息却相当困难，比基于字母的文字难得多。

我站的地方离视镜很近，能一处处指点七肢桶的各个身体部位，比如肢、手指、眼睛，然后分别确认各个部位的名称。它们躯干底下原来有个孔穴，四周是凸出的骨质关节。这个部位可能用于咀嚼，躯干顶端那个孔穴则用来呼吸、说话。除这两个之外，七肢桶身体各处没有其它明显的孔道。也许它们的嘴同时起到肛门的作用。这些问题我们留待今后研究。

我还试图找出我们这两位合作伙伴各自的称谓，也就是姓名，如果它们的种族中存在这类东西的话。它们回答了，我们当然发不出那些音，于是为了我和盖雷方便起见，我把它们分别称为弗莱帕和拉斯伯里。我只希望自已能够分辨出它们各自的特点，把它们俩区别开来。

第二天，我和盖雷走进视镜所在的帐篷之前交换了意见。我对他说：“这一个回合的交流，我需要你协助我。”

“行啊。你需要我做什么？”

“我们需要掌握它们的几个动词，有另一个人协助就好办得多。我把动作的词汇打在屏幕上，你把这些动作演示出来，好么？运气好的话，七肢桶会猜出我们的用意，然后依葫芦画瓢。我带了一堆道具给你用。”

“没问题。”盖雷说，咔吧咔吧捏着指关节，“我准备好了，什么时候上场，只管开口。”

我们从几个简单的不及物动词着手：走、跳、说、写。盖雷依次演示这些动作，毫不窘迫，真让人高兴。虽说摄像机一直在拍摄，但他一点儿也没受影响。他每演示完一个动作，我就发问：“你们怎么称呼这个动作？”没过多久，七肢桶便明白了该怎么做。拉斯伯里开始模仿盖雷，至少，向我们演示七肢桶行为中相当人类举动的对应物。与此同时，弗莱帕操作它们的电脑，显示出每一个动作的书写形式，并大声朗读出来。

从它们发出的音节形成的声谱图中，我能够分辨出一个音，就是我从前翻译成“七肢桶”的那个音节。其它音节所代表的估计就是每一个动作，即动词。看起来，它们的语言中也有动词与名词的分类。真是谢天谢地。可说到文字，事情就没有那么清楚了。针对每一个动作，七肢桶仅仅显示单独一个语标文字，而不是各自独立的两个字。最初我还以为它们写下的只有一个“走”了，没有写出动作的主语。可弗莱帕说的明明是“七肢桶走”，写出却只有一个“走”字。它们为什么不坚持字字对照呢？后来我才发现，弗莱帕写出的字形中，有些看上去很像它们文字中代表“七肢桶”的那个语标，不过这边或那边却多出来一些笔画。也许它们的动词在书写时可以粘着、依附于名词。但如果是这样，可为什么弗莱帕在书写动词有时写出动作的主语，有时却又不写？

我决定拿一个及物动词作个试验。加上动作的对象，即宾语，可能会让我们明白过来。我带来的道具中有一个苹果、一片面包。“这样，”我对盖雷说，“给它们看看我们吃的东西，接着你再吃一点。先试苹果，再吃面包。”

盖雷指指那个红富士，接着咬了一口，我则打出：“你们怎么称呼这个动作？”接下来，我们又拿出那片全麦面包重复了一遍这个试验。

拉斯伯里离开房间，回来的时候拿着个东西，有点像大坚果，或者葫芦，还有一个凝胶状的椭圆蛋。拉斯伯里指着葫芦，弗莱帕发出一个音，又显示出一个语标式文字。拉斯伯里继而将葫芦放到躯干下面，夹在几条腿中间。一声压碎东西的声音响起，葫芦再拿出来的时已经缺了一块。葫芦里是个果核，有点像玉米。弗莱开始说话，并在它们的屏幕上显出一个大大的语标式文字。七肢桶发出代表“葫芦”这个音时我们记录了声谱图，可用在句子中以后，这个音的声谱图改变了。可能是名词的格式发生了变化。这时的语示文字十分奇怪：经过研究，我可以分辨出其中有的部分与代表“七肢桶”的文字相似，另外的部分又接近于代表“葫芦”的文字。看上去这两部分好像是融合在一起。融合体中又多了些笔画，估计是表示“吃”这个动作。综合来看，也许是一种将几个字结合在一起的集合联体字？

下面是那个凝胶蛋：发音、书写，还有描述吃它的那个动作。从声谱图上看，我们可以分析出“七肢桶吃凝胶蛋”这几个音。“凝胶蛋”产生了格的变化，这我们已经预先想到了，只是没有料到这句话的顺序和上次不大相同。但是文字形则是完全另外一回事，又是一个大语标。这一次我花的时间长得多，终于捉摸出一点点头绪：代表每个动词名词的各个字眼又融在了一块，不仅如此，代表“七肢桶”的那个语标这回来了个仰面朝天，肚皮上顶着“凝胶蛋”的语标，后者的姿态是大头朝下倒立着。

“哎哟喂。”好一个简单例句呀，主语加宾语，名词加动词。我重新把以前的几句话再次好好端详了一番。对我来说，刚才它们还互不关联前后矛盾，可是现在，我发现这些话全都包含代表“七肢桶”的那个语标。随着与不同动词结合，它有时转了一圈，有时产生一些变形，所以我刚才没有认出这个字。“你们这群家伙，当真开我的玩笑不成？”我喃喃自语。

“有麻烦吗？”盖雷问。

“他们的句子书写起来不是一个一个挨着排，各自独立，互相有个区分。它们的句子是将组成该句的每一个字结合到一起。为了方便结合，它们旋转这些字眼，或者对字眼作出种种变形。你看看。”我给他展示这些字是怎么转来转去的。

“这么说，不管一个字怎么转来转去，它们读起来一样方便。”盖雷道，他转身注视着七肢桶，大为钦佩。“它们的身体构造极度对称，不知这跟它们的文字有没有关系？身体没有‘前’、‘后’、‘左’、‘右’可言，文字可能也是这样。真是超级漂亮。”

我真不敢相信，“超级”和“漂亮”两个词可以这样搭配，说出这种话的人居然是我的搭档。“的确很有意思。”我说，“可这样意味着我们很难用它们的文字写了我们的话。它们写出一句，我们不容易把它截成几个独立的字，再把截出的字组合成新句子。我们必须学习它们的书写规律，之后才谈得上写出什么东西让它们让得出来。从前它们说出一句话来，我们没办法从中提取各个单字，没想到现在在文字上又遇上了同一种困难：人家写出来了，我们还是从中提取不出可用的字。”

我望着视镜里的弗莱帕和拉斯伯里，这两个七肢桶正等着我们继续哩。我长叹一声：“你们哪，可真没打算让我省省心，是不是？”

说句公道话，七肢桶是百分之百地合作。时间一天天过去，它们热心地教我们学习它们的语言，并不要求我们向它们进一步传授英语知识。韦伯上校和他那一伙军人为此疑惑不已，我则同研究别的视镜的其它语言学家通过视频会议有磋商探讨，分享我们各自学到的七肢桶语言。与七肢桶的视镜相比，我们视频会议所用的显示器显得很原始落后，我的同僚语言学家出现在显示器里时，看上去距我比七肢桶遥远得多。熟悉的遥不可及，而奇异的却的近在咫尺。真是矛盾啊！

我们的语言能力还很差，无法询问七肢桶来到这里的目的，也无法和它们讨论物理知识，以此了解它们的技术水平。这些只能是以后的事。至于目前，我们专心致志，从最基础的做起：音位／字形、词汇、句法。每一个视镜里的七肢桶都操同一种语言，因此我们可以把数据汇集到一起，协作研究。

最困难的是七肢桶的“文字”，简单是混淆之源。看上去根本不像文字，更像一大堆纠缠混杂的小画。还有，七肢桶的语标式文字不是一行行一排列，也不是一圈一圈排列，它们的排列根本不是依照线性方式。弗莱帕的拉斯伯里写的句子就像是把许多个语标凑到一块，需要多少语标就用多少，凑成一大团。

这种形式的文字不禁使人联想到原始的符号系统。读者要想解读一段由这种符号组成的信息，必须事先知道这段信息的语境——它的上下文关系、前因后果。大家因此认为，这种符号体系太受限制，无法系统地记录信息。不过七肢桶不可能以口耳相传的口头语言为基础发展出这么发达的技术水平。如此一来，意味着有三种可能：一、七肢桶的确拥有一种真正的书写系统，但不愿意当着我们的面运用；二、七肢桶目前的技术手段不是它们发明的，它们只不过是一群文盲，捡起了别的种族所发明的科学技术；第三种可能，也是我最感兴趣的，即，七肢桶文字是一种非线性系统，完全相当于真正的文字。

以后，你上高中低年级的时候，我们俩会有一场谈话。那些话我还记得。那是个星期天的早晨，我在炒鸡蛋，你收拾桌子准备吃一顿迟了的早餐。你会边说边笑，给我讲你前一天晚上参加的派对。

“嘿，”你会这么说，“人人都说体重不同，酒量不同。真是不假。我还没喝他们那么多，却醉得比他们厉害。”

我会极力装出没有大惊小怪而是高高兴兴的表情，我真的会尽力，可你会说，“哎呀，你又来了，妈。”

“什么来了？”

“你像我这么大时还不是一样，你又不是不知道。”

其实我没有喝过酩酊大醉这种事，但我也知道，如果我这么说，你会以为我撒谎，而且再也不会尊重我。“记住，喝醉了千万别开车，也别进喝醉了的人开的——”

“天哪，这些我早就知道。当我是白痴啊？”

“哦，没有，你当然不是。”

其实我想的是，你跟我不一样，完全不一样。这件事将再一次提醒我，你不是我的复制品。你是一个奇迹，是我每日的快乐，但我不能自称为你惟一的创造者。

军方在视镜附近安排了一辆拖车作为我们的办公室。盖雷正朝拖车走，我跑了几步赶上他。“是会意象形语标文字系统。”跑近后我告诉他。

“你说什么？”盖雷道。

“来，我演示给你看。”我把盖雷领进我的办公室，在黑板上画了一个圆圈，中间画上一条斜杠。“这是什么意思？”

“‘禁止通行’？”

“对。”我在黑板上写下“禁止通行”几个字。“这四个字也是这个意思，只不过这一行字代表的是我们说出的话。”

盖雷点点头，“明白。”

“语言学家把这个——”我指着那四个字，“称为‘舌文’，‘言语文字’，因为它代表的是我们说出的话，是语音的重现。人类的所有文字都属于这个范畴。我们再来看看这个符号——”我指着中间画着斜杠的圆圈，“这是会意象形语标文字，传达出意思，但与口头语言没有直接关联，不是语音的重现。这种语标的每一个组成部分并没有与某一个特定语音联系在一起。”

“那你的看法就是，七肢桶的所有文字都是这种类型？”

“从我们见到的文字来看，是的。它们的文字不像‘禁止通行’的标志，不是图画，要复杂得多。这个系统有它自己的造句规律，诸如自身的语法、句法，这些语法句法的指向是视觉，与口头语言的语法没有关系，是两回事。”

“视觉语法？能给我举个例子吗？”

“就来。”我在办公桌前坐下，从电脑上调出昨天与拉斯伯里的谈话记录。我把显示器转了一下，让他能看见上面的内容。“在它们的口头语言中，名词有格和位的变化，如主格、宾格，指出它是主语还是宾语。可到了文字里，确定名词的主宾是依靠它的语标的方位，看这个名词语标在哪个方位与动词语标相联。你瞧这儿，”我指着一堆语标，“以这个为例。这里‘七肢桶’这个语标与‘听’这个动词语标联在一块儿，是这样联的，这些笔画是平等方向，说明七肢桶这个名词是听这个动作的发出者，它在做听这个动作，意思就是七肢桶听。”我又给他看另一堆语标，“等这两个语标用另一方式联在一块时，你看这些笔画是垂直相交，说明七肢桶这个名词是听这个动作的接受者，它被听，意思就听人听七肢桶说。这种造句方式也适用于其它几个动词。”

“再举一个词形变化的例子。”我从电脑里调出另一幅图，“在它们的书写文字中，这个语标式符号的意思大致相当于‘听起来很容易’，或者‘听得很清楚’。看这儿，这个符号跟代表‘听’的语标式符号相近。我们可以把它跟‘七肢桶’这个符号联系在一起，跟刚才一样。这样，表示七肢桶说话听得很清楚，而这样，表示别人听七肢桶说话听得很清楚。最有意思的是，‘听’这个词怎么就会变成了‘听得很清楚’，这种意义的转换不是靠改变位与格。你看这两个词，看出它们词形的变化了吗？”

盖雷点点头，手指屏幕道，“‘听’这个字中间这些笔画，弧度变了，七肢桶好像就这样表达出‘清楚地’这层意思。”

“说得对。这种变形规律适用于许多动词。‘看’这个符号同样也能这么一转，传达出‘看得很清楚’的意思，‘读’和其它动词也是这样。问题是，文字中它们改变字形，笔画里多了些弧度，可说话时却不是这么变的，口头语言中，它们只在这些动词前面加上个前缀，表示位与格的变化。而且，‘看’与‘听’各自的前缀并不相同。”

“我还可以举出其它例子，但想法就是这个，我想你也明白了。从根本上说，七肢桶的语法分为两个领域：口头语言与书面文字。”

盖雷沉思站来回踱步，“人类文字体系中有相似的例子吗？”

“数学方程式，音乐舞蹈的标记符号。但这些符号都有各处专门的应用领域，像我们现在的谈话，就不可能用这些符号记录下来。但我想，七肢桶的文字可能有这个能力。等我们觉得更好些，我们也许能够把现在的谈话用七肢桶的书写系统记录下来。我认为，它们这套系统是一套完全成熟的通用性语标式文字体系。”

盖雷眉头紧锁，“照你这么说，它们的文字和说的话是两套各自独立的语言。你是不是这个意思？”

“是。事实上，我想这么做：把它们的文字标注为‘七肢桶语言：Ｂ’，以前标注的‘七肢桶语言：Ａ’，专指它们的口头语言，这样更准确一些。”

“哎，对了。明明一套语言体系就够了，它们为什么用两套。还得费功夫多学一套。这种搞法不是平添一重麻烦吗？”

“让它们的语言跟英语一样？”我说，“从语言的进化过程来看，最主要的进化动力并不是易于学习。对七肢桶来说，也许口头语言和书面文字各自扮演着不同的文化、认知方面的角色，与其以一套语言为基础根据适用领域的不同发展出多种变化，倒不如干脆弄两套语言来得便当。说不定它们就是这么想的。”

他想了想我的话，“你的意思我明白了。没准儿它们觉得人类语言多余，除口头语言外又开发一套与说话完全相同的书面文字，两套沟通渠道一样，其中一套不是浪费嘛。”

“这种想法大有可能。如果我们能找出它们为什么还有一个不同于口头语的书写系统，这对于了解它们的情况大有帮助。”

“这么说，咱们不可能靠它们的文字帮忙，学习它们的口语喽？”

我叹了叹口气，“是啊。两套语言，对咱们当下来说，就是说的这个意思。我觉得ＡＢ两套语言，咱们任何一套都不能忽视。只有找个双管齐下的办法。”我指指屏幕，“文字语法，这种针对视觉的二维平面语法，只要掌握了，肯定对你今后了解它们的数学符号大有好处。我敢打赌。”

“说得有理。你看我们是不是现在就动手，问它们些数学问题？”

“还不到时候。只有等到咱们对它们的书写系统有了更深入的了解之后才谈得上别的。”盖雷装出一脸垂头丧气的表情，我笑了笑，“我的好先生，耐心点儿。耐心是一种美德。”

等你六岁的时候，你父亲会去夏威夷参加一个会议，我们母女俩将陪他一快儿去。你会欢喜雀跃，还几个星期前就早早地开始准备。你会问我椰子、火山和冲浪的事，还会在镜子前面练习呼拉舞。你会把一只旅行箱填得满满的，把想带的衣服和玩具全都塞进去，你还会拖着行李箱满屋子走，看你拉着它能走多远。你还问我能不能在我的行李里帮你带上图画魔板，你的箱子里已经放不下了，而你离了它过不下去。

“你用不上这么些东西。”我会说，“那边好玩的事多极了，带这么多玩具你没时间玩。”

你会好好考虑，你的小眉头上会皱起两个小窝窝，每当你绞你的小脑汁时就会这样。最后你总算同意少带一点玩具，但你的期望却一点儿也没有减少，反而一天比一天高。

“我想现在就去夏威夷。”你会大声哭嚎。

“有时候等待也是一件很好的事。”我会说，“有了等待，到时候会觉得更好玩。”

可你的小嘴还是噘得老高。

在我提交的下一份报告中，我表示语标文字这个说法不准确，因为在普通语标文字中，每个字都与口语中一个词相对应。而七肢桶的语标却并不以我们所想像的方式与它们的口语产生关联。我也不愿意使用表意符号这个说法，因为在过去的使用过程中，我们为这个说法赋予了别的含意。我建议使用“七文”这个提法。

看来七文与人类文字还是有些相通之处：七文的每一个字都各有其意义，和其它字词结合起来以后可以传达的意义近于无穷无尽。我们无法对七文作出精确定义，不过话说回来，谁又能对人类语言中的“词”这个概念作出精确定义呢？再说七文组成的句子，它们简直复杂透顶。写一大堆句子，中间连个标点符号都没有，全无中断。句子的语法结构完全取决于句中各个七文的组合方式。由于七肢桶的两套语言互不相干，其书写语言于是根本没有表现语句升降调的必要。我们无法从它们的一个句子中分析出简洁的主谓结构，重新组合成新的句子。一个七肢桶爱往一个句子里塞多少七文就可以塞多少，粘成一大团，这就是一句。至少在我们看来是这样。一句文字、一段文字、一页文字，其间的区别只在于这一个大团有多大面积。

在七肢桶语言Ｂ（文字系统）中，一个句子如果比较长，它形成的视觉冲击力真是非同小可。如果不以研究解码的态度，单纯观赏的话，这个句子就像草草画下、加以幻想变形的许多只螳螂，互相勾连绞缠，每一只的姿势都略有不同，共同形成一个纹章图案。超长句子的观赏效果与迷幻招贴海报相似：有时让人癫狂泪下，有时让人昏昏欲睡。

我记得，等到你大学毕业，你会有一幅照片。你摆了个拍照的姿势，头上的学士帽时髦地偏在一侧，一手扶着太阳镜，另一只手撑在腰间，披开学士袍，露出里面的紧身小背心和短裤。

我还记得你的毕业典礼。我们全都到场了，我和内尔森，你父亲和我记不得名字的那个女人。这些人同时聚在一起略有些不愉快，不过这都是小事。整个周末你都忙着把我介绍给你的同学，热烈拥抱每一个人，我则沉浸在惊奇之情中，一句话都说不出来。我简直不敢相信，你，一个成熟女人，个子比我还高，美得让我心疼，居然会是那个我常常抱起来让你够到饮水喷泉的那个小女孩，那个摇摇晃晃蹒跚跑出我的卧室、身上拖拖拉拉裹着从我衣橱里偷走的长裙帽子和四条丝巾的小女孩。这是同一个人吗？

毕业之后，你将找到工作，成为一个财务分析师。我不会理解你的工作，也不会理解你怎么对钱那么感兴趣，找工作时那么看重薪水。我更喜欢你追求前途时不要过分关注金钱报酬。但我不将抱怨。我自己的母亲也不理解我为什么不能安安分分当个高中英语教师。你会做让你自己感到快乐的事情，只要你开心快乐，我就会心满意足，更无他求。

又一段时间过去了。每一个视镜前，各研究小组努力工作，学习七肢桶语言中初等数学和物理学的术语。这个过程中，语言学家和物理学家通力合作，前者关注方式方法，后者集中注意力于科学这一主题。物理学家向我们展示了早先发明的与外星人沟通的系统，可是这个以数学为基础的系统原本是为了与射电望远镜搭配，用来与遥远太空中的外星人交流的。我们对这个系统加以改造，以适应目前面对面沟通的新情况。

各小组在基本算术上很成功，但在几何与代数问题上却搁了浅。后来我们也想到，我们的几何与代数都是在平面坐标上演算，考虑到七肢桶的身体结构，我们将平面坐标换成了一个球面系统，觉得这对它们来说会更自然些。新方法仍然未能带来成果。七肢桶显然不明白我们的用意何在。

物理学探讨也同样乏善可陈，只在最具体最实在的方面，如元素名称上，取得了一定进展。我们向七肢桶展示元素周期表，几次尝试之后，它们明白了。但只要进入稍稍抽象一点的领域，七肢桶便被我们的叽哩呱啦搅得云里雾里。我们试着向它们论证最简单的物理特点，如质量、速度，想借此弄清楚它们语言中的对应术语。七肢桶的反应很简单：请我们表述得更明白一点。为避免中间媒介引起误解，我们采取了直接演示的手段：画线、照片、动画，均无成就，毫无进展。这样的日子一天一天过去，一周一周过去，物理学家们个个大失所望。

与此相反，语言学家们取得了相当进展。在破译其口头语言——七肢桶语言Ａ——的语法结构方面，我们有了持续、长足的进步。如果将人类种种语言视作一个整体，七肢桶口语具有完全不同的模式，这不出我们所料。它的词语没有固定的组合次序，其条件从句更连个常见的顺序都没有。还有，人类语言中的修饰性从句不会有很多层次，七肢桶口语却可以有许多许多层，形成无数层次的级联修饰从句。这一点比人类语言强得多。总的说来，其口语虽然奇异，但还不算无迹可循，难以索解。

更让我们兴奋的是七肢桶语言Ｂ方面取得的进展。无论是字形还是语法领域都有新发现。这是一种纯粹二维平面的文字。（人类文字虽然也是平面的，但与口语相通，因此在平面之外形成一个新维度。）七文变形极多，某一笔画稍加弯曲，或者粗细不同，或者波动形状不同，或者两个字的字根大小比例有了改变，或者字根之间的距离不一样，或者方位不同，此外还有许多许多，凡此种种，都表示意义有了变化。这些字形不可分割，不能将某一字从组成句子的其它七文中剥离出来。另外，这些文字字形的改变虽然与人类书法艺术有些表面上的相似，但实际上却全然不同书法，所有变化都必须遵循前后一致、明晰的语法规律，每一个变化都代表意义的改变。

我们不断询问七肢桶，它们来到这里的目的何在。它们的回答每次都是“来看”，或者“来观察”。的确，比起回答我们的问题，有时它们更喜欢一声不吭，静静注视我们的一举一动。也许它们是科学家，不过也可能这伙外星人干脆是些来旅游的游客。国务院指示我们尽可能少泄露有关人类社会的情况。在今后的实质性谈判中，外星人有可能将所获取的情报用作谈判砝码。我们依令而行。这一点儿也不困难——七肢桶们根本没有问我们任何事情。不管是科学家不是游客，这些老外真是非常、非常没有好奇心的一帮子。

以后有一天，我会开车带你去商场买新衣服。那时你十三岁。你有的时候会四仰八叉躺在椅子里，一点儿也不难为情，是个地地道道的小孩子。可隔一会儿，你会以精心练就的漫不经心地姿势把头发一甩，像过受过训练的时装模特。

我停车的时候你会吩咐我：“妈，给我一张信用卡。咱们两小时后在门口这儿见。”

我会笑话你：“门儿都没有，信用卡一张张全得我拿着。”

“开什么玩笑！”你会大发脾气。我们下车，我朝门口走去。你一见我不肯让步，马上换个方案。

“好啦好啦，妈，好啦。行，你可以和我一块儿走，不过得走在我后头点儿，让人家瞧不出咱俩一道。如果看见我的哪个朋友，我就停下跟他们说说话，到时候你不要停下，继续走，行吗？我一会儿再来找你。”

我停住脚步，“对不起，你说什么来着？我可不是个雇帮工，也不是你的哪个畸形儿亲戚。你觉得跟我一起丢人吗？”

“妈，得了吧。我不乐意你让别人看见我跟你在一起。”

“你说的都是什么话！你的朋友我全见过，他们去过我们家。”

“不一样嘛。”你会说，不相信这么简单地事还需要费唇舌解释，“这是买东西。”

“对不起，我只好得罪你了。”

你接着就脾气大发作了。“凡是让我高兴的事，你绝对不做！你一点儿也不关心我！”

没多久前你还喜欢跟我一起逛商场里。你飞快地长过一个阶段，进入另一个阶段，这种速度始终让始终让我惊奇不已。和你生活在一起将像瞄准不断移动的目标。你将永远比我想象的更快一步。

我看着自己刚刚用七肢桶语言Ｂ写就的一个句子。我的书写工具是最平常不过的钢笔和纸。跟我从前自己编出来的所有句子一样，这一句看上去也是奇形怪状，好像七肢桶写出的一句话被大锤砸了个粉碎，再由我笨手笨脚地重新粘到一块。笨拙程度与之类似的七文我写了很多，写满的纸张铺得一桌子都是。电扇每一摇头，纸张便一阵哗啦哗啦。

学习和种不存在口语表达形式的语言，其感受真是奇特。我不用练习发音，时间全都花在眯缝起眼睛一笔一笔描绘七文上。

门上轻轻敲了一记，我还没说话，盖雷已经喜气洋洋一步跨了进来。“伊利诺斯州的好消息，他们的七肢桶重复了演示给它们看的物理实验。”

“真的？太好了！什么时候的事？”

“几个小时前。我刚跟那边的人开过视频会议，我写给你看。”他已经动手擦起黑板来。

“别急，物理的事我不需要听。”

“好的。”他拈起粉笔，画了一幅图。

“行了。一束光穿过空气进入水中，这就是光走过的路径。光线循着一条直线，直到与水接触。水的折射率与空气不同，所以光走的方向产生了改变。这些你以前学过，对吧？”

我点点头，“当然。”

“关于光走的路径，有个极其有意思的特点：如果要穿越两个点之间的距离，光走的路径必然是耗时最小，即时间最短的一条。”

“再说一遍？”

“运用你的想像力，做个假设。假设一束光走的路径是这一条。”他在黑板上的简图添上一道虚线。

“光线走的不是这条路径，这是一条理论上的线。它比光实际走的路线还短些。但是，你要记住，我们的这一束光穿越空气，进入水中。光在水里的速度比在空气中慢。请看这条理论线，它的距离虽然比实际线更短，但理论线在水中的部分比实际线要长一些。所以，光线如果走这条理论线，虽然它的距离短，但所费时间比实际路线更长。”

“嗯，我明白了。”

“现在再想像一下，如果光走的是这另外一条线。”他在简图上画上第二道虚线。

“这第二条理论线，与实际线相比，这条线在水中的部分更少，但它的总长度比实际线长得多。光如果走这条路线，花的时间也同样比实际线长。”

盖雷放下粉笔，用粘着白粉的手指朝简图比画了一下，“光如果走上任何一条理论线，它在旅途中所费的时间都比实际线更长。换句话说，一束光实际所取的路线永远是最快的的一条。这就是费尔马的最少时间律。”

“唔，有意思。七肢桶作出反应的就是这一条定律？”

“一点没错。莫尔黑德在伊利诺斯视镜前用动画向七肢桶演示了费尔马定律，它们接着向我们重复了一遍。眼下莫尔黑德正竭力让七肢桶用符号公式表现这一定律。”他笑得嘴都合不拢了，“你说，这算不算超级漂亮？”

“是挺漂亮没错。可我怎么会从没听说过费尔马最少时间律？”我拿起一个活页本朝他挥了挥。这是一本物理学原理的初级读本，物理学家在其中汇编了许多主题，建议我们与七肢桶讨论。“这里头翻来覆去讲普郎克量子论、原子裂变理论，光的折射连一个字也没提。”

“我们从前觉得这些东西对你最有用，猜错了。”盖雷一点也不害臊，“说实在的，费尔马定律居然会成咱们第一个突破口，这可真奇怪。这条定律用语言解释起来很容易，但要想对它作出数学描述，只有微积分才行。而且还不是普微积分，得用上变微积分。我们早先还估计会首先从代数或几何一些简单定理作出突破哩。”

“的确奇怪。你有没有这种想法，什么容易什么困难，七肢桶的看法也许跟我们人类不一样？”

“没错。所以我简直按捺不住，急着想看看它们对费尔马定律的数学描述是什么样子。”他一面说，一面来回踱步，“如果对它们来说，变微积分比代数几何更简单，这就可以解释为什么我们跟它们谈物理会那么困难了。跟我们相比，它们的整个数学系统好像来了个七颠八倒大掉个。”他一指那本物理读本，“告诉你，这本书，我们一定会马上重编。”

“以费尔马定律为出发点，过渡到物理学的其他领域？”

“有这个可能。物理学中，类似费尔马最少时间律的定理多着呢。”

“是啊，这种定理本人也有，露易丝最小壁橱空间律。物理学家们什么时候变成这个样子，张口闭口最小最少的？”

“这个……‘最少’这个词有点误导性。你瞧，费尔马定律的最少时间还不够全面。在某种情况下，光循着一条耗时最多路线。其实这种说法更准确：光所取的路径具有极端性——或者耗时最少，否则便取耗时最多的一条。最少，最多，这两个概念具有数学意义上的共性，两种情况可以套用一个数学公式。所以准确地说，费尔马定律并不是最少律，只是一项变分原理。”

“而且这种变分原理还有很多？”

他点点头，“物理学的每一个分支学科都有。几乎每一项物理定律都可以称作变分原理，区别仅仅是看某一属性取的是最大值还是最小值。”他把手一摆，活像物理学的各个分支全摆在他面前的桌子上。“在光学领域，也就是费尔马最少时间律的应用领域上，取极值（是最大值或最小值）的属性是时间。如果换了力学领域，则取另一属性。电磁学当然又会取其它属性。但从数学角度来看，所有这些定理全都是相似的。”

“这么说，只要你拿到了七肢桶对于费尔马定律的数学描述，你就可以破解它们有关其它学科的知识水平？”

“老天哪，我倒是真想。我觉得，这一次，我们拿到了一直在找的楔子，楔进去，破开它们的物理公式。这可是大喜事。得好好庆贺一番。”他不踱来踱去了，停下脚步，朝我转过身来。“我说露易丝，想上外面吃顿饭吗？我请客。”

我稍稍吃了一惊，“行啊。”我说。

等到你刚刚学会走路，你便会每天向我证明，我们之前的关系有多么不平等。你总是四处乱跑，每次绊倒在门坎上、擦破膝盖时，我自己的身体都会真切地感受到你的疼痛。我的身体好像延伸了，另外长出一条到处游走不定的肢体。这部分肢体的感觉器官传达痛觉很快，但我这个中枢却管不住它的马达，它根本不听我的。这真是太不公平了，我将生出一个自己的能走动的巫术小像。这个合约是我签下的，可签约时没人告诉我这一部分。这种交易向来如此吗？

可是我将看见你发出欢笑，就像未来的某一天，你正和邻居家的小狗玩儿。你的手从把我们家后院与邻家隔开的栅栏里伸过去。你笑得那么厉害，都打起嗝来了。那只小狗会时不时跑向院子另一头，你的笑声就会渐渐小下去，这时你才能喘上气来。等小狗回头跑过来重新舔起你的手指头时，你就会再次尖叫大笑起来。你的声音啊，是我所能想象出的最美妙的声音，使我觉得自己仿佛是一眼喷泉、一口甘泉，是幸福之源。

一想起你忘情的笑声，我的心脏便会幸福得收缩起来。

自从费尔马定律突破，科学概念方面的讨论日益结出成果。不是说全部七肢桶物理的奥秘一下子便大白于天下，但进步确实是持续显著的。盖雷告诉我，与人类相比，七肢桶的物理公式真是上下颠倒。有些物理属性，人类用数学积分才能定义，七肢桶却认为是最基本的。盖雷举了一个例子，“动能”，光听名字倒是简单，其实物理学行话中这是一个很复杂的概念，表示“运动与势能通过时间的结合”，不晓得这是什么意思。我们要用积分表达，而对它们，入门知识罢了。

另一方面，人类有些基本概念，如速度，七肢桶表述起来所运用的数学方法——盖雷声称——“怪异之极”。物理学家们终于证明：七肢桶数学与人类数学是相通的。二者虽然是从方法上说正好相反，但都是对同一物理宇宙所作出的公式描述。

我试图理解物理学家们拿出的一些公式，实在是心有余而力不足。我无法把握“动能”之类物理概念的意义。因此，七肢桶将这些当作基本概念，这一发现具有什么重大意义，我实在无法真正领会。我只能从自己更熟悉的角度考虑这些发现：七肢桶居然认为用费尔马定律解释光的折射最简单，它们到底是如何看这个世界的？费尔马定律所涉及的最少与最大两个方面它们能够一眼便知，这种理解认识世界的手段究竟是怎么回事？

今后，你的眼睛会是湛蓝的颜色，像你的父亲，而不像我的灰褐色。男孩子会凝望着这双眼睛，就像我从前与未来凝望你父亲的眼里时一样。这双眼睛啊，加上跟你父亲一样的黑头发，他们也会产生与我对你父亲一样的感情：惊叹不已，沉醉其中。今后，你会有很多很多的追求者。

等你十五岁时，我记得有一次，你刚从你爸爸家度了周末回来。你简直不敢相信，爸爸竟会那么不厌其烦地盘问那个你当时正在约会的男孩子的情况。你会躺在沙发上，扳着指头数说爸爸要你头脑清醒的说教：“知道他当时怎么说的吗？他说，‘十来岁的小伙子心里想什么，我清楚得很。’”一翻白眼，“要他说。好像我自己不知道似的！”

“别顶撞他。”我会这么对你说，“他是做父亲的，不可能不说。”你和你那伙小姐妹在一块儿说什么我见过，才不会担心你让男孩子占了便宜哩。真要担心，我跟你爸爸刚好相反：我担心你欺负人家男孩子。

“他就希望我一直是个小娃娃。自从我长出乳房，他就不知道拿我怎么办才好。”

“这个嘛，那方面的发育把他吓了一大跳。给他点时间，他会调整过来的。”

“妈！已经多少年了。到底需要给他多少时间？”

“我跟他见面时会跟他好好谈谈。”

我们这些语言学家的一次视频会议中，研究马塞诸塞州视镜的西斯内罗提出一个很有意思的问题：七肢桶语言Ｂ的书写过程中究竟有没有先后顺序这回事？在七肢桶语言Ａ中，单词的排列顺序毫不重要，基本上没有什么意义。我们如果要求七肢桶重复刚才所说的话，它的复述过程中单词排列顺序极可能与上一遍所说的完全不同，除非我们明确要求它们按上一句顺序复述。在书面语言中，字词顺序是否与口头语言同样不具有重要性？

此前，我们对语言Ｂ的关注仅仅集中在一个句子书写完成后，它看上去是个什么样子。就我们所知，在一系列语标组成句子的过程中，并不存在所谓常见的排列顺序。在大批语标织成的大网中，你几乎可以从任何地方开始读起，接着读它下面的分支从句。直至把这一大堆全部读完。不过这只是朗读，书写也同样如此吗？

最近一次与弗莱帕和拉斯伯里讨论时，我问它们能否当着我的面写完一个句子，而不是写成之后再拿给我看。它们同意了。我把记录那次讨论的录像带塞进录像机，一面看，一面在电脑上研究那次讨论时写就的文本。

我挑出对话中一段比较长的句子。弗莱帕那句话的意思是：七肢桶居住的行星有两颗卫星，一个比另一个大得多；行星大气的三种主要成分分别是氮、氩和氧；行星表面的二十八分之十五为海洋所覆盖。从它嘴里发出的头一串字，按字面翻译如下：“氧——比例——大小——多岩石——卫星——环绕与相关——对——主星——第二”。

我把录像带倒到七肢桶按照上面翻译的顺序逐字书写的地方。我放带子，眼看着语标一个个成形，组成一团黑黑的蛛网。我反复放了好多次，最后，在第一笔写完、第二笔还没有开始的地方停住。现在，屏幕上只有弯弯曲曲的一条线。

我把这最初一笔与完成后的句子互相比对。我认识到，这一笔参与了这个句子的好几个从句。开始时它是“氧”这个语标的一笔，明确有力，与其他笔画截然不同；接着它向下一滑，成为描述两颗卫星大小的比较词的一个组成要素；最后这一笔向外一展，形成“海洋”这个语标拱起的脊梁。问题在于，这一笔是连续不间断的一道线条，而且是弗莱帕落笔的第一画。这意味着，早在写下第一笔之前，七肢桶便已经知道整个句子将如何布局。

这个句子的其它笔画同样贯穿了几个从句，笔笔勾连交织。抽掉任何一笔，整个句子的结构将全然不同，只好重新组织。七肢桶并不是一次只写下一个语标，写完一个再写第二个。任何一道笔画都不只与一个语标关联，而是涉及好几个语标。字符与字符之间融合到这种程序，我以前只在书法作品中见过，尤其是以阿拉伯文字写就的书法作品。但那些作品是出自书法家手笔，事先经过精心安排。没有人能够连说边写，以这么高的速度完成如此复杂的作品。至少，人类做不到。

我从前听一个喜剧演员说过一个笑语：“我拿不准是不是该要个孩子。一个朋友有孩子，于是我问她：‘如果我有了孩子，可他们长大后，会不会生活中遇到什么不幸都怪罪我？’那个朋友大笑起来，‘会不会？别天真了你。’”

这是我最喜欢的笑话。

盖雷和我坐在一家很小的中国餐馆里，我们常常溜出营地照顾这家馆子。我们品尝着开胃点心：锅贴，猪肉馅蘸芝麻油，喷香。我最喜欢不过。

我夹起一个，在加了酱油和醋的油碟里蘸了蘸。“喂，你的七肢桶语言Ｂ练得怎么样了？”我问他。

盖雷偏着头盯天花板。我想看他的眼睛，可他不住转移视线。

“我灰心了，放弃了，对不对？”我说，“连尝试一下都不肯了。”

他脑袋一耷拉，既惭愧内疚，又垂头丧气。“我在语言方面硬是不行。”他老老实实地坦白说，“当初我还以为学语言Ｂ跟学外语不同，大概和学数学差不多。我简直大错特错。对我来说，这门外语未免外得太厉害了些。”

“但是，学好之后有助于你跟它们讨论物理呀。”

“可能吧。可现在既然已经有了突破口，我那几句话也将将就就能对付过去了。”

我叹了口气，“我得承认，你的话也有道理。我自己数学就不行，早就放弃了。”

“这么说，咱俩平手？”

“打平了。”我啜了口茶，“我还想问问你费尔马定律的事。这里头有些事我觉得古怪，可又说不清怪在什么地方。这个定律听上去根本不像物理定律嘛。”

盖雷的眼睛闪闪发光，“我敢打赌，我知道你觉得什么地方古怪。”他伸出筷子，把一个锅贴一挟两半，“你习惯于从因果关系的角度考虑光的折射：接触水面是因，产生折射改变方向是果。你之所以觉得费尔马定律古怪，原因在于它从目的、以及达成目的的手段这个角度来描述光。好像有谁向光下了一道圣旨：‘令尔等以最短或最长时间完成尔等使命。’”

我陷入沉思，“接着说。”

“这是一个老问题了，关系到物理学中蕴含的哲理。自从十七世纪费尔马提出这条定律以来，人们便一直在讨论。普朗克还就这个问题写过不少著作。这个问题就是：物理学的一般公理都是因果关系，为什么费尔马定律这样的变分原理却是目的导向？比如这里的光，好像有自己的目的。这已经接近于目的论了。”

“嗯，用这种方式阐述这个问题，有意思。让我想想。”我掏出一枝毡头笔，在餐巾纸上画了一幅简图，就是盖雷普在黑板上画过、描绘光的折射的那幅图。“好了，”我说，一边想，嘴里一边把想法说出来，“我们假定，一道光束的目的就是取一条耗时最少的路径。这道光束怎么才能选出这条路？”

“这个……好吧，我们设想万物皆有灵魂，采用拟人化的说法。这束光必须检查所有可能采取的路径，计算出每条路径将花费的时间，从而选出耗时最少的一条。”他一筷子叼走盘子里最后一个锅贴。

“要做到你说的这一点，那道光束必须知道它的目的地是哪里。如果目的地是甲点，最快路径就与到乙点全然不同。”

盖雷又点点头，“一点没错。如果没有一个明确的目的地，‘最快路径’这种说法就失去意义了。另外，给定一条路径，要计算出这条路径所费时间，还必须知道这条路上有什么，比如有没有水之类。”

我定定地注视着餐巾纸上的简图，“就是说，这道光束事先必须什么都知道，早在它出发之前就知道。对不对？”

“我们这么说吧。”盖雷道，“这道光不可能贸然踏上旅途，走出一段之后再作调整。需要重作调整的路绝不会是耗时最少的路径。这道光必须在出发之初便完成一切所需计算。”

我在心里自言自语，这道光束，在它选定路径出发之前，它必得事先知道自己最终将在何处止步。这一点让我想起了什么，我很清楚。我抬头望着盖雷，“这就是我一直觉得古怪的地方。我很不安。”

未来有一件事，我还记得。那时你十四岁。你从你卧室里出来，手里拿着个笔记本，上面涂涂抹抹的是一份学校作业。

“妈，两边都赢了，那个词儿怎么说来着？”

我那时正在电脑前写一篇论文，我抬起头，“啊？你是说双赢？”

“有个专门的词儿，跟科学有关系，数学之类。还记得上回爸爸来的时候，他当时说起股市时就用了那个词儿。”

“唔，好像是。可我记不起他怎么说的了。”

“我必须知道这个词儿，我的社会调查报告里要用。连搜索都不行，除非我知道这个词儿是什么。”

“真抱歉，我也不知道。为什么不给爸爸打个电话问问？”

从你的表情上看，你不愿意。将来那个时期，你和你父亲不大合得来。“你给爸打电话问他。别跟他说是为我。”

“我认为你满可以自己打这个电话。”

你会大发脾气，“天哪，妈！从你跟爸爸分手，我做作业都找不着人帮忙。”

真是的，什么稀奇古怪的事你都可以归结到我和你父亲离婚。

“我帮过你呀。”

“一百万年前的事儿了，妈。”

我决定不跟这个话题，“只要记得，我一定会帮你的。可我真的不记得那个词儿了。”

你会气呼呼地掉头冲向你的卧室。

我抓紧每一个机会练习七肢桶语言Ｂ，或者与其他语言学家共同研讨，或者一个人自学。阅读七语的新奇感给了我强大的学习动力，在语言Ａ中我就缺乏这种动力。我的书写大见起色，让我倍感欣慰。经过一段时间，我笔下的句子形状越来越像个样子，衔接也更加紧密。我的水平已经达到这种地步：不多加考虑时反而写得更好。现在我不再需要下笔之前小心翼翼地设计安排，只需振笔直书。开头的几笔几乎总能融合进我想表达的整个句子，既漂亮又优雅。这方面我的能力已经越来越接近七肢桶了。

更有意思的是，七肢桶语言Ｂ逐渐改变着我的思维习惯。对我来说，思维意味着心里说话。用我们的术语来说，我的思维和语言具有音位相关的特点。一般情况下，我心里说的是英语。不过也不尽然。高中高年级时有个夏天，我参加了一个封闭式俄语学习课程。到夏天结束时，我思维时使用的语言已经成了俄语，连做梦时用的也是俄语。不管用什么语言，模式都是一个：思维就是在心里、用内在语言说话。

如果思维时使用的是一种没有发音表达形式的语言，那会怎么样？我对这种情况一直很好奇。我有一个朋友，父母都是聋子。从小到大他一直使用手语。他告诉我，他思考问题时心里用的语言常常是手语。我非常感兴趣，思维竟然能够这样构成。此人思考时内心没有声音，脑子里只有一双手比来划去。

在学习七肢桶语言Ｂ的过程中，我也有了类似体验，其怪异程度比我那位朋友的情况有过之而无不及：构成我的思维的是一团团图像式符号。有一天，我突然发现，自己的思维竟然不是通过内心的声音表达！只是凭着心灵的眼睛看到一团团七语，像窗户玻璃上的雾气一样渐渐展开！那一瞬间真是让人心醉神迷。

我的书写越来越流畅，七语书写之前在脑子里便已经完全成形，即使比较复杂的观念也能一下子、同时形成文字形式。但这并不是说，我的思维速度比从前更快。只是，我的思维与极度对称的七文保持一致。七文好像并不仅仅是一种文字，它们几乎类似于佛教中帮助禅定的象征宇宙的几何图案。我发现自己仿佛进入了某种冥想状态。在我的冥思中，前因与后果不再是各自独立的两个个体，而是交织在一起，互相影响互相作用，二者不可分割。观念与观念之间并不存在天生的、必然的排列顺序，没有所谓“思维之链”，循着一条固定的路线前进。在我的思维过程中，所有组成部分的重要性都是一样的，没有哪一个念头具有优先权。如果有优先权这个说法，那么，所有组成部分都具有相同的优先仅。

国务院派来一个名叫霍斯纳的代表，他的任务就是根据我们与七肢桶的交流，就这个问题教训我们这些美利坚合众国的科学家。我们坐在视频会议室里听他滔滔不绝。我们的麦克风是关上的，于是盖雷和我可以交换意见而不打扰霍斯纳大人。有时我们也听听，可我担心盖雷白眼翻得太多，这对他的视力可不是好事。

“它们从遥远的星际来到地球，一定肩负某种使命。”那位外交官说。从扬声器里传出的声音带着一丝金属腔，“谢天谢地，它们的目的似乎不是征服地球。但如果不是为这个目的，其目的是什么？它们是采矿的？人类学家？传教士？无论其动机如何，它们肯定想要什么。或许是我们太阳系的采矿权，或许想要有关我们人类的信息，或许是想在人类中间传教布道。肯定想要什么，这一点我们有百分之百的把握。

”我的观点是这样：它们的目的或许不在于贸易，但这并不是说，我们不能和它们搞贸易。我们需要了解它们的目的何在，我们手里有什么东西是它们想要的，就这么简单。一旦掌握这个信息，我们就可以和它们开始谈判。

“我要向诸位强调一点：我们与七肢桶之间的关系并不一定是对抗性的，不一定它们的收获就是我们的损失，反之亦然。如果我们处理得当，双方都能够成为赢家。”

“你的意思是说，这是一场非零和游戏？”盖雷装出难以置信的表情，“噢，我的天哪。”

“非零和游戏。”

“什么？”你会从卧室方向转过身来。

“指双方都是赢家。我一下子想起来了，叫非零和游戏。”

“就是这个词儿！”你会叫起来，在笔记本上记下，“谢谢妈妈。”

“这些原本知道。”我会说，“毕竟跟你父亲一块儿过了这么多年。只是有些事磨掉了，没想起来。”

“我就知道你知道这个词儿。”你会这么说，突然给了我一个短短的拥抱。你的头发一股好闻的苹果味儿，“你是最棒的妈咪。”

“露易丝？”

“嗯？对不起，我走神了。你刚才说什么来着？”

“我问你，你觉得霍斯纳先生大驾光临，有什么意图？”

“我宁愿不去想它。”

“你这一手我早就试过：甭理会政府，没准儿过一段儿它就会自己灰溜溜走掉。它不会。”

好像为了证明盖雷的断语，霍斯纳继续喋喋不休：“你们当前的任务就是好好回想自己了解些什么，看能不能发现任何有助于我们的线索。七肢桶暗示过它们来此的意图吗？或者提过它们看重什么东西没有？”

“哎哟喂，我们怎么早没想到注意这些方面。”我说，“马上就办，长官。”

“悲哀的是，咱们还真的不能不做。”盖雷道。

“还有问题吗？”霍斯纳问道。

研究沃兹堡视镜的语言学家伯哈特道：“这些问题我们向七肢桶提过无数次了。它们始终说来这里的目的是观察。它们还说，不可能与我们交流信息。”

“它们就是要我们相信这种说法。”霍斯纳说，“但请各位好好想想：这怎么可能？我也知道，七肢桶时不时停下来，不和我们对话。可能这是它们那边的一种策略。如果我们明天也不同它们对话……”

“如果他说出什么值得一听的东西，叫醒我。”盖雷道。

“这话我正想对你说呢。”

盖雷头一次向我解释费尔马定律那天，他说过，几乎每一条物理定律都可以阐释为变分原理，但人类头脑在思考这些原理时往往将它们简化为表述因果关系的公式。这我能够理解：人类凭借直观手段发现的物理特性都是某一对象在某一给定时刻所表现出来的属性，诸如运动、速度等等概念都是这样。按先后顺序、以因果关系的方式阐述这些事件最方便：一个事件引发另一事件，一个原因导致一个结果，由此引发连锁反应，事物于是由过去的状态发展到未来的状态。

与人类相反，七肢桶直觉到，物理属性本身是没有意义的，只有经过一段时间之后这些属性才有意义可言。比如“动能”或其他我们人类需要用积分公式描述定义的物性。这些属性用目的论的形式加以解释最便利：对事件作一段时间的观察，之后便会发现，这些事件本身具有某种要求，某种目的，比如最长时间或最短时间。对于一个事件来说，只有当它事先便了解自己的初始和终极阶段，才能达成它的目的。事先便知道“果”——先于“因”的启动便知道。

对于这一点，我越来越了解了。

“为什么？”你会固执地再一次发问。这是未来的事，你那时二岁。

“因为睡觉的时间到了呀。”我也会再一次说。那个时候，我们只能哄着你洗澡，穿上睡衣裤，此后再也不能推进一步。

“我不愿意睡觉。”你嚎了起来。你会站在书架旁，拽下一盒录像带看：这是你的最新战术，抵制上床睡觉。

“我不管，你非上床睡觉不可。”

“但是为什么？”

“因为我是妈妈，我说让你睡觉，你就得睡觉。”

我居然真的说出了这句话！老天呀，派个人一枪把我打死算了。

我会把你一把抱起来，夹在胳膊底下把你一路送上床。你可怜兮兮地大哭大叫。可我哪里顾得上你，我自己的事已经够烦的了。小时候我曾经发过誓，等我当了妈妈，一定和孩子讲道理，把孩子当作一个有智力、有独立思考能力的人看待——所有誓言全都成了零。我正一步一步变成跟我自己的母亲一个样。这是一道漫长、吓人的下坡滑道，我正一步步滑下去，停不下来。我也挣扎过，可就是停不下来。

有可能预先知道未来的事吗？不是猜测，而是真真切切知道，百分之百确定，而且知道每一个细节。这可能吗？盖雷曾经告诉我，物理学的基本定律具有时间上的对称性，也就是说，不论过去现在，物理的物性不会发生改变。说起概念，大多数人都会说，“是啊，理论上说是这样。”可要说得具体些时，他们便改了口气，“不可能。”这里有个自由意志的问题。

关于这个问题，我喜欢把它跟一个寓言联系在一起。这个寓言说的是一个人站在岁月之书前，这本书按时间先后记载了过去与未来的一切事件。这本书是缩印本，可尽管如此，它还是一部庞然大物。这个人手持放大镜，翻动薄薄的纸页，翻到记载自己生平事迹的地方。她发现有一段写着她翻阅岁月之书。她跳到下一段，这段文字详细叙述了她这一天余下的时间会做什么：根据书里记录，她会在一匹名叫五月魔鬼的赛马上下一百美元的赌注，然后赢回二十倍。

她也想过，就按书上说的做。可她是个反叛型，偏要下定决心，什么马都不赌。

悖论于是产生。岁月之书不可能错误，上一幕的情景之所以发生，前提是这个人已经知道未来，确切地知道，而不是某种可能性。如果这是一则希腊神话，就会有种种外部条件联合起来，迫使她按照预言行事，无论她的自由意志如何。可大家都知道，神话中的预言极其模糊，岁月之书却非常精确详尽，外部事物中也不存在迫使她按预言所说的方式下注的力量。结果就是悖论：按照定义，岁月之书永远是对的；另一方面，不管这部书里说她会做什么，她都可以按照自己的自由意志，选择做出其他举动。这两个互相矛盾的方面如何统一起来？

不可能统一，这是通常答案。正是因为上面提到的矛盾，岁月之书这种著作便不可能存在，逻辑上不可能。要不然还可以大方点：岁月之书可以存在，只要它不被读者读到——放在一个特别地方保存，不给任何人借阅权。

自由意志的存在意味着我们不可能预知未来。而我们之所以知道自由意志存在，是因为我们直接体验过它。意志是个人意识的本质部分。

……但真的是这样吗？会不会出现另一种情况：预知未来改变了一个人，唤醒了她的紧迫感，使她觉得自己有一种义务，必须严格遵照预言行事？

离开办公室前我来到盖雷那里，“我打算今天就这样了。想跟我一块随便找点东西吃吗？”

“好啊，马上就来。”他说。他关上电脑，整理好几份文件，接着他抬头望着我，“哎，想不想今晚去我那儿吃晚饭？我来做菜。”

我怀疑地看着他，“你会做菜？”

“只会一个菜。”他承认道，“但味道很好。”

“行。”我说，“我挺有兴趣。”

“太好了。咱们只需要去趟商店买点配料。”

“不用那么麻——”

“去我家路上就有一家店，一会儿就好。”

我们各开各的车，我跟在他后面。他很突兀地转向一个停车场时我差点跟丢了。这是一家美食商店，不大，却有各种各样稀奇食品。不锈钢货架上一排排高高的玻璃樽，里面塞满进口美食，玻璃樽旁放的是种种专门厨具。

我陪着盖雷选购新鲜紫苏、蕃茄、大蒜、意大利扁面条。“隔壁有家鱼市，待会儿咱们可以过去买点鲜蛤。”

“听上去不错。”我们走过厨具区，货架上一排排胡椒碾子、大蒜榨、沙拉钳看得我眼花缭乱。我的视线落在一个木质沙拉钵上。

等到以后你三岁大时，你想从厨房台子往下拉一条洗碗巾，结果带倒了这个沙拉钵。我一把没抓住，钵沿会磕在你脑门上，你的前额上沿将被划开一道伤口，需要缝一针。你父亲和我紧紧搂着你，在急诊室等了好长时间。你抽抽答答哭个不住，衣服上全是凯撒沙拉酱。

我伸手从货架上取下那个沙拉钵，自然而然，一点儿也没有被迫的感觉。就好像未来那一天，这个沙拉钵朝你落下去，我冲过去想抓住它一样，纯属本能不假思索。

“这种沙拉钵我倒是可以买它一个。”

盖雷瞧瞧这个钵子，赞赏地点点头，“你瞧，在这家店停一会儿是件好事吧。”

“是啊，是件好事。”我们排队，分别为自己买的东西付款。

考虑这样一句话，“兔子可以吃了。”如果把“兔子”一词当作“吃”这个动词的对象，这句话的含意就是饭准备好了。如果“兔子”这个词是主语，这句话的发生环境便可能是小姑娘告诉妈妈，她已经为兔子准备好了饲料。同样一句话却有两种全然不同的解释，它的确切含意只能依靠上下文关联来决定。

再来考虑光的折射，光以一个角度触及水，然后改变其路径。可以从因果关系的角度解释：因为空气与水的折射率不同，所以光改变了路径。

这是人类看待世界的方法。如果换一个角度看这个问题：光之所以改变路径，是为了最大限度减少它抵达目的所耗费的时间。这便是七肢桶看待世界的方法。两种全然不同的解释。

可以将物理意义上的宇宙视为一种语言，其语法极度含混。每一个现象都是一种表述，可以用两种截然不同的角度加以阐释，一种是因果角度，一种是目的角度，两种都是成立的。无论上下文如何，任何一种解释角度都不会因此失效。

当人类和七肢桶的远祖闪现出第一星自我意识的火花时，他们眼前是同一个物理世界，但他们对世界的感知理解却走上了不同道路，最后导致全然不同的世界观。人类发展出前后连贯的意识模式，而七肢桶却发展成同步并举式的意识模式。我们依照先后顺序来感知事件，将各个事件之间的关系理解为因与果。他们则同时感知所有事件，并按所有事件均有目的的方式来理解它们，有最小目的，也有最大目的。

有关你的死亡，我反复做同一个梦。在梦里，攀岩的人是我——居然是我，你能想像我攀岩吗？——而你只有三岁大，待在我背的某种背包里。我们离岩缝只有几英尺远，到那里就能休息休息。你耐不住性子，不等我爬上去，你就开始自顾自爬出背包。我叫你停下，你当然不理睬我。你向外爬时我感觉得到，你的重量从背包一边移到另一边，接下来，我感到你的左脚踩在我的肩膀上，然后是右脚。我声嘶力竭朝你大喊大叫，可我腾不出手来抓住你。你朝上爬，我能看见你运动鞋底的波浪形花纹。接着我看见，你的一只鞋底下有一片风化岩剥落了你从我身边滑下去，我却连一根手指头都不能动一动。我朝下望，眼看你向我下面越坠越远，你的身体越来越小。

然后，突然间，我已经在太平间里。一个勤杂工掀开罩单，露出你的脸。我看见的是二十五岁时的你。

“你没事吧？”

我直直地坐在床上，动静把盖雷惊醒了。“我没事，只是惊了一下。一时想不起自己在什么地方。”

他睡意朦胧地说，“下回咱们去你家好了。”

我吻他一下，“别担心，你家很好。”我们蜷在一起睡了，我的背靠着他的胸膛。

今后，你三岁时，有一次我俩爬一段很陡的盘旋楼梯，我会紧紧拉着你的手，你会使劲挣开。“我自己能行。”你会坚持说，然后从我身边走开一段，证明自己说的不错。那时我会想起这个梦。你童年时，类似情景将一次又一次反复重现。我几乎相信，正是因为我时时想保护你，反而激发了你执拗的天性，让你养成了攀登的爱好：先是幼儿园的儿童攀架，然后是我们屋外的树木，攀岩俱乐部的岩壁，最后——国家公园的峭壁。

写完最后一个词根，我放下粉笔，坐进办公室书桌旁的椅子里，向后一靠，审视着自己写下的占了满满一黑板的七肢桶句子。这个句子有好几个复杂从句，我使尽浑身解数才把这一大团粘结成为一个整体。

看着这样一个句子，我明白了七肢桶为什么会发展出一套像语言Ｂ这样复杂的书写系统。这种文字系统只适合具有同步并举式思维模式的种族。对它们来说，口头语言是个瓶颈，因为说话需要一个字一个字连续地说。而书写则不同，一眼之下便摄入一张纸上的每一个符号。故意将文字也套上紧身衣，像口头语言一样一个字一个字以线型模式完成，这是完全没有必要的。七肢桶决不会这么想。七语的书写自然会尽量利用纸张的二维平面特性，而不会像施舍叫花子似的一个词一个词往外蹦。它们会把一张纸全部写满，只消一眼，上面的内容便同时尽收眼底。

现在，七肢桶语言Ｂ也引导着我的意识，走上了一条同步式的思维模式。我因此明白了七肢桶口语的基本原理：我从前习惯于线性思维，觉得它们的口头语言颇多不必要的绕来绕去的地方。现在我明白了，七肢桶口语发音方面仍然有连续性的限制，它们的口语极力想在这个限制之内获取最大程度的灵活性。明白了这个，我现在能够更加自如地运用语言Ａ，但我仍然觉得，语言Ａ只是语言Ｂ的贫弱的替代品。

传来一记敲门声，盖雷探头进来。“韦伯上校马上就到。”

我挤出一个苦脸，“好吧。”韦伯要来参加与弗莱帕与拉斯伯里的一次对话，由我担任翻译。我从来没受过这方面训练，也讨厌这种工作。

盖雷走进办公室，关上门。他把我从椅子里拉起来，吻我。

我笑了起来，“想在他来之前打起我的精神头儿？”

“不，想打起我自己的精神头儿。”

“其实你对和七肢桶谈话根本没有兴趣，是不是？参加这项工作只为了把我弄上床。”

“嘿，你可算把我看透了。”

我凝视着他的眼睛，“你绝对想像不出。”我说。

我还记得未来那段日子，你当时只是个婴儿。我会半夜两点跌跌撞撞下床给你喂奶。你的婴儿室里一股子味儿：治尿布湿疹的油膏味，爽身粉味，还有屋角尿布桶里散出一股淡淡的尿味。我会在你的摇篮前弯下腰，把你这个哇哇大哭的小身体抱起来，坐在一把摇椅里喂你。

“婴儿”这个词源自拉丁语，意思是“不能说话的”。但是你呀，有一句话的意思你可以一点也不含糊地表达出来：“难受”。你时时刻刻表达这个意思，一点儿也不犹豫。你哭起来时会变成愤怒的化身，你的小身体的每一根纤维都在全力表达这种情绪。有件事挺好玩儿的：你安静下来时好像会发出一种光。如果有人要替这时的你画一幅像，我会坚决要求画家画上这轮光晕。可你要是不高兴起来，简直成了个小喇叭，全部身体构造好像都是有意用来发出噪声。你这种时候的画像就是一个警报喇叭，熊熊烈火中的警报喇叭。

在你生活中的那个阶段，对你来说不存在过去，也不存在未来。只要不是我给你喂奶的时候，你不会有什么心满意足的回忆，对未来也不存任何期待。可只要是吃奶的时候，一切就将截然不同，这一刻的世界尽善尽美。你只知道这一刻，活在这一刻，没有过去也没有未来。从很多方面说，这种状态真让人羡慕。

七肢桶的观念既非我们所想像的自由，也不像某些人所想像的那样受约束它们既不是怎么想就怎么做，也不是毫无能动性的机器人。七肢桶意识模式中最突出的一点不是它们的行动与未来事件相合，而在于它们的动机它们的动机、未来事件的目的，这两者是统一的。它们行动，使既定的末来成为现实，也使事件有了先后顺序。

自由并不是一种虚幻的假象，在先后顺序模式的意识中，它的的确确是真实的存在。在同步并举式的意识中，自由这种观念却没有多大意义，但同时也不存在“被迫”。两种意识不一样，仅此而已。这就好像在哈哈镜前，看不见照镜子的人，只能看到镜中形象。镜中出现的也许是个绝代佳人，也许是个鼻子上长着大瘤子的小丑，下巴长到胸口。两种形象都是合理的阐释，没有“对”“错”可言。但是，镜子中一次只有一个形象，你无法同时看到两个。

与此相类，预知未来又与我的自由意志产生了矛盾。正因为能够自由选择，所以我不可能预知未来。反过来说，如果我已经知道了未来，我便不可能反抗这个既定的命运，也不可能把我知道的未来告诉其他人——这也是一种形式的反抗。预知未来的人不会奢谈未来，读过岁月之书的人不会承认自己读过它。

我打开录像机，塞进去一盒磁带，上面录着沃兹堡视镜前的一次对话。与七肢桶谈判的是一位外交官。伯哈特担任翻译。

外交官讲的是人类的道德信仰，极力宣扬人类的利他主义，希望以此为今后的谈判作好铺垫。这场对话的结果七肢桶们知道得一清二楚，但还是积极参与，非常热心。

如果我试图对某个不曾预知这一切的人谈起这些事，他一定会问，要是七肢桶事先早已知道它们会说什么、会听到什么，为什么还要白费唇舌浪费语言？这是一个合乎情理的问题。问题是语言不仅仅是一种交流工具，语言也是一种行动。按照语言——行为理论，诸如“你被逮捕了”、“我将这艘船命名为……”、“我保证”这些语同，语言本身就是行为，仅当发出这些语词之后行为才算完成——话一出口，行为即成。对于这些行为而言，预先知道会说出什么话并没有什么关系。婚礼上人人都知道会有一句“我现在宣布你们结为夫妻”，这无关紧要。重要的是主婚人说出这一句话。没有这句话，单有其他仪式是不行的。对于具有行为性的语词而言，说话就是行动。

对于七肢桶来说，所有说出口的话都是行为性的。它们所说的话不是用来交流思想，而是用来完成行为。无论什么对话，七肢桶全都事先知道双方会说些什么，这是事实。但为了让它们所知的对话变为真正的事实，对话仍然必须举行。

“金发小女孩儿先尝了尝熊爸爸的麦片粥，但碗里盛的却是甘蓝菜，她讨厌甘蓝菜。”

你咯咯咯笑起来，“念错了，念错了！”未来那个时候，我们将紧紧挨着坐在沙发上，膝盖上摊开一本薄薄的、贵得要命的硬皮书。

我继续念，“小女孩儿接着尝了尝熊妈妈的麦片粥，但碗里盛的却是菠菜，她也讨厌菠菜。”

你会把小手伸到书上拦住我，“你得按书上写的念！

”我就是按书上写的念呀。“我会一本正经地回答你。

”才不，你没有！故事里不是这么说的。“

”好啊，既然你知道故事怎么写的，干吗非得我念给你听？“”我想听你念嘛！

韦伯的办公室里有空调，凉快极了。空调带来的舒服几乎可以抵消和他谈话的不愉快。

“它们愿意进行某种形式的交换。”我解释说，“但不是贸易。我们只需给它们些什么，它们则给我们一些东西作为回报。双方事先都不告诉对方自己这一边要给的是什么。”

韦伯上校的眉头稍稍皱起来。“你是说它们愿意交换礼物啰？”

我早就知道自己要说什么，“我们不应当把这个活动视为‘交换礼物’，因为我们不知道对七肢桶来说，这种交换是不是与人类具有相同的含意。”

“我们能否……”他寻找着合适的词，“给它们点暗示，暗示我们想要哪种礼物？”

“它们不这么处理这种形式的交换。我问过它们，说我们可不可以提出要求，它们说可以，但就算提出来，它们也不会说出给我们的是什么。”我蓦地想起，“表示”和“表演”在语词形态上非常接近，如果是在舞台上演出，可以用这两个词来描述你预先知道双方台词的对话：“表示”就是“表演”。

“但经过要求，它们是不是更可能把我们想要的东西当成交换礼物？”韦伯上校问。他对这场演出的脚本一无所知，但仍旧把自己角色的台词说得分毫不差。

“我们无从知道。”我说，“我个人表示怀疑。它们提出的交换可不是依对方要求订制礼物。”

“如果我们首先给出己方礼物，它们会不会受我方礼物的价值的影响，给我们同等价值的东西？”他这个角色是在现场发挥，而我则事先为这一场演出作过精心排练。

“不会。”我回答，“就我们所知，对它们而言，礼物的价值无关紧要。”

“我的亲戚们要这样想就好了。”盖雷低声说，表情冷淡。

我看着韦伯上校转向盖雷，“你们在物理讨论方面有什么新发现吗？”他问道。一言一行完全依照脚本。

“如果你指的是有没有人类不知道的物理新发现，那么，没有。”盖雷说，“七肢桶们还是老样子。我们向它们作演示，它们则拿出它们那一方的相关公式，但不会主动提出什么，也不回答我们有关七肢桶知识领域的问题。”

有了七肢桶语言Ｂ的知识，人类自发产生的、具有交流功能的一句句口语对话变成了仪式，人人都在执行这个仪式，背诵自己的台词。

韦伯阴沉着脸，“好吧，我们看国务院怎么说。也许可以安排某种交换礼物的仪式。”

语言也和物理现象一样，有两种理解方式：从因果关系的角度、从目的论的角度。于是可以说，语言是发送信息的工具，因为我说了，所以你听见了；也可以说，语言使预先知道的计划得以成为现实。

“我觉得这个主意不错，上校。”我说。

这是一句双关语，但绝大多数人听不出来。一句私人笑话，别逼我解释。

虽然我已经精通了语言Ｂ，但我知道，我仍旧不能像七肢桶一样体验世界。我的意识是人类的意识，我的语言是线性语言，这些已经定型了。这一点，无论怎么熟悉外星人语言也不能完全改变。我的世界观是人物与七肢桶的混合物。

在我学会以七肢桶语言Ｂ作为思维工具之前，我的记忆仿佛是一截烟灰，意识的香烟连续不断燃烧着当前，遗下一长条无数细小微粒组成的烟灰。学会七肢桶语言Ｂ之后，有关未来的记忆好像巨大的拼图游戏的拼板，一块块拼合起来，每一块都是过去或未来的岁月。它们并不依次而来，顺序拼接，但不久便组合成为长达五十年的记忆，这是我学会语言Ｂ、能够用它思维之后的记忆，从我与弗莱帕、拉斯伯里的讨论开始，直到死亡。

通常，七肢桶语言Ｂ影响的只是我的记忆，我的意识则和从前一样，好像香烟上的火头，缓慢地、连续地向前爬行。不同的是，现在，香烟两头都是记忆的烟灰，没有燃烧的那一头也是一样。有时我也会被语言Ｂ完全支配，这种时刻，一瞥之下，过去与未来轰轰然同时并至，我的意识成为长达半个世纪的灰烬，时间未至已成灰。一瞥间五十年诸般纷纭并发眼底，我的余生尽在其中。还有，你的一生。

我用七文写下“进展——创造——终点——包含——我们”，意思是“我们开始吧”。拉斯伯里同意，幻灯放映开始。七肢桶另外准备了一台显示屏，在上面显示一系列图像，包括七文、公式。我们也有一台起同样作用的显示器。

这是我参加的第二次“礼物交换”。已经进行了八次。我知道这将是最后一次。视镜所在的帐篷里挤满了人，有沃兹堡来的伯哈特、盖雷和一个核物理学家，研究各分支学科的生物学家，人类学家，军界大人物和外交官。幸好他们装了空调，帐篷里还算凉快。对方显示屏上的图像我们会录下来以后研究，弄清七肢桶的“礼物”究竟是什么。我方的礼物是展示拉斯科岩洞里的岩画。

我们全都挤在七肢桶的第二台显示屏前，试图在图像掠过时多少抓住点其中的内容。“初步评估？”韦伯上校问道。

“不是把我们的东西再一次传回来。”伯哈特说。上一次交换中，七肢桶们交给我们的是有关我们人类的信息，这些东西原本就是我们告诉它们的。国务院气得火冒三丈。我们没有理由将这种行为视作侮辱：这可能表明，在七肢桶的交换中，礼物本身的价值没什么要紧。仍然不排除以下可能性的存在：它们也许会向我们提供太空飞船驱动装置，或者常温核聚变原理，或者别的什么奇迹，让大家心满意足。

“好像跟无机化学有关。”那个核物理学家趁显示屏上图像还没有改变，指着一个公式说。

盖雷点点头，“可能是材料科学方面的东西。”

“说不定这回总算有点进展了。”韦伯上校道。

“我还想看动物图片。”我像个孩子似的噘着嘴，悄声说。只有盖雷能听见我的话，他笑起来，捅了我一下。我说的是真话，我真希望它们能像前两次一样，再给我们一份宇宙生物学报告。从那些报告上看，七肢桶所遇到的智慧生物中，以人类跟它们最为相似。要不再作一次七肢桶历史的报告也行啊。那些报告中涉及的内容显然经过预先处理，我们无法从中得出什么推论。但不管怎么说，还是很有意思。我可不愿七肢桶给我们什么新技术——政府拿那些技术想干的事，我一点儿也不希望看到。

信息交换过程中我密切注视拉斯伯里，寻找任何反常举止。它一动不动地站着，跟平常一样。我看不出不久将发生什么事的迹象。

一分钟后，七肢桶的屏幕变成空白。此后一分钟，我们的也一样。盖雷和大多数其他科学家聚在重播七肢桶礼物的一个小录像机显示器前。我听见他们说什么需要找来个固态物理学家。韦伯上校转过身，“你们两个，”他说，一指我和伯哈特，“和对方安排下一次交换的时间地点。”说完便和其他人一样，看起录像重放来。

“遵命，立即着手。”我嘟哝一句。又问伯哈特，“这份光荣、你来，还是我上？”

我知道伯哈特跟我一样，熟练掌握了七肢桶语言Ｂ。“这儿是你的视镜，”他说，“你来。”

我在发送信息的电脑前坐下，“我敢打赌，你读研究生时，自己都想不到最后会干上军队翻译吧。”

“千真万确”他说，“就算现在我还是不敢相信。”我们彼此所说的双方预先都知道，跟潜伏特工在公开场合接头时交换约定暗语一样。没有人识破我们。

我用七文写下“地点——交换——办理——会谈——包括——我们”，调制解调器将这个句子打上屏幕。

拉斯伯里写下回答。按照脚本，我该皱眉头了，伯哈特的角色则是发问，“这到底是什么意思？”他的演出无懈可击。

我写下一个问句，要求对方澄清。拉斯伯里的回答和刚才一样。然后我望着它滑出视镜里的房间。我们这场演出的大幕就要落下来了。

韦伯上校一步跨上前来，“出什么事了？它为什么走了？”

“它说七肢桶走了。”我答道，“不是单指它一个，它们全都走了。”

“赶快把它叫回来！问它是什么意思。”

“这个嘛，我想拉斯伯里没带传呼机。”

视镜里的房间图像突地消失，如此突兀，我的眼睛过了一会儿才明白看着的是什么：视镜另一边的帐篷。视镜现在变为完全透明。录像机旁的热烈讨论突然中断，一片死寂。

“这他妈到底是怎么回事？”韦伯上校发问。

盖雷走到视镜前，又转到背后，伸出一只手摸着视镜背面。在手指触及视镜的地方，我从前面能清楚地看见他的指纹。“我认为，”他开口道，“我们刚刚看到的是远距离物态转换的演示。”

我听见帐篷外传来沉重急促的脚步声，一个士兵冲进帐篷，跑得上气不接下气。他手里拿着一个超大型对讲机。“上校，有消息——”

韦伯一把夺过对讲机。

我还记得你只有一天大时的样子。那时你父亲急匆匆地跑去医院自助餐厅吃快餐，你将躺在你的摇篮里，而我，我将紧紧偎依着你。

那时，分娩过去还不久，我仍然觉得自己仿佛是一条绞干了水的毛巾。你看上去小极了，可我怀着你时觉得你那么大，前后相比，简直不调和：怀着你时，我还以为你会大得多，结实得多。你的小手小脚又长又瘦，还没有长出胖嘟嘟的宝宝肉。你的小脸红通通，皱巴巴的，眼皮有点发肿，紧紧闭着。小娃娃都是这样，像天使之前有个阶段，真像小鬼头。

我会用一根手指抚过你的小肚肚，你的皮肤嫩极了，叫人不敢相信，哪怕轻纱也会像粗麻一样擦伤你。接着你会扭动起来，拧起你的小身子，一只一只跷起腿来。我会记起这个动作，你在我肚子里就是这么做的，好多次了。至少看上去是。

我无比欣慰，这就是那个独一无二的母女关系的证据，证明你就是那个我怀过的孩子。即使我从来没有见过你，我还是能够在无数孩子的海洋中一眼把你认出来：不是那个，不，也不是她……等等，那边那个。

对，就是她，她就是我的宝宝。

最后一次“交换礼物”也就是我们最后一次见到七肢桶。同一时间，全世界范围内的七肢桶视镜变为透明，它们的飞船也同时离开太空轨道。此后对视镜作了检查，发现它们只不过是硅经过热融之后的产物，一点反应都没有。最后一次交换时七肢桶向我们展示了一种新型超导材料，后来发现它们只是重述了日本人刚刚完成的一个研究项目——它们没有告诉我们任何人类未知的东西。我们始终没有弄清七肢桶为什么离开，它们为什么来到地球，也不明白它们为什么像这样行事。我新获得的能力也不能提供答案。据我们估计，七肢桶的行为也可以从线性发展的观点得出解释，但是我们始终没有能够解释出来。我真希望自己能够更多地体验七肢桶的世界观，以它们的方式感知世界。如果真是那样，我可能会像它们一样，觉得每个事件都有其必然性，并且全身心融入，彻底理解这些必然性。它们一定是这样的。相反，我的一生都将浅尝辄止，跟随大小事件随波逐流，为这些事件所裹胁。这是无可避免的。我将和各视镜研究小组的语言学家一样，继续练习七肢桶语言，可是我们的成绩已经凝固在七肢桶与我们对话的那个阶段了，终生将不会取得任何进步。

对七肢桶语言的学习将改变我的一生。正是因为这个事件，我和你的父亲相遇，学会了语言Ｂ。两者相加，使我和你有了相识的机会，就是现在，就在这个院子里，在月光下。再过许多年，我将与你的父亲分手，再与你分别。这一刻留给我的将只剩下七肢桶语言。所以我希望专注地倾听，记下每一个细节。

从一开始我就知道结局，我选定了自己要走的路，也就是未来的必经之路。我循路而前，满怀喜悦，也许是满怀痛苦？我的未来，它究竟是最小化，还是最大化？

这些问题充斥着我的脑海，这时你的父亲问我：“你想要个孩子吗？”我微笑着，说，“是的。”我把他的双臂从我身上拉开，我们手拉着手，走进房间，做爱，做你。

后记

我对物理学中的变分原理的喜爱催生出了这个故事。从一开始接触物理，我就觉得这些原理让人着迷。但我一直不知道应该怎么把这些定律作为故事元素写进小说里。有一天，我看了一出由一个演员表演的话剧，说的是他妻子跟癌症的搏斗。我受到了启发，觉得自己也许能够用变分原理写个故事，描写一个人面对无法避免的结果时的态度。几年以后，这个想法和另一个朋友所说的她新出生的婴儿结合在一起，组成了这篇小说的核心。

对于那些喜爱物理学的读者，我应该指出：这个故事中对费尔马最少时间律的讨论略去了它在量子力学方面的内容，因为该定律的经典解释更符合小说的主旨。

（李克勤　译）

Story of Your Life

by Ted Chiang

Your father is about to ask me the question. This is the most important moment in our lives, and I want to pay attention, note every detail. Your dad and I have just come back from an evening out, dinner and a show; it's after midnight. We came out onto the patio to look at the full moon; then I told your dad I wanted to dance, so he humors me and now we're slow dancing, a pair of thirty somethings swaying back and forth in the moonlight like kids. I don't feel the night chill at all. And then your dad says, "Do you want to make a baby?"

Right now your dad and I have been married for about two years, living on Ellis Avenue; when we move out you'll still be too young to remember the house, but we'll show you pictures of it, tell you stories about it. I'd love to tell you the story of this evening, the night you're conceived, but the right time to do that would be when you're ready to have children of your own, and we'll never get that chance.

Telling it to you any earlier wouldn't do any good; for most of your life you won't sit still to hear such a romantic- you'd say sappy- story. I remember the scenario of your origin you'll suggest when you're twelve.

"The only reason you had me was so you could get a maid you wouldn't have to pay," you'll say bitterly, dragging the vacuum cleaner out of the closet.

"That's right," I'll say. "Thirteen years ago I knew the carpets would need vacuuming around now, and having a baby seemed to be the cheapest and easiest way to get the job done. Now kindly get on with it."

"If you weren't my mother, this would be illegal," you'll say, seething as you unwind the power cord and plug it into the wall outlet.

That will be in the house on Belmont Street. I'll live to see strangers occupy both houses: the one you're conceived in and the one you grow up in. Your dad and I will sell the first a couple years after your arrival. I'll sell the second shortly after your departure. By then Nelson and I will have moved into our farmhouse, and your dad will be living with what's-her-name.

I know how this story ends; I think about it a lot. I also think a lot about how it began, just a few years ago, when ships appeared in orbit and artifacts appeared in meadows. The government said next to nothing about them, while the tabloids said every possible thing.

And then I got a phone call, a request for a meeting.

○○○

I spotted them waiting in the hallway, outside my office. They made an odd couple; one wore a military uniform and a crew cut, and carried an aluminum briefcase. He seemed to be assessing his surroundings with a critical eye. The other one was easily identifiable as an academic: full beard and mustache, wearing corduroy. He was browsing through the overlapping sheets stapled to a bulletin board nearby.

"Colonel Weber, I presume?" I shook hands with the soldier. "Louise Banks."

"Dr. Banks. Thank you for taking the time to speak with us," he said.

"Not at all; any excuse to avoid the faculty meeting." Colonel Weber indicated his companion. "This is Dr. Gary Donnelly, the physicist I mentioned when we spoke on the phone."

"Call me Gary," he said as we shook hands. "I'm anxious to hear what you have to say."

We entered my office. I moved a couple of stacks of books off the second guest chair, and we all sat down. "You said you wanted me to listen to a recording. I presume this has something to do with the aliens?"

"All I can offer is the recording," said Colonel Weber.

"Okay, let's hear it."

Colonel Weber took a tape machine out of his briefcase and pressed play. The recording sounded vaguely like that of a wet dog shaking the water out of its fur.

"What do you make of that?" he asked.

I withheld my comparison to a wet dog. "What was the context in which this recording was made?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"It would help me interpret those sounds. Could you see the alien while it was speaking? Was it doing anything at the time?"

"The recording is all I can offer."

"You won't be giving anything away if you tell me that you've seen the aliens; the public's assumed you have."

Colonel Weber wasn't budging. "Do you have any opinion about its linguistic properties?" he asked.

"Well, it's clear that their vocal tract is substantially different from a human vocal tract. I assume that these aliens don't look like humans?"

The colonel was about to say something noncommittal when Gary Donelly asked, "Can you make any guesses based on the tape?"

"Not really. It doesn't sound like they're using a larynx to make those sounds, but that doesn't tell me what they look like."

"Anything- is there anything else you can tell us?" asked Colonel Weber.

I could see he wasn't accustomed to consulting a civilian. "Only that establishing communications is going to be really difficult because of the difference in anatomy. They're almost certainly using sounds that the human vocal tract can't reproduce, and maybe sounds that the human ear can't distinguish."

"You mean infra-or ultrasonic frequencies?" asked Gary Donelly.

"Not specifically. I just mean that the human auditory system isn't an absolute acoustic instrument; it's optimized to recognize the sounds that a human larynx makes. With an alien vocal system, all bets are off." I shrugged. "Maybe we'll be able to hear the difference between alien phonemes, given enough practice, but it's possible our ears simply can't recognize the distinctions they consider meaningful. In that case we'd need a sound spectrograph to know what an alien is saying."

Colonel Weber asked, "Suppose I gave you an hour's worth of recordings; how long would it take you to determine if we need this sound spectrograph or not?"

"I couldn't determine that with just a recording no matter how much time I had. I'd need to talk with the aliens directly."

The colonel shook his head. "Not possible."

I tried to break it to him gently. "That's your call, of course. But the only way to learn an unknown language is to interact with a native speaker, and by that I mean asking questions, holding a conversation, that sort of thing. Without that, it's simply not possible. So if you want to learn the aliens' language, someone with training in field linguistics- whether it's me or someone else- will have to talk with an alien. Recordings alone aren't sufficient."

Colonel Weber frowned. "You seem to be implying that no alien could have learned human languages by monitoring our broadcasts."

"I doubt it. They'd need instructional material specifically designed to teach human languages to nonhumans. Either that, or interaction with a human. If they had either of those, they could learn a lot from TV, but otherwise, they wouldn't have a starting point."

The colonel clearly found this interesting; evidently his philosophy was, the less the aliens knew, the better. Gary Donnelly read the colonel's expression too and rolled his eyes. I suppressed a smile.

Then Colonel Weber asked, "Suppose you were learning a new language by talking to its speakers; could you do it without teaching them English?"

"That would depend on how cooperative the native speakers were. They'd almost certainly pick up bits and pieces while I'm learning their language, but it wouldn't have to be much if they're willing to teach. On the other hand, if they'd rather learn English than teach us their language, that would make things far more difficult."

The colonel nodded. "I'll get back to you on this matter."

○○○

The request for that meeting was perhaps the second most momentous phone call in my life. The first, of course, will be the one from Mountain Rescue. At that point your dad and I will be speaking to each other maybe once a year, tops. After I get that phone call, though, the first thing I'll do will be to call your father.

He and I will drive out together to perform the identification, a long silent car ride. I remember the morgue, all tile and stainless steel, the hum of refrigeration and smell of antiseptic. An orderly will pull the sheet back to reveal your face. Your face will look wrong somehow, but I'll know it's you.

"Yes, that's her," I'll say. "She's mine."

You'll be twenty-five then.

○○○

The MP checked my badge, made a notation on his clipboard, and opened the gate; I drove the off-road vehicle into the encampment, a small village of tents pitched by the Army in a farmer's sun-scorched pasture. At the center of the encampment was one of the alien devices, nicknamed "looking glasses."

According to the briefings I'd attended, there were nine of these in the United States, one hundred and twelve in the world. The looking glasses acted as two-way communication devices, presumably with the ships in orbit. No one knew why the aliens wouldn't talk to us in person; fear of cooties, maybe. A team of scientists, including a physicist and a linguist, was assigned to each looking glass; Gary Donnelly and I were on this one.

Gary was waiting for me in the parking area. We navigated a circular maze of concrete barricades until we reached the large tent that covered the looking glass itself. In front of the tent was an equipment cart loaded with goodies borrowed from the school's phonology lab; I had sent it ahead for inspection by the Army.

Also outside the tent were three tripod-mounted video cameras whose lenses peered, through windows in the fabric wall, into the main room. Everything Gary and I did would be reviewed by countless others, including military intelligence. In addition we would each send daily reports, of which mine had to include estimates on how much English I thought the aliens could understand.

Gary held open the tent flap and gestured for me to enter. "Step right up," he said, circus barker- style. "Marvel at creatures the likes of which have never been seen on God's green earth."

"And all for one slim dime," I murmured, walking through the door. At the moment the looking glass was inactive, resembling a semicircular mirror over ten feet high and twenty feet across. On the brown grass in front of the looking glass, an arc of white spray paint outlined the activation area. Currently the area contained only a table, two folding chairs, and a power strip with a cord leading to a generator outside. The buzz of fluorescent lamps, hung from poles along the edge of the room, commingled with the buzz of flies in the sweltering heat.

Gary and I looked at each other, and then began pushing the cart of equipment up to the table. As we crossed the paint line, the looking glass appeared to grow transparent; it was as if someone was slowly raising the illumination behind tinted glass. The illusion of depth was uncanny; I felt I could walk right into it. Once the looking glass was fully lit it resembled a life-size diorama of a semicircular room. The room contained a few large objects that might have been furniture, but no aliens. There was a door in the curved rear wall.

We busied ourselves connecting everything together: microphone, sound spectrograph, portable computer, and speaker. As we worked, I frequently glanced at the looking glass, anticipating the aliens' arrival. Even so I jumped when one of them entered.

It looked like a barrel suspended at the intersection of seven limbs. It was radially symmetric, and any of its limbs could serve as an arm or a leg. The one in front of me was walking around on four legs, three non-adjacent arms curled up at its sides. Gary called them "heptapods."

I'd been shown videotapes, but I still gawked. Its limbs had no distinct joints; anatomists guessed they might be supported by vertebral columns. Whatever their underlying structure, the heptapod's limbs conspired to move it in a disconcertingly fluid manner. Its "torso" rode atop the rippling limbs as smoothly as a hovercraft.

Seven lidless eyes ringed the top of the heptapod's body. It walked back to the doorway from which it entered, made a brief sputtering sound, and returned to the center of the room followed by another heptapod; at no point did it ever turn around. Eerie, but logical; with eyes on all sides, any direction might as well be "forward."

Gary had been watching my reaction. "Ready?" he asked.

I took a deep breath. "Ready enough." I'd done plenty of fieldwork before, in the Amazon, but it had always been a bilingual procedure: either my informants knew some Portuguese, which I could use, or I'd previously gotten an intro to their language from the local missionaries. This would be my first attempt at conducting a true monolingual discovery procedure. It was straightforward enough in theory, though.

I walked up to the looking glass and a heptapod on the other side did the same. The image was so real that my skin crawled. I could see the texture of its gray skin, like corduroy ridges arranged in whorls and loops. There was no smell at all from the looking glass, which somehow made the situation stranger.

I pointed to myself and said slowly, "Human." Then I pointed to Gary. "Human." Then I pointed at each heptapod and said, "What are you?"

No reaction. I tried again, and then again.

One of the heptapods pointed to itself with one limb, the four terminal digits pressed together. That was lucky. In some cultures a person pointed with his chin; if the heptapod hadn't used one of its limbs, I wouldn't have known what gesture to look for. I heard a brief fluttering sound, and saw a puckered orifice at the top of its body vibrate; it was talking. Then it pointed to its companion and fluttered again.

I went back to my computer; on its screen were two virtually identical spectrographs representing the fluttering sounds. I marked a sample for playback. I pointed to myself and said "Human" again, and did the same with Gary. Then I pointed to the heptapod, and played back the flutter on the speaker.

The heptapod fluttered some more. The second half of the spectrograph for this utterance looked like a repetition: call the previous utterances [flutter1], then this one was [flutter2-flutter1].

I pointed at something that might have been a heptapod chair. "What is that?"

The heptapod paused, and then pointed at the "chair" and talked some more. The spectrograph for this differed distinctly from that of the earlier sounds: [flutter3]. Once again, I pointed to the "chair" while playing back [flutter3].

The heptapod replied; judging by the spectrograph, it looked like [flutter3flutter2]. Optimistic interpretation: the heptapod was confirming my utterances as correct, which implied compatibility between heptapod and human patterns of discourse. Pessimistic interpretation: it had a nagging cough.

At my computer I delimited certain sections of the spectrograph and typed in a tentative gloss for each: "heptapod" for [flutter1], "yes" for [flutter2], and "chair" for [flutter3]. Then I typed "Language: Heptapod A" as a heading for all the utterances.

Gary watched what I was typing. "What's the 'A' for?"

"It just distinguishes this language from any other ones the heptapods might use," I said. He nodded.

"Now let's try something, just for laughs." I pointed at each heptapod and tried to mimic the sound of [flutter1], "heptapod." After a long pause, the first heptapod said something and then the second one said something else, neither of whose spectrographs resembled anything said before. I couldn't tell if they were speaking to each other or to me since they had no faces to turn. I tried pronouncing [flutter1] again, but there was no reaction.

"Not even close," I grumbled.

"I'm impressed you can make sounds like that at all," said Gary.

"You should hear my moose call. Sends them running."

I tried again a few more times, but neither heptapod responded with anything I could recognize. Only when I replayed the recording of the heptapod's pronunciation did I get a confirmation; the heptapod replied with [flutter2], "yes."

"So we're stuck with using recordings?" asked Gary.

I nodded. "At least temporarily."

"So now what?"

"Now we make sure it hasn't actually been saying 'aren't they cute' or 'look what they're doing now.' Then we see if we can identify any of these words when that other heptapod pronounces them." I gestured for him to have a seat. "Get comfortable; this'll take a while."

○○○

In 1770, Captain Cook's ship Endeavour ran aground on the coast of Queensland, Australia. While some of his men made repairs, Cook led an exploration party and met the aboriginal people. One of the sailors pointed to the animals that hopped around with their young riding in pouches, and asked an aborigine what they were called. The aborigine replied, "Kanguru." From then on Cook and his sailors referred to the animals by this word. It wasn't until later that they learned it meant "What did you say?"

I tell that story in my introductory course every year. It's almost certainly untrue, and I explain that afterwards, but it's a classic anecdote. Of course, the anecdotes my undergraduates will really want to hear are ones featuring the heptapods; for the rest of my teaching career, that'll be the reason many of them sign up for my courses. So I'll show them the old videotapes of my sessions at the looking glass, and the sessions that the other linguists conducted; the tapes are instructive, and they'll be useful if we're ever visited by aliens again, but they don't generate many good anecdotes.

When it comes to language-learning anecdotes, my favorite source is child language acquisition. I remember one afternoon when you are five years old, after you have come home from kindergarten. You'll be coloring with your crayons while I grade papers.

"Mom," you'll say, using the carefully casual tone reserved for requesting a favor, "can I ask you something?"

"Sure, sweetie. Go ahead."

"Can I be, um, honored?"

I'll look up from the paper I'm grading. "What do you mean?"

"At school Sharon said she got to be honored."

"Really? Did she tell you what for?"

"It was when her big sister got married. She said only one person could be, um, honored, and she was it."

"Ah, I see. You mean Sharon was maid of honor?"

"Yeah, that's it. Can I be made of honor?"

○○○

Gary and I entered the prefab building containing the center of operations for the looking glass site. Inside it looked like they were planning an invasion, or perhaps an evacuation: crewcut soldiers worked around a large map of the area, or sat in front of burly electronic gear while speaking into headsets. We were shown into Colonel Weber's office, a room in the back that was cool from air conditioning.

We briefed the colonel on our first day's results. "Doesn't sound like you got very far," he said.

"I have an idea as to how we can make faster progress," I said. "But you'll have to approve the use of more equipment."

"What more do you need?"

"A digital camera, and a big video screen." I showed him a drawing of the setup I imagined. "I want to try conducting the discovery procedure using writing; I'd display words on the screen, and use the camera to record the words they write. I'm hoping the heptapods will do the same."

Weber looked at the drawing dubiously. "What would be the advantage of that?"

"So far I've been proceeding the way I would with speakers of an unwritten language. Then it occurred to me that the heptapods must have writing, too."

"So?"

"If the heptapods have a mechanical way of producing writing, then their writing ought to be very regular, very consistent. That would make it easier for us to identify graphemes instead of phonemes. It's like picking out the letters in a printed sentence instead of trying to hear them when the sentence is spoken aloud."

"I take your point," he admitted. "And how would you respond to them? Show them the words they displayed to you?"

"Basically. And if they put spaces between words, any sentences we write would be a lot more intelligible than any spoken sentence we might splice together from recordings."

He leaned back in his chair. "You know we want to show as little of our technology as possible."

"I understand, but we're using machines as intermediaries already. If we can get them to use writing, I believe progress will go much faster than if we're restricted to the sound spectrographs."

The colonel turned to Gary. "Your opinion?"

"It sounds like a good idea to me. I'm curious whether the heptapods might have difficulty reading our monitors. Their looking glasses are based on a completely different technology than our video screens. As far as we can tell, they don't use pixels or scan lines, and they don't refresh on a frame-by-frame basis."

"You think the scan lines on our video screens might render them unreadable to the heptapods?"

"It's possible," said Gary. "We'll just have to try it and see."

Weber considered it. For me it wasn't even a question, but from his point of view it was a difficult decision; like a soldier, though, he made it quickly. "Request granted. Talk to the sergeant outside about bringing in what you need. Have it ready for tomorrow."

○○○

I remember one day during the summer when you're sixteen. For once, the person waiting for her date to arrive is me. Of course, you'll be waiting around too, curious to see what he looks like. You'll have a friend of yours, a blond girl with the unlikely name of Roxie, hanging out with you, giggling.

"You may feel the urge to make comments about him," I'll say, checking myself in the hallway mirror. "Just restrain yourselves until we leave."

"Don't worry, Mom," you'll say. "We'll do it so that he won't know. Roxie, you ask me what I think the weather will be like tonight. Then I'll say what I think of Mom's date."

"Right," Roxie will say.

"No, you most definitely will not," I'll say.

"Relax, Mom. He'll never know; we do this all the time."

"What a comfort that is."

A little later on, Nelson will arrive to pick me up. I'll do the introductions, and we'll all engage in a little small talk on the front porch. Nelson is ruggedly handsome, to your evident approval. Just as we're about to leave, Roxie will say to you casually, "So what do you think the weather will be like tonight?"

"I think it's going to be really hot," you'll answer.

Roxie will nod in agreement. Nelson will say, "Really? I thought they said it was going to be cool."

"I have a sixth sense about these things," you'll say. Your face will give nothing away. "I get the feeling it's going to be a scorcher. Good thing you're dressed for it, Mom."

I'll glare at you, and say good night.

As I lead Nelson toward his car, he'll ask me, amused, "I'm missing something here, aren't I?"

"A private joke," I'll mutter. "Don't ask me to explain it."

○○○

At our next session at the looking glass, we repeated the procedure we had performed before, this time displaying a printed word on our computer screen at the same time we spoke: showing human while saying "Human," and so forth. Eventually, the heptapods understood what we wanted, and set up a flat circular screen mounted on a small pedestal. One heptapod spoke, and then inserted a limb into a large socket in the pedestal; a doodle of script, vaguely cursive, popped onto the screen.

We soon settled into a routine, and I compiled two parallel corpora: one of spoken utterances, one of writing samples. Based on first impressions, their writing appeared to be logo-graphic, which was disappointing; I'd been hoping for an alphabetic script to help us learn their speech. Their logograms might include some phonetic information, but finding it would be a lot harder than with an alphabetic script.

By getting up close to the looking glass, I was able to point to various heptapod body parts, such as limbs, digits, and eyes, and elicit terms for each. It turned out that they had an orifice on the underside of their body, lined with articulated bony ridges: probably used for eating, while the one at the top was for respiration and speech. There were no other conspicuous orifices; perhaps their mouth was their anus too. Those sorts of questions would have to wait.

I also tried asking our two informants for terms for addressing each individually; personal names, if they had such things. Their answers were of course unpronounceable, so for Gary's and my purposes, I dubbed them Flapper and Raspberry. I hoped I'd be able to tell them apart.

○○○

The next day I conferred with Gary before we entered the looking-glass tent. "I'll need your help with this session," I told him.

"Sure. What do you want me to do?"

"We need to elicit some verbs, and it's easiest with third-person forms. Would you act out a few verbs while I type the written form on the computer? If we're lucky, the heptapods will figure out what we're doing and do the same. I've brought a bunch of props for you to use."

"No problem," said Gary, cracking his knuckles. "Ready when you are."

We began with some simple intransitive verbs: walking, jumping, speaking, writing. Gary demonstrated each one with a charming lack of self-consciousness; the presence of the video cameras didn't inhibit him at all. For the first few actions he performed, I asked the heptapods, "What do you call that?" Before long, the heptapods caught on to what we were trying to do; Raspberry began mimicking Gary, or at least performing the equivalent heptapod action, while Flapper worked their computer, displaying a written description and pronouncing it aloud.

In the spectrographs of their spoken utterances, I could recognize their word I had glossed as "heptapod." The rest of each utterance was presumably the verb phrase; it looked like they had analogs of nouns and verbs, thank goodness.

In their writing, however, things weren't as clear-cut. For each action, they had displayed a single logogram instead of two separate ones. At first I thought they had written something like "walks," with the subject implied. But why would Flapper say "the heptapod walks" while writing "walks," instead of maintaining parallelism? Then I noticed that some of the logograms looked like the logogram for "heptapod" with some extra strokes added to one side or another. Perhaps their verbs could be written as affixes to a noun. If so, why was Flapper writing the noun in some instances but not in others?

I decided to try a transitive verb; substituting object words might clarify things. Among the props I'd brought were an apple and a slice of bread. "Okay," I said to Gary, "show them the food, and then eat some. First the apple, then the bread."

Gary pointed at the Golden Delicious and then he took a bite out of it, while I displayed the "what do you call that?" expression. Then we repeated it with the slice of whole wheat.

Raspberry left the room and returned with some kind of giant nut or gourd and a gelatinous ellipsoid. Raspberry pointed at the gourd while Flapper said a word and displayed a logogram. Then Raspberry brought the gourd down between its legs, a crunching sound resulted, and the gourd reemerged minus a bite; there were corn-like kernels beneath the shell. Flapper talked and displayed a large logogram on their screen. The sound spectrograph for "gourd" changed when it was used in the sentence; possibly a case marker. The logogram was odd: after some study, I could identify graphic elements that resembled the individual logograms for "heptapod" and "gourd." They looked as if they had been melted together, with several extra strokes in the mix that presumably meant "eat." Was it a multi-word ligature?

Next we got spoken and written names for the gelatin egg, and descriptions of the act of eating it. The sound spectrograph for "heptapod eats gelatin egg" was analyzable; "gelatin egg" bore a case marker, as expected, though the sentence's word order differed from last time. The written form, another large logogram, was another matter. This time it took much longer for me to recognize anything in it; not only were the individual logograms melted together again, it looked as if the one for "heptapod" was laid on its back, while on top of it the logogram for "gelatin egg" was standing on its head.

"Uh-oh." I took another look at the writing for the simple noun-verb examples, the ones that had seemed inconsistent before. Now I realized all of them actually did contain the logogram for "heptapod"; some were rotated and distorted by being combined with the various verbs, so I hadn't recognized them at first. "You guys have got to be kidding," I muttered.

"What's wrong?" asked Gary.

"Their script isn't word divided; a sentence is written by joining the logograms for the constituent words. They join the logograms by rotating and modifying them. Take a look." I showed him how the logograms were rotated.

"So they can read a word with equal ease no matter how it's rotated," Gary said. He turned to look at the heptapods, impressed. "I wonder if it's a consequence of their bodies' radial symmetry: their bodies have no 'forward' direction, so maybe their writing doesn't either. Highly neat."

I couldn't believe it; I was working with someone who modified the word "neat" with "highly." "It certainly is interesting," I said, "but it also means there's no easy way for us to write our own sentences in their language. We can't simply cut their sentences into individual words and recombine them; we'll have to learn the rules of their script before we can write anything legible. It's the same continuity problem we'd have had splicing together speech fragments, except applied to writing."

I looked at Flapper and Raspberry in the looking glass, who were waiting for us to continue, and sighed. "You aren't going to make this easy for us, are you?"

○○○

To be fair, the heptapods were completely cooperative. In the days that followed, they readily taught us their language without requiring us to teach them any more English. Colonel Weber and his cohorts pondered the implications of that, while I and the linguists at the other looking glasses met via videoconferencing to share what we had learned about the heptapod language. The videoconferencing made for an incongruous working environment: our video screens were primitive compared to the heptapods' looking glasses, so that my colleagues seemed more remote than the aliens. The familiar was far away, while the bizarre was close at hand.

It would be a while before we'd be ready to ask the heptapods why they had come, or to discuss physics well enough to ask them about their technology. For the time being, we worked on the basics: phonemics/graphemics, vocabulary, syntax. The heptapods at every looking glass were using the same language, so we were able to pool our data and coordinate our efforts.

Our biggest source of confusion was the heptapods' "writing." It didn't appear to be writing at all; it looked more like a bunch of intricate graphic designs. The logograms weren't arranged in rows, or a spiral, or any linear fashion. Instead, Flapper or Raspberry would write a sentence by sticking together as many logograms as needed into a giant conglomeration.

This form of writing was reminiscent of primitive sign systems, which required a reader to know a message's context in order to understand it. Such systems were considered too limited for systematic recording of information. Yet it was unlikely that the heptapods developed their level of technology with only an oral tradition. That implied one of three possibilities: the first was that the heptapods had a true writing system, but they didn't want to use it in front of us; Colonel Weber would identify with that one. The second was that the heptapods hadn't originated the technology they were using; they were illiterates using someone else's technology. The third, and most interesting to me, was that was the heptapods were using a nonlinear system of orthography that qualified as true writing.

○○○

I remember a conversation we'll have when you're in your junior year of high school. It'll be Sunday morning, and I'll be scrambling some eggs while you set the table for brunch. You'll laugh as you tell me about the party you went to last night.

"Oh man," you'll say, "they're not kidding when they say that body weight makes a difference. I didn't drink any more than the guys did, but I got so much drunker."

I'll try to maintain a neutral, pleasant expression. I'll really try. Then you'll say, "Oh, come on, Mom."

"What?"

"You know you did the exact same things when you were my age."

I did nothing of the sort, but I know that if I were to admit that, you'd lose respect for me completely. "You know never to drive, or get into a car if-"

"God, of course I know that. Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"No, of course not."

What I'll think is that you are clearly, maddeningly not me. It will remind me, again, that you won't be a clone of me; you can be wonderful, a daily delight, but you won't be someone I could have created by myself.

○○○

The military had set up a trailer containing our offices at the looking glass site. I saw Gary walking toward the trailer, and ran to catch up with him. "It's a semasiographic writing system," I said when I reached him.

"Excuse me?" said Gary.

"Here, let me show you." I directed Gary into my office. Once we were inside, I went to the chalkboard and drew a circle with a diagonal line bisecting it. "What does this mean?"

" 'Not allowed'?"

"Right." Next I printed the words not allowed on the chalkboard. "And so does this. But only one is a representation of speech."

Gary nodded. "Okay."

"Linguists describe writing like this"- I indicated the printed words- "as 'glottographic,' because it represents speech. Every human written language is in this category. However, this symbol"- I indicated the circle and diagonal line- "is 'semasiographic' writing, because it conveys meaning without reference to speech. There's no correspondence between its components and any particular sounds."

"And you think all of heptapod writing is like this?"

"From what I've seen so far, yes. It's not picture writing, it's far more complex. It has its own system of rules for constructing sentences, like a visual syntax that's unrelated to the syntax for their spoken language."

"A visual syntax? Can you show me an example?"

"Coming right up." I sat down at my desk and, using the computer, pulled up a frame from the recording of yesterday's conversation with Raspberry. I turned the monitor so he could see it. "In their spoken language, a noun has a case marker indicating whether it's a subject or object. In their written language, however, a noun is identified as subject or object based on the orientation of its logogram relative to that of the verb. Here, take a look." I pointed at one of the figures. "For instance, when 'heptapod' is integrated with 'hears' this way, with these strokes parallel, it means that the heptapod is doing the hearing." I showed him a different one. "When they're combined this way, with the strokes perpendicular, it means that the heptapod is being heard. This morphology applies to several verbs.

"Another example is the inflection system." I called up another frame from the recording. "In their written language, this logogram means roughly 'hear easily' or 'hear clearly.' See the elements it has in common with the logogram for 'hear'? You can still combine it with 'heptapod' in the same ways as before, to indicate that the heptapod can hear something clearly or that the heptapod is clearly heard. But what's really interesting is that the modulation of 'hear' into 'hear clearly' isn't a special case; you see the transformation they applied?"

Gary nodded, pointing. "It's like they express the idea of 'clearly' by changing the curve of those strokes in the middle."

"Right. That modulation is applicable to lots of verbs. The logogram for 'see' can be modulated in the same way to form 'see clearly,' and so can the logogram for 'read' and others. And changing the curve of those strokes has no parallel in their speech; with the spoken version of these verbs, they add a prefix to the verb to express ease of manner, and the prefixes for 'see' and 'hear' are different.

"There are other examples, but you get the idea. It's essentially a grammar in two dimensions."

He began pacing thoughtfully. "Is there anything like this in human writing systems?"

"Mathematical equations, notations for music and dance. But those are all very specialized; we couldn't record this conversation using them. But I suspect, if we knew it well enough, we could record this conversation in the heptapod writing system. I think it's a full-fledged, general-purpose graphical language."

Gary frowned. "So their writing constitutes a completely separate language from their speech, right?"

"Right. In fact, it'd be more accurate to refer to the writing system as 'Heptapod B,' and use 'Heptapod A' strictly for referring to the spoken language."

"Hold on a second. Why use two languages when one would suffice? That seems unnecessarily hard to learn."

"Like English spelling?" I said. "Ease of learning isn't the primary force in language evolution. For the heptapods, writing and speech may play such different cultural or cognitive roles that using separate languages makes more sense than using different forms of the same one."

He considered it. "I see what you mean. Maybe they think our form of writing is redundant, like we're wasting a second communications channel."

"That's entirely possible. Finding out why they use a second language for writing will tell us a lot about them."

"So I take it this means we won't be able to use their writing to help us learn their spoken language."

I sighed. "Yeah, that's the most immediate implication. But I don't think we should ignore either Heptapod A or B; we need a two-pronged approach." I pointed at the screen. "I'll bet you that learning their two-dimensional grammar will help you when it comes time to learn their mathematical notation."

"You've got a point there. So are we ready to start asking about their mathematics?"

"Not yet. We need a better grasp on this writing system before we begin anything else," I said, and then smiled when he mimed frustration. "Patience, good sir. Patience is a virtue."

○○○

You'll be six when your father has a conference to attend in Hawaii, and we'll accompany him. You'll be so excited that you'll make preparations for weeks beforehand. You'll ask me about coconuts and volcanoes and surfing, and practice hula dancing in the mirror. You'll pack a suitcase with the clothes and toys you want to bring, and you'll drag it around the house to see how long you can carry it. You'll ask me if I can carry your Etch-a-Sketch in my bag, since there won't be any more room for it in yours and you simply can't leave without it.

"You won't need all of these," I'll say. "There'll be so many fun things to do there, you won't have time to play with so many toys."

You'll consider that; dimples will appear above your eyebrows when you think hard. Eventually you'll agree to pack fewer toys, but your expectations will, if anything, increase.

"I wanna be in Hawaii now," you'll whine.

"Sometimes it's good to wait," I'll say. "The anticipation makes it more fun when you get there."

You'll just pout.

○○○

In the next report I submitted, I suggested that the term "logogram" was a misnomer because it implied that each graph represented a spoken word, when in fact the graphs didn't correspond to our notion of spoken words at all. I didn't want to use the term "ideogram" either because of how it had been used in the past; I suggested the term "semagram" instead.

It appeared that a semagram corresponded roughly to a written word in human languages: it was meaningful on its own, and in combination with other semagrams could form endless statements. We couldn't define it precisely, but then no one had ever satisfactorily defined "word" for human languages either. When it came to sentences in Heptapod B, though, things became much more confusing. The language had no written punctuation: its syntax was indicated in the way the semagrams were combined, and there was no need to indicate the cadence of speech. There was certainly no way to slice out subject-predicate pairings neatly to make sentences. A "sentence" seemed to be whatever number of semagrams a heptapod wanted to join together; the only difference between a sentence and a paragraph, or a page, was size.

When a Heptapod B sentence grew fairly sizable, its visual impact was remarkable. If I wasn't trying to decipher it, the writing looked like fanciful praying mantids drawn in a cursive style, all clinging to each other to form an Escheresque lattice, each slightly different in its stance. And the biggest sentences had an effect similar to that of psychedelic posters: sometimes eye-watering, sometimes hypnotic.

○○○

I remember a picture of you taken at your college graduation. In the photo you're striking a pose for the camera, mortarboard stylishly tilted on your head, one hand touching your sunglasses, the other hand on your hip, holding open your gown to reveal the tank top and shorts you're wearing underneath.

I remember your graduation. There will be the distraction of having Nelson and your father and what's-her-name there all at the same time, but that will be minor. That entire weekend, while you're introducing me to your classmates and hugging everyone incessantly, I'll be all but mute with amazement. I can't believe that you, a grown woman taller than me and beautiful enough to make my heart ache, will be the same girl I used to lift off the ground so you could reach the drinking fountain, the same girl who used to trundle out of my bedroom draped in a dress and hat and four scarves from my closet.

And after graduation, you'll be heading for a job as a financial analyst. I won't understand what you do there, I won't even understand your fascination with money, the preeminence you gave to salary when negotiating job offers. I would prefer it if you'd pursue something without regard for its monetary rewards, but I'll have no complaints. My own mother could never understand why I couldn't just be a high school English teacher. You'll do what makes you happy, and that'll be all I ask for.

○○○

As time went on, the teams at each looking glass began working in earnest on learning heptapod terminology for elementary mathematics and physics. We worked together on presentations, with the linguists focusing on procedure and the physicists focusing on subject matter. The physicists showed us previously devised systems for communicating with aliens, based on mathematics, but those were intended for use over a radio telescope. We reworked them for face-to-face communication.

Our teams were successful with basic arithmetic, but we hit a roadblock with geometry and algebra. We tried using a spherical coordinate system instead of a rectangular one, thinking it might be more natural to the heptapods given their anatomy, but that approach wasn't any more fruitful. The heptapods didn't seem to understand what we were getting at.

Likewise, the physics discussions went poorly. Only with the most concrete terms, like the names of the elements, did we have any success; after several attempts at representing the periodic table, the heptapods got the idea. For anything remotely abstract, we might as well have been gibbering. We tried to demonstrate basic physical attributes like mass and acceleration so we could elicit their terms for them, but the heptapods simply responded with requests for clarification. To avoid perceptual problems that might be associated with any particular medium, we tried physical demonstrations as well as line drawings, photos, and animations; none were effective. Days with no progress became weeks, and the physicists were becoming disillusioned.

By contrast, the linguists were having much more success. We made steady progress decoding the grammar of the spoken language, Heptapod A. It didn't follow the pattern of human languages, as expected, but it was comprehensible so far: free word order, even to the extent that there was no preferred order for the clauses in a conditional statement, in defiance of a human language "universal." It also appeared that the heptapods had no objection to many levels of center-embedding of clauses, something that quickly defeated humans. Peculiar, but not impenetrable.

Much more interesting were the newly discovered morphological and grammatical processes in Heptapod B that were uniquely two-dimensional. Depending on a semagram's declension, inflections could be indicated by varying a certain stroke's curvature, or its thickness, or its manner of undulation; or by varying the relative sizes of two radicals, or their relative distance to another radical, or their orientations; or various other means. These were nonsegmental graphemes; they couldn't be isolated from the rest of a semagram. And despite how such traits behaved in human writing, these had nothing to do with calligraphic style; their meanings were defined according to a consistent and unambiguous grammar.

We regularly asked the heptapods why they had come. Each time, they answered "to see," or "to observe." Indeed, sometimes they preferred to watch us silently rather than answer our questions. Perhaps they were scientists, perhaps they were tourists. The State Department instructed us to reveal as little as possible about humanity, in case that information could be used as a bargaining chip in subsequent negotiations. We obliged, though it didn't require much effort: the heptapods never asked questions about anything. Whether scientists or tourists, they were an awfully incurious bunch.

○○○

I remember once when we'll be driving to the mall to buy some new clothes for you. You'll be thirteen. One moment you'll be sprawled in your seat, completely unself-conscious, all child; the next, you'll toss your hair with a practiced casualness, like a fashion model in training.

You'll give me some instructions as I'm parking the car. "Okay, Mom, give me one of the credit cards, and we can meet back at the entrance here in two hours."

I'll laugh. "Not a chance. All the credit cards stay with me."

"You're kidding." You'll become the embodiment of exasperation. We'll get out of the car and I will start walking to the mall entrance. After seeing that I won't budge on the matter, you'll quickly reformulate your plans.

"Okay Mom, okay. You can come with me, just walk a little ways behind me, so it doesn't look like we're together. If I see any friends of mine, I'm gonna stop and talk to them, but you just keep walking, okay? I'll come find you later."

I'll stop in my tracks. "Excuse me? I am not the hired help, nor am I some mutant relative for you to be ashamed of."

"But Mom, I can't let anyone see you with me."

"What are you talking about? I've already met your friends; they've been to the house."

"That was different," you'll say, incredulous that you have to explain it. "This is shopping."

"Too bad."

Then the explosion: "You won't do the least thing to make me happy! You don't care about me at all!"

It won't have been that long since you enjoyed going shopping with me; it will forever astonish me how quickly you grow out of one phase and enter another. Living with you will be like aiming for a moving target; you'll always be further along than I expect.

○○○

I looked at the sentence in Heptapod B that I had just written, using simple pen and paper. Like all the sentences I generated myself, this one looked misshapen, like a heptapod-written sentence that had been smashed with a hammer and then inexpertly taped back together. I had sheets of such inelegant semagrams covering my desk, fluttering occasionally when the oscillating fan swung past.

It was strange trying to learn a language that had no spoken form. Instead of practicing my pronunciation, I had taken to squeezing my eyes shut and trying to paint semagrams on the insides of my eyelids.

There was a knock at the door and before I could answer Gary came in looking jubilant. "Illinois got a repetition in physics."

"Really? That's great; when did it happen?"

"It happened a few hours ago; we just had the videoconference. Let me show you what it is." He started erasing my blackboard.

"Don't worry, I didn't need any of that."

"Good." He picked up a nub of chalk and drew a diagram:

"Okay, here's the path a ray of light takes when crossing from air to water. The light ray travels in a straight line until it hits the water; the water has a different index of refraction, so the light changes direction. You've heard of this before, right?"

I nodded. "Sure." "Now here's an interesting property about the path the light takes. The path is the fastest possible route between these two points."

"Come again?"

"Imagine, just for grins, that the ray of light traveled along this path."

He added a dotted line to his diagram:

"This hypothetical path is shorter than the path the light actually takes. But light travels more slowly in water than it does in air, and a greater percentage of this path is underwater. So it would take longer for light to travel along this path than it does along the real path."

"Okay, I get it."

"Now imagine if light were to travel along this other path."

He drew a second dotted path:

"This path reduces the percentage that's underwater, but the total length is larger. It would also take longer for light to travel along this path than along the actual one."

Gary put down the chalk and gestured at the diagram on the chalkboard with white-tipped fingers. "Any hypothetical path would require more time to traverse than the one actually taken. In other words, the route that the light ray takes is always the fastest possible one. That's Fermat's principle of least time."

"Hmm, interesting. And this is what the heptapods responded to?"

"Exactly. Moorehead gave an animated presentation of Fermat's principle at the Illinois looking glass, and the heptapods repeated it back. Now he's trying to get a symbolic description." He grinned. "Now is that highly neat, or what?"

"It's neat all right, but how come I haven't heard of Fermat's principle before?" I picked up a binder and waved it at him; it was a primer on the physics topics suggested for use in communication with the heptapods. "This thing goes on forever about Planck masses and the spin-flip of atomic hydrogen, and not a word about the refraction of light."

"We guessed wrong about what'd be most useful for you to know," Gary said without embarrassment. "In fact, it's curious that Fermat's principle was the first breakthrough; even though it's easy to explain, you need calculus to describe it mathematically. And not ordinary calculus; you need the calculus of variations. We thought that some simple theorem of geometry or algebra would be the breakthrough."

"Curious indeed. You think the heptapods' idea of what's simple doesn't match ours?"

"Exactly, which is why I'm dying to see what their mathematical description of Fermat's principle looks like." He paced as he talked. "If their version of the calculus of variations is simpler to them than their equivalent of algebra, that might explain why we've had so much trouble talking about physics; their entire system of mathematics may be topsy-turvy compared to ours." He pointed to the physics primer. "You can be sure that we're going to revise that."

"So can you build from Fermat's principle to other areas of physics?"

"Probably. There are lots of physical principles just like Fermat's."

"What, like Louise's principle of least closet space? When did physics become so minimalist?"

"Well, the word 'least' is misleading. You see, Fermat's principle of least time is incomplete; in certain situations light follows a path that takes more time than any of the other possibilities. It's more accurate to say that light always follows an extreme path, either one that minimizes the time taken or one that maximizes it. A minimum and a maximum share certain mathematical properties, so both situations can be described with one equation. So to be precise, Fermat's principle isn't a minimal principle; instead it's what's known as a 'variational' principle."

"And there are more of these variational principles?"

He nodded. "In all branches of physics. Almost every physical law can be restated as a variational principle. The only difference between these principles is in which attribute is minimized or maximized." He gestured as if the different branches of physics were arrayed before him on a table. "In optics, where Fermat's principle applies, time is the attribute that has to be an extreme. In mechanics, it's a different attribute. In electromagnetism, it's something else again. But all these principles are similar mathematically."

"So once you get their mathematical description of Fermat's principle, you should be able to decode the other ones."

"God, I hope so. I think this is the wedge that we've been looking for, the one that cracks open their formulation of physics. This calls for a celebration." He stopped his pacing and turned to me. "Hey Louise, want to go out for dinner? My treat."

I was mildly surprised. "Sure," I said.

○○○

It'll be when you first learn to walk that I get daily demonstrations of the asymmetry in our relationship. You'll be incessantly running off somewhere, and each time you walk into a door frame or scrape your knee, the pain feels like it's my own. It'll be like growing an errant limb, an extension of myself whose sensory nerves report pain just fine, but whose motor nerves don't convey my commands at all. It's so unfair: I'm going to give birth to an animated voodoo doll of myself. I didn't see this in the contract when I signed up. Was this part of the deal?

And then there will be the times when I see you laughing. Like the time you'll be playing with the neighbor's puppy, poking your hands through the chain-link fence separating our back yards, and you'll be laughing so hard you'll start hiccuping. The puppy will run inside the neighbor's house, and your laughter will gradually subside, letting you catch your breath. Then the puppy will come back to the fence to lick your fingers again, and you'll shriek and start laughing again. It will be the most wonderful sound I could ever imagine, a sound that makes me feel like a fountain, or a wellspring.

Now if only I can remember that sound the next time your blithe disregard for self-preservation gives me a heart attack.

○○○

After the breakthrough with Fermat's principle, discussions of scientific concepts became more fruitful. It wasn't as if all of heptapod physics were suddenly rendered transparent, but progress was steady. According to Gary, the heptapods' formulation of physics was indeed topsy-turvy relative to ours. Physical attributes that humans defined using integral calculus were seen as fundamental by the heptapods. As an example, Gary described an attribute that, in physics jargon, bore the deceptively simple name "action," which represented "the difference between kinetic and potential energy, integrated over time," whatever that meant. Calculus for us; elementary to them.

Conversely, to define attributes that humans thought of as fundamental, like velocity, the heptapods employed mathematics that were, Gary assured me, "highly weird." The physicists were ultimately able to prove the equivalence of heptapod mathematics and human mathematics; even though their approaches were almost the reverse of one another, both were systems for describing the same physical universe.

I tried following some of the equations that the physicists were coming up with, but it was no use. I couldn't really grasp the significance of physical attributes like "action"; I couldn't, with any confidence, ponder the significance of treating such an attribute as fundamental. Still, I tried to ponder questions formulated in terms more familiar to me: what kind of worldview did the heptapods have, that they would consider Fermat's principle the simplest explanation of light refraction? What kind of perception made a minimum or maximum readily apparent to them?

○○○

Your eyes will be blue like your dad's, not mud brown like mine. Boys will stare into those eyes the way I did, and do, into your dad's, surprised and enchanted, as I was and am, to find them in combination with black hair. You will have many suitors.

I remember when you are fifteen, coming home after a weekend at your dad's, incredulous over the interrogation he'll have put you through regarding the boy you're currently dating. You'll sprawl on the sofa, recounting your dad's latest breach of common sense: "You know what he said? He said, 'I know what teenage boys are like.'" Roll of the eyes. "Like I don't?"

"Don't hold it against him," I'll say. "He's a father; he can't help it." Having seen you interact with your friends, I won't worry much about a boy taking advantage of you; if anything, the opposite will be more likely. I'll worry about that.

"He wishes I were still a kid. He hasn't known how to act toward me since I grew breasts."

"Well, that development was a shock for him. Give him time to recover."

"It's been years, Mom. How long is it gonna take?"

"I'll let you know when my father has come to terms with mine."

○○○

During one of the videoconferences for the linguists, Cisneros from the Massachusetts looking glass had raised an interesting question: Was there a particular order in which semagrams were written in a Heptapod B sentence? It was clear that word order meant next to nothing when speaking in Heptapod A; when asked to repeat what it had just said, a heptapod would likely as not use a different word order unless we specifically asked them not to. Was word order similarly unimportant when writing in Heptapod B?

Previously, we had focused our attention only on how a sentence in Heptapod B looked once it was complete. As far as anyone could tell, there was no preferred order when reading the semagrams in a sentence; you could start almost anywhere in the nest, then follow the branching clauses until you'd read the whole thing. But that was reading; was the same true about writing?

During my most recent session with Flapper and Raspberry I had asked them if, instead of displaying a semagram only after it was completed, they could show it to us while it was being written. They had agreed. I inserted the videotape of the session into the VCR, and on my computer I consulted the session transcript.

I picked one of the longer utterances from the conversation. What Flapper had said was that the heptapods' planet had two moons, one significantly larger than the other; the three primary constituents of the planet's atmosphere were nitrogen, argon, and oxygen; and 15/28ths of the planet's surface was covered by water. The first words of the spoken utterance translated literally as "inequality-of-size rocky-orbiter rockyorbiters related-as-primary-to-secondary."

Then I rewound the videotape until the time signature matched the one in the transcription. I started playing the tape, and watched the web of semagrams being spun out of inky spider's silk. I rewound it and played it several times. Finally I froze the video right after the first stroke was completed and before the second one was begun; all that was visible onscreen was a single sinuous line.

Comparing that initial stroke with the completed sentence, I realized that the stroke participated in several different clauses of the message. It began in the semagram for "oxygen," as the determinant that distinguished it from certain other elements; then it slid down to become the morpheme of comparison in the description of the two moons' sizes; and lastly it flared out as the arched backbone of the semagram for "ocean." Yet this stroke was a single continuous line, and it was the first one that Flapper wrote. That meant the heptapod had to know how the entire sentence would be laid out before it could write the very first stroke.

The other strokes in the sentence also traversed several clauses, making them so interconnected that none could be removed without redesigning the entire sentence. The heptapods didn't write a sentence one semagram at a time; they built it out of strokes irrespective of individual semagrams. I had seen a similarly high degree of integration before in calligraphic designs, particularly those employing the Arabic alphabet. But those designs had required careful planning by expert calligraphers. No one could lay out such an intricate design at the speed needed for holding a conversation. At least, no human could.

○○○

There's a joke that I once heard a comedienne tell. It goes like this: "I'm not sure if I'm ready to have children. I asked a friend of mine who has children, 'Suppose I do have kids. What if when they grow up, they blame me for everything that's wrong with their lives?' She laughed and said, 'What do you mean, if?' "

That's my favorite joke.

○○○

Gary and I were at a little Chinese restaurant, one of the local places we had taken to patronizing to get away from the encampment. We sat eating the appetizers: potstickers, redolent of pork and sesame oil. My favorite.

I dipped one in soy sauce and vinegar. "So how are you doing with your Heptapod B practice?" I asked.

Gary looked obliquely at the ceiling. I tried to meet his gaze, but he kept shifting it.

"You've given up, haven't you?" I said. "You're not even trying anymore."

He did a wonderful hangdog expression. "I'm just no good at languages," he confessed. "I thought learning Heptapod B might be more like learning mathematics than trying to speak another language, but it's not. It's too foreign for me."

"It would help you discuss physics with them."

"Probably, but since we had our breakthrough, I can get by with just a few phrases."

I sighed. "I suppose that's fair; I have to admit, I've given up on trying to learn the mathematics."

"So we're even?"

"We're even." I sipped my tea. "Though I did want to ask you about Fermat's principle. Something about it feels odd to me, but I can't put my finger on it. It just doesn't sound like a law of physics."

A twinkle appeared in Gary's eyes. "I'll bet I know what you're talking about." He snipped a potsticker in half with his chopsticks. "You're used to thinking of refraction in terms of cause and effect: reaching the water's surface is the cause, and the change in direction is the effect. But Fermat's principle sounds weird because it describes light's behavior in goal-oriented terms. It sounds like a commandment to a light beam: 'Thou shalt minimize or maximize the time taken to reach thy destination.' "

I considered it. "Go on."

"It's an old question in the philosophy of physics. People have been talking about it since Fermat first formulated it in the 1600s; Planck wrote volumes about it. The thing is, while the common formulation of physical laws is causal, a variational principle like Fermat's is purposive, almost teleological."

"Hmm, that's an interesting way to put it. Let me think about that for a minute." I pulled out a felt-tip pen and, on my paper napkin, drew a copy of the diagram that Gary had drawn on my blackboard. "Okay," I said, thinking aloud, "so let's say the goal of a ray of light is to take the fastest path. How does the light go about doing that?"

"Well, if I can speak anthropomorphic-projectionally, the light has to examine the possible paths and compute how long each one would take." He plucked the last potsticker from the serving dish.

"And to do that," I continued, "the ray of light has to know just where its destination is. If the destination were somewhere else, the fastest path would be different."

Gary nodded again. "That's right; the notion of a 'fastest path' is meaningless unless there's a destination specified. And computing how long a given path takes also requires information about what lies along that path, like where the water's surface is."

I kept staring at the diagram on the napkin. "And the light ray has to know all that ahead of time, before it starts moving, right?"

"So to speak," said Gary. "The light can't start traveling in any old direction and make course corrections later on, because the path resulting from such behavior wouldn't be the fastest possible one. The light has to do all its computations at the very beginning."

I thought to myself, the ray of light has to know where it will ultimately end up before it can choose the direction to begin moving in. I knew what that reminded me of. I looked up at Gary. "That's what was bugging me."

○○○

I remember when you're fourteen. You'll come out of your bedroom, a graffiti-covered notebook computer in hand, working on a report for school.

"Mom, what do you call it when both sides can win?" I'll look up from my computer and the paper I'll be writing. "What, you mean a win-win situation?"

"There's some technical name for it, some math word. Remember that time Dad was here, and he was talking about the stock market? He used it then."

"Hmm, that sounds familiar, but I can't remember what he called it."

"I need to know. I want to use that phrase in my social studies report. I can't even search for information on it unless I know what it's called."

"I'm sorry, I don't know it either. Why don't you call your dad?"

Judging from your expression, that will be more effort than you want to make. At this point, you and your father won't be getting along well. "Can you call Dad and ask him? But don't tell him it's for me."

"I think you can call him yourself."

You'll fume, "Jesus, Mom, I can never get help with my homework since you and Dad split up."

It's amazing the diverse situations in which you can bring up the divorce. "I've helped you with your homework."

"Like a million years ago, Mom." I'll let that pass. "I'd help you with this if I could, but I don't remember what it's called."

You'll head back to your bedroom in a huff.

○○○

I practiced Heptapod B at every opportunity, both with the other linguists and by myself. The novelty of reading a semasiographic language made it compelling in a way that Heptapod A wasn't, and my improvement in writing it excited me. Over time, the sentences I wrote grew shapelier, more cohesive. I had reached the point where it worked better when I didn't think about it too much. Instead of carefully trying to design a sentence before writing, I could simply begin putting down strokes immediately; my initial strokes almost always turned out to be compatible with an elegant rendition of what I was trying to say. I was developing a faculty like that of the heptapods.

More interesting was the fact that Heptapod B was changing the way I thought. For me, thinking typically meant speaking in an internal voice; as we say in the trade, my thoughts were phonologically coded. My internal voice normally spoke in English, but that wasn't a requirement. The summer after my senior year in high school, I attended a total immersion program for learning Russian; by the end of the summer, I was thinking and even dreaming in Russian. But it was always spoken Russian. Different language, same mode: a voice speaking silently aloud.

The idea of thinking in a linguistic yet nonphonological mode always intrigued me. I had a friend born of Deaf parents; he grew up using American Sign Language, and he told me that he often thought in ASL instead of English. I used to wonder what it was like to have one's thoughts be manually coded, to reason using an inner pair of hands instead of an inner voice.

With Heptapod B, I was experiencing something just as foreign: my thoughts were becoming graphically coded. There were trance-like moments during the day when my thoughts weren't expressed with my internal voice; instead, I saw semagrams with my mind's eye, sprouting like frost on a windowpane.

As I grew more fluent, semagraphic designs would appear fully formed, articulating even complex ideas all at once. My thought processes weren't moving any faster as a result, though. Instead of racing forward, my mind hung balanced on the symmetry underlying the semagrams. The semagrams seemed to be something more than language; they were almost like mandalas. I found myself in a meditative state, contemplating the way in which premises and conclusions were interchangeable. There was no direction inherent in the way propositions were connected, no "train of thought" moving along a particular route; all the components in an act of reasoning were equally powerful, all having identical precedence.

○○○

A representative from the State Department named Hossner had the job of briefing the U.S. scientists on our agenda with the heptapods. We sat in the videoconference room, listening to him lecture. Our microphone was turned off, so Gary and I could exchange comments without interrupting Hossner. As we listened, I worried that Gary might harm his vision, rolling his eyes so often.

"They must have had some reason for coming all this way," said the diplomat, his voice tinny through the speakers. "It does not look like their reason was conquest, thank God. But if that's not the reason, what is? Are they prospectors? Anthropologists? Missionaries? Whatever their motives, there must be something we can offer them. Maybe it's mineral rights to our solar system. Maybe it's information about ourselves. Maybe it's the right to deliver sermons to our populations. But we can be sure that there's something.

"My point is this: their motive might not be to trade, but that doesn't mean that we cannot conduct trade. We simply need to know why they're here, and what we have that they want. Once we have that information, we can begin trade negotiations.

"I should emphasize that our relationship with the heptapods need not be adversarial. This is not a situation where every gain on their part is a loss on ours, or vice versa. If we handle ourselves correctly, both we and the heptapods can come out winners."

"You mean it's a non-zero-sum game?" Gary said in mock incredulity. "Oh my gosh."

○○○

"A non-zero-sum game."

"What?" You'll reverse course, heading back from your bedroom.

"When both sides can win: I just remembered, it's called a non-zero-sum game."

"That's it!" you'll say, writing it down on your notebook. "Thanks, Mom!"

"I guess I knew it after all," I'll say. "All those years with your father, some of it must have rubbed off."

"I knew you'd know it," you'll say. You'll give me a sudden, brief hug, and your hair will smell of apples. "You're the best."

○○○

"Louise?"

"Hmm? Sorry, I was distracted. What did you say?"

"I said, what do you think about our Mr. Hossner here?"

"I prefer not to."

"I've tried that myself: ignoring the government, seeing if it would go away. It hasn't."

As evidence of Gary's assertion, Hossner kept blathering: "Your immediate task is to think back on what you've learned. Look for anything that might help us. Has there been any indication of what the heptapods want? Of what they value?"

"Gee, it never occurred to us to look for things like that," I said. "We'll get right on it, sir."

"The sad thing is, that's just what we'll have to do," said Gary.

"Are there any questions?" asked Hossner.

Burghart, the linguist at the Ft. Worth looking glass, spoke up. "We've been through this with the heptapods many times. They maintain that they're here to observe, and they maintain that information is not tradable."

"So they would have us believe," said Hossner. "But consider: how could that be true? I know that the heptapods have occasionally stopped talking to us for brief periods. That may be a tactical maneuver on their part. If we were to stop talking to them tomorrow-"

"Wake me up if he says something interesting," said Gary.

"I was just going to ask you to do the same for me."

○○○

That day when Gary first explained Fermat's principle to me, he had mentioned that almost every physical law could be stated as a variational principle. Yet when humans thought about physical laws, they preferred to work with them in their causal formulation. I could understand that: the physical attributes that humans found intuitive, like kinetic energy or acceleration, were all properties of an object at a given moment in time. And these were conducive to a chronological, causal interpretation of events: one moment growing out of another, causes and effects creating a chain reaction that grew from past to future.

In contrast, the physical attributes that the heptapods found intuitive, like "action" or those other things defined by integrals, were meaningful only over a period of time. And these were conducive to a teleological interpretation of events: by viewing events over a period of time, one recognized that there was a requirement that had to be satisfied, a goal of minimizing or maximizing. And one had to know the initial and final states to meet that goal; one needed knowledge of the effects before the causes could be initiated.

I was growing to understand that, too.

○○○

"Why?" you'll ask again. You'll be three.

"Because it's your bedtime," I'll say again. We'll have gotten as far as getting you bathed and into your jammies, but no further than that.

"But I'm not sleepy," you'll whine. You'll be standing at the bookshelf, pulling down a video to watch: your latest diversionary tactic to keep away from your bedroom.

"It doesn't matter: you still have to go to bed."

"But why?"

"Because I'm the mom and I said so."

I'm actually going to say that, aren't I? God, somebody please shoot me.

I'll pick you up and carry you under my arm to your bed, you wailing piteously all the while, but my sole concern will be my own distress. All those vows made in childhood that I would give reasonable answers when I became a parent, that I would treat my own child as an intelligent, thinking individual, all for naught: I'm going to turn into my mother. I can fight it as much as I want, but there'll be no stopping my slide down that long, dreadful slope.

○○○

Was it actually possible to know the future? Not simply to guess at it; was it possible to know what was going to happen, with absolute certainty and in specific detail? Gary once told me that the fundamental laws of physics were time-symmetric, that there was no physical difference between past and future. Given that, some might say, "yes, theoretically." But speaking more concretely, most would answer "no," because of free will.

I liked to imagine the objection as a Borgesian fabulation: consider a person standing before the Book of Ages, the chronicle that records every event, past and future. Even though the text has been photoreduced from the full-sized edition, the volume is enormous. With magnifier in hand, she flips through the tissue-thin leaves until she locates the story of her life. She finds the passage that describes her flipping through the Book of Ages, and she skips to the next column, where it details what she'll be doing later in the day: acting on information she's read in the Book, she'll bet $100 on the racehorse Devil May Care and win twenty times that much.

The thought of doing just that had crossed her mind, but being a contrary sort, she now resolves to refrain from betting on the ponies altogether.

There's the rub. The Book of Ages cannot be wrong; this scenario is based on the premise that a person is given knowledge of the actual future, not of some possible future. If this were Greek myth, circumstances would conspire to make her enact her fate despite her best efforts, but prophecies in myth are notoriously vague; the Book of Ages is quite specific, and there's no way she can be forced to bet on a racehorse in the manner specified. The result is a contradiction: the Book of Ages must be right, by definition; yet no matter what the Book says she'll do, she can choose to do otherwise. How can these two facts be reconciled?

They can't be, was the common answer. A volume like the Book of Ages is a logical impossibility, for the precise reason that its existence would result in the above contradiction. Or, to be generous, some might say that the Book of Ages could exist, as long as it wasn't accessible to readers: that volume is housed in a special collection, and no one has viewing privileges.

The existence of free will meant that we couldn't know the future. And we knew free will existed because we had direct experience of it. Volition was an intrinsic part of consciousness.

Or was it? What if the experience of knowing the future changed a person? What if it evoked a sense of urgency, a sense of obligation to act precisely as she knew she would?

○○○

I stopped by Gary's office before leaving for the day. "I'm calling it quits. Did you want to grab something to eat?"

"Sure, just wait a second," he said. He shut down his computer and gathered some papers together. Then he looked up at me. "Hey, want to come to my place for dinner tonight? I'll cook."

I looked at him dubiously. "You can cook?"

"Just one dish," he admitted. "But it's a good one."

"Sure," I said. "I'm game."

"Great. We just need to go shopping for the ingredients."

"Don't go to any trouble-"

"There's a market on the way to my house. It won't take a minute."

We took separate cars, me following him. I almost lost him when he abruptly turned into a parking lot. It was a gourmet market, not large, but fancy; tall glass jars stuffed with imported foods sat next to specialty utensils on the store's stainless-steel shelves.

I accompanied Gary as he collected fresh basil, tomatoes, garlic, linguini. "There's a fish market next door; we can get fresh clams there," he said.

"Sounds good." We walked past the section of kitchen utensils. My gaze wandered over the shelves- pepper mills, garlic presses, salad tongs- and stopped on a wooden salad bowl.

When you are three, you'll pull a dishtowel off the kitchen counter and bring that salad bowl down on top of you. I'll make a grab for it, but I'll miss. The edge of the bowl will leave you with a cut, on the upper edge of your forehead, that will require a single stitch. Your father and I will hold you, sobbing and stained with Caesar dressing, as we wait in the emergency room for hours.

I reached out and took the bowl from the shelf. The motion didn't feel like something I was forced to do. Instead it seemed just as urgent as my rushing to catch the bowl when it falls on you: an instinct that I felt right in following.

"I could use a salad bowl like this."

Gary looked at the bowl and nodded approvingly. "See, wasn't it a good thing that I had to stop at the market?"

"Yes it was." We got in line to pay for our purchases.

○○○

Consider the sentence "The rabbit is ready to eat." Interpret "rabbit" to be the object of "eat," and the sentence was an announcement that dinner would be served shortly. Interpret "rabbit" to be the subject of "eat," and it was a hint, such as a young girl might give her mother so she'll open a bag of Purina Bunny Chow. Two very different utterances; in fact, they were probably mutually exclusive within a single household. Yet either was a valid interpretation; only context could determine what the sentence meant.

Consider the phenomenon of light hitting water at one angle, and traveling through it at a different angle. Explain it by saying that a difference in the index of refraction caused the light to change direction, and one saw the world as humans saw it. Explain it by saying that light minimized the time needed to travel to its destination, and one saw the world as the heptapods saw it. Two very different interpretations.

The physical universe was a language with a perfectly ambiguous grammar. Every physical event was an utterance that could be parsed in two entirely different ways, one causal and the other teleological, both valid, neither one disqualifiable no matter how much context was available.

When the ancestors of humans and heptapods first acquired the spark of consciousness, they both perceived the same physical world, but they parsed their perceptions differently; the worldviews that ultimately arose were the end result of that divergence. Humans had developed a sequential mode of awareness, while heptapods had developed a simultaneous mode of awareness. We experienced events in an order, and perceived their relationship as cause and effect. They experienced all events at once, and perceived a purpose underlying them all. A minimizing, maximizing purpose.

○○○

I have a recurring dream about your death. In the dream, I'm the one who's rock climbing- me, can you imagine it?- and you're three years old, riding in some kind of backpack I'm wearing. We're just a few feet below a ledge where we can rest, and you won't wait until I've climbed up to it. You start pulling yourself out of the pack; I order you to stop, but of course you ignore me. I feel your weight alternating from one side of the pack to the other as you climb out; then I feel your left foot on my shoulder, and then your right. I'm screaming at you, but I can't get a hand free to grab you. I can see the wavy design on the soles of your sneakers as you climb, and then I see a flake of stone give way beneath one of them. You slide right past me, and I can't move a muscle. I look down and see you shrink into the distance below me.

Then, all of a sudden, I'm at the morgue. An orderly lifts the sheet from your face, and I see that you're twenty-five.

"You okay?"

I was sitting upright in bed; I'd woken Gary with my movements. "I'm fine. I was just startled; I didn't recognize where I was for a moment."

Sleepily, he said, "We can stay at your place next time."

I kissed him. "Don't worry; your place is fine." We curled up, my back against his chest, and went back to sleep.

○○○

When you're three and we're climbing a steep, spiral flight of stairs, I'll hold your hand extra tightly. You'll pull your hand away from me. "I can do it by myself," you'll insist, and then move away from me to prove it, and I'll remember that dream. We'll repeat that scene countless times during your childhood. I can almost believe that, given your contrary nature, my attempts to protect you will be what create your love of climbing: first the jungle gym at the playground, then trees out in the green belt around our neighborhood, the rock walls at the climbing club, and ultimately cliff faces in national parks.

○○○

I finished the last radical in the sentence, put down the chalk, and sat down in my desk chair. I leaned back and surveyed the giant Heptapod B sentence I'd written that covered the entire blackboard in my office. It included several complex clauses, and I had managed to integrate all of them rather nicely.

Looking at a sentence like this one, I understood why the heptapods had evolved a semasiographic writing system like Heptapod B; it was better suited for a species with a simultaneous mode of consciousness. For them, speech was a bottleneck because it required that one word follow another sequentially. With writing, on the other hand, every mark on a page was visible simultaneously. Why constrain writing with a glottographic straitjacket, demanding that it be just as sequential as speech? It would never occur to them. Semasiographic writing naturally took advantage of the page's two-dimensionality; instead of doling out morphemes one at a time, it offered an entire page full of them all at once.

And now that Heptapod B had introduced me to a simultaneous mode of consciousness, I understood the rationale behind Heptapod A's grammar: what my sequential mind had perceived as unnecessarily convoluted, I now recognized as an attempt to provide flexibility within the confines of sequential speech. I could use Heptapod A more easily as a result, though it was still a poor substitute for Heptapod B.

There was a knock at the door and then Gary poked his head in. "Colonel Weber'll be here any minute."

I grimaced. "Right." Weber was coming to participate in a session with Flapper and Raspberry; I was to act as translator, a job I wasn't trained for and that I detested.

Gary stepped inside and closed the door. He pulled me out of my chair and kissed me.

I smiled. "You trying to cheer me up before he gets here?"

"No, I'm trying to cheer me up."

"You weren't interested in talking to the heptapods at all, were you? You worked on this project just to get me into bed."

"Ah, you see right through me."

I looked into his eyes. "You better believe it," I said.

○○○

I remember when you'll be a month old, and I'll stumble out of bed to give you your 2:00 a.m. feeding. Your nursery will have that "baby smell" of diaper rash cream and talcum powder, with a faint ammoniac whiff coming from the diaper pail in the corner. I'll lean over your crib, lift your squalling form out, and sit in the rocking chair to nurse you.

The word "infant" is derived from the Latin word for "unable to speak," but you'll be perfectly capable of saying one thing: "I suffer," and you'll do it tirelessly and without hesitation. I have to admire your utter commitment to that statement; when you cry, you'll become outrage incarnate, every fiber of your body employed in expressing that emotion. It's funny: when you're tranquil, you will seem to radiate light, and if someone were to paint a portrait of you like that, I'd insist that they include the halo. But when you're unhappy, you will become a klaxon, built for radiating sound; a portrait of you then could simply be a fire alarm bell.

At that stage of your life, there'll be no past or future for you; until I give you my breast, you'll have no memory of contentment in the past nor expectation of relief in the future. Once you begin nursing, everything will reverse, and all will be right with the world. NOW is the only moment you'll perceive; you'll live in the present tense. In many ways, it's an enviable state.

○○○

The heptapods are neither free nor bound as we understand those concepts; they don't act according to their will, nor are they helpless automatons. What distinguishes the heptapods' mode of awareness is not just that their actions coincide with history's events; it is also that their motives coincide with history's purposes. They act to create the future, to enact chronology.

Freedom isn't an illusion; it's perfectly real in the context of sequential consciousness. Within the context of simultaneous consciousness, freedom is not meaningful, but neither is coercion; it's simply a different context, no more or less valid than the other. It's like that famous optical illusion, the drawing of either an elegant young woman, face turned away from the viewer, or a wart-nosed crone, chin tucked down on her chest. There's no "correct" interpretation; both are equally valid. But you can't see both at the same time.

Similarly, knowledge of the future was incompatible with free will. What made it possible for me to exercise freedom of choice also made it impossible for me to know the future. Conversely, now that I know the future, I would never act contrary to that future, including telling others what I know: those who know the future don't talk about it. Those who've read the Book of Ages never admit to it.

○○○

I turned on the VCR and slotted a cassette of a session from the Ft. Worth looking glass. A diplomatic negotiator was having a discussion with the heptapods there, with Burghart acting as translator.

The negotiator was describing humans' moral beliefs, trying to lay some groundwork for the concept of altruism. I knew the heptapods were familiar with the conversation's eventual outcome, but they still participated enthusiastically.

If I could have described this to someone who didn't already know, she might ask, if the heptapods already knew everything that they would ever say or hear, what was the point of their using language at all? A reasonable question. But language wasn't only for communication: it was also a form of action. According to speech act theory, statements like "You're under arrest," "I christen this vessel," or "I promise" were all performative: a speaker could perform the action only by uttering the words. For such acts, knowing what would be said didn't change anything. Everyone at a wedding anticipated the words "I now pronounce you husband and wife," but until the minister actually said them, the ceremony didn't count. With performative language, saying equaled doing.

For the heptapods, all language was performative. Instead of using language to inform, they used language to actualize. Sure, heptapods already knew what would be said in any conversation; but in order for their knowledge to be true, the conversation would have to take place.

○○○

"First Goldilocks tried the papa bear's bowl of porridge, but it was full of Brussels sprouts, which she hated."

You'll laugh. "No, that's wrong!" We'll be sitting side by side on the sofa, the skinny, overpriced hardcover spread open on our laps.

I'll keep reading. "Then Goldilocks tried the mama bear's bowl of porridge, but it was full of spinach, which she also hated."

You'll put your hand on the page of the book to stop me. "You have to read it the right way!"

"I'm reading just what it says here," I'll say, all innocence.

"No you're not. That's not how the story goes."

"Well if you already know how the story goes, why do you need me to read it to you?"

" 'Cause I wanna hear it!"

○○○

The air-conditioning in Weber's office almost compensated for having to talk to the man.

"They're willing to engage in a type of exchange," I explained, "but it's not trade. We simply give them something, and they give us something in return. Neither party tells the other what they're giving beforehand."

Colonel Weber's brow furrowed just slightly. "You mean they're willing to exchange gifts?"

I knew what I had to say. "We shouldn't think of it as 'gift-giving.' We don't know if this transaction has the same associations for the heptapods that gift-giving has for us."

"Can we"- he searched for the right wording- "drop hints about the kind of gift we want?"

"They don't do that themselves for this type of transaction. I asked them if we could make a request, and they said we could, but it won't make them tell us what they're giving." I suddenly remembered that a morphological relative of "performative" was "performance," which could describe the sensation of conversing when you knew what would be said: it was like performing in a play.

"But would it make them more likely to give us what we asked for?" Colonel Weber asked. He was perfectly oblivious of the script, yet his responses matched his assigned lines exactly.

"No way of knowing," I said. "I doubt it, given that it's not a custom they engage in."

"If we give our gift first, will the value of our gift influence the value of theirs?" He was improvising, while I had carefully rehearsed for this one and only show.

"No," I said. "As far as we can tell, the value of the exchanged items is irrelevant."

"If only my relatives felt that way," murmured Gary wryly.

I watched Colonel Weber turn to Gary. "Have you discovered anything new in the physics discussions?" he asked, right on cue.

"If you mean, any information new to mankind, no," said Gary. "The heptapods haven't varied from the routine. If we demonstrate something to them, they'll show us their formulation of it, but they won't volunteer anything and they won't answer our questions about what they know."

An utterance that was spontaneous and communicative in the context of human discourse became a ritual recitation when viewed by the light of Heptapod B.

Weber scowled. "All right then, we'll see how the State Department feels about this. Maybe we can arrange some kind of gift-giving ceremony."

Like physical events, with their causal and teleological interpretations, every linguistic event had two possible interpretations: as a transmission of information and as the realization of a plan.

"I think that's a good idea, Colonel," I said.

It was an ambiguity invisible to most. A private joke; don't ask me to explain it.

○○○

Even though I'm proficient with Heptapod B, I know I don't experience reality the way a heptapod does. My mind was cast in the mold of human, sequential languages, and no amount of immersion in an alien language can completely reshape it. My worldview is an amalgam of human and heptapod.

Before I learned how to think in Heptapod B, my memories grew like a column of cigarette ash, laid down by the infinitesimal sliver of combustion that was my consciousness, marking the sequential present. After I learned Heptapod B, new memories fell into place like gigantic blocks, each one measuring years in duration, and though they didn't arrive in order or land contiguously, they soon composed a period of five decades. It is the period during which I know Heptapod B well enough to think in it, starting during my interviews with Flapper and Raspberry and ending with my death.

Usually, Heptapod B affects just my memory: my consciousness crawls along as it did before, a glowing sliver crawling forward in time, the difference being that the ash of memory lies ahead as well as behind: there is no real combustion. But occasionally I have glimpses when Heptapod B truly reigns, and I experience past and future all at once; my consciousness becomes a half-century-long ember burning outside time. I perceive- during those glimpses- that entire epoch as a simultaneity. It's a period encompassing the rest of my life, and the entirety of yours.

○○○

I wrote out the semagrams for "process create-endpoint inclusive-we," meaning "let's start." Raspberry replied in the affirmative, and the slide shows began. The second display screen that the heptapods had provided began presenting a series of images, composed of semagrams and equations, while one of our video screens did the same.

This was the second "gift exchange" I had been present for, the eighth one overall, and I knew it would be the last. The looking glass tent was crowded with people; Burghart from Ft. Worth was here, as were Gary and a nuclear physicist, assorted biologists, anthropologists, military brass, and diplomats. Thankfully they had set up an air conditioner to cool the place off. We would review the tapes of the images later to figure out just what the heptapods' "gift" was. Our own "gift" was a presentation on the Lascaux cave paintings.

We all crowded around the heptapods' second screen, trying to glean some idea of the images' content as they went by. "Preliminary assessments?" asked Colonel Weber.

"It's not a return," said Burghart. In a previous exchange, the heptapods had given us information about ourselves that we had previously told them. This had infuriated the State Department, but we had no reason to think of it as an insult: it probably indicated that trade value really didn't play a role in these exchanges. It didn't exclude the possibility that the heptapods might yet offer us a space drive, or cold fusion, or some other wish-fulfilling miracle.

"That looks like inorganic chemistry," said the nuclear physicist, pointing at an equation before the image was replaced.

Gary nodded. "It could be materials technology," he said.

"Maybe we're finally getting somewhere," said Colonel Weber.

"I wanna see more animal pictures," I whispered, quietly so that only Gary could hear me, and pouted like a child. He smiled and poked me. Truthfully, I wished the heptapods had given another xenobiology lecture, as they had on two previous exchanges; judging from those, humans were more similar to the heptapods than any other species they'd ever encountered. Or another lecture on heptapod history; those had been filled with apparent non sequiturs, but were interesting nonetheless. I didn't want the heptapods to give us new technology, because I didn't want to see what our governments might do with it.

I watched Raspberry while the information was being exchanged, looking for any anomalous behavior. It stood barely moving as usual; I saw no indications of what would happen shortly.

After a minute, the heptapod's screen went blank, and a minute after that, ours did too. Gary and most of the other scientists clustered around a tiny video screen that was replaying the heptapods' presentation. I could hear them talk about the need to call in a solid-state physicist.

Colonel Weber turned. "You two," he said, pointing to me and then to Burghart, "schedule the time and location for the next exchange." Then he followed the others to the playback screen.

"Coming right up," I said. To Burghart, I asked, "Would you care to do the honors, or shall I?"

I knew Burghart had gained a proficiency in Heptapod B similar to mine. "It's your looking glass," he said. "You drive."

I sat down again at the transmitting computer. "Bet you never figured you'd wind up working as an Army translator back when you were a grad student."

"That's for goddamn sure," he said. "Even now I can hardly believe it." Everything we said to each other felt like the carefully bland exchanges of spies who meet in public, but never break cover.

I wrote out the semagrams for "locus exchange-transaction converse inclusive-we" with the projective aspect modulation.

Raspberry wrote its reply. That was my cue to frown, and for Burghart to ask, "What does it mean by that?" His delivery was perfect.

I wrote a request for clarification; Raspberry's reply was the same as before. Then I watched it glide out of the room. The curtain was about to fall on this act of our performance.

Colonel Weber stepped forward. "What's going on? Where did it go?"

"It said that the heptapods are leaving now," I said. "Not just itself; all of them."

"Call it back here now. Ask it what it means."?

"Um, I don't think Raspberry's wearing a pager," I said. The image of the room in the looking glass disappeared so abruptly that it took a moment for my eyes to register what I was seeing instead: it was the other side of the looking-glass tent. The looking glass had become completely transparent. The conversation around the playback screen fell silent.

"What the hell is going on here?" said Colonel Weber.

Gary walked up to the looking glass, and then around it to the other side. He touched the rear surface with one hand; I could see the pale ovals where his fingertips made contact with the looking glass. "I think," he said, "we just saw a demonstration of transmutation at a distance."

I heard the sounds of heavy footfalls on dry grass. A soldier came in through the tent door, short of breath from sprinting, holding an oversize walkie-talkie. "Colonel, message from-"

Weber grabbed the walkie-talkie from him.

○○○

I remember what it'll be like watching you when you are a day old. Your father will have gone for a quick visit to the hospital cafeteria, and you'll be lying in your bassinet, and I'll be leaning over you.

So soon after the delivery, I will still be feeling like a wrung-out towel. You will seem incongruously tiny, given how enormous I felt during the pregnancy; I could swear there was room for someone much larger and more robust than you in there. Your hands and feet will be long and thin, not chubby yet. Your face will still be all red and pinched, puffy eyelids squeezed shut, the gnomelike phase that precedes the cherubic.

I'll run a finger over your belly, marveling at the uncanny softness of your skin, wondering if silk would abrade your body like burlap. Then you'll writhe, twisting your body while poking out your legs one at a time, and I'll recognize the gesture as one I had felt you do inside me, many times. So that's what it looks like.

I'll feel elated at this evidence of a unique mother-child bond, this certitude that you're the one I carried. Even if I had never laid eyes on you before, I'd be able to pick you out from a sea of babies: Not that one. No, not her either. Wait, that one over there.

Yes, that's her. She's mine.

○○○

That final "gift exchange" was the last we ever saw of the heptapods. All at once, all over the world, their looking glasses became transparent and their ships left orbit. Subsequent analysis of the looking glasses revealed them to be nothing more than sheets of fused silica, completely inert. The information from the final exchange session described a new class of super-conducting materials, but it later proved to duplicate the results of research just completed in Japan: nothing that humans didn't already know.

We never did learn why the heptapods left, any more than we learned what brought them here, or why they acted the way they did. My own new awareness didn't provide that type of knowledge; the heptapods' behavior was presumably explicable from a sequential point of view, but we never found that explanation.

I would have liked to experience more of the heptapods' worldview, to feel the way they feel. Then, perhaps I could immerse myself fully in the necessity of events, as they must, instead of merely wading in its surf for the rest of my life. But that will never come to pass. I will continue to practice the heptapod languages, as will the other linguists on the looking glass teams, but none of us will ever progress any further than we did when the heptapods were here.

Working with the heptapods changed my life. I met your father and learned Heptapod B, both of which make it possible for me to know you now, here on the patio in the moonlight. Eventually, many years from now, I'll be without your father, and without you. All I will have left from this moment is the heptapod language. So I pay close attention, and note every detail.

From the beginning I knew my destination, and I chose my route accordingly. But am I working toward an extreme of joy, or of pain? Will I achieve a minimum, or a maximum?

These questions are in my mind when your father asks me, "Do you want to make a baby?" And I smile and answer, "Yes," and I unwrap his arms from around me, and we hold hands as we walk inside to make love, to make you.

Story Notes

This story grew out of my interest in the variational principles of physics. I've found these principles fascinating ever since I first learned of them, but I didn't know how to use them in a story until I saw a performance of?Time Flies When You're Alive, Paul Linke's one-man show about his wife's battle with breast cancer. It occurred to me then that I might be able to use variational principles to tell a story about a person's response to the inevitable. A few years later, that notion combined with a friend's remark about her newborn baby to form the nucleus of this story.

For those interested in physics, I should note that the story's discussion of Fermat's Principle of Least Time omits all mention of its quantum-mechanical underpinnings. The QM formulation is interesting in its own way, but I preferred the metaphoric possibilities of the classical version.

As for this story's theme, probably the most concise summation of it that I've seen appears in Kurt Vonnegut's introduction to the 25th anniversary edition of?Slaughterhouse-Five: "Stephen Hawking… found it tantalizing that we could not remember the future. But remembering the future is child's play for me now. I know what will become of my helpless, trusting babies because they are grown-ups now. I know how my closest friends will end up because so many of them are retired or dead now… To Stephen Hawking and all others younger than myself I say, 'Be patient. Your future will come to you and lie down at your feet like a dog who knows and loves you no matter what you are.' "

人类科学之演变

自从一份具有原创性的研究报告最终提交给我们编辑部发表至今，已有二十五个春秋了。现在时机已经成熟，可以重新审视当年曾引起广泛争论的这个问题了：处在一个科学探索的前沿已超越人类理解力的时代，人类科学家究竟担当一个什么样的角色。

毫无疑问，我们的许多读者都读过这样的论文：第一个获得文章所描述的研究结果的人正是作者本人。但是当超人开始主宰实验性研究领域以后，他们的许多研究成果只有通过ＤＮＴ（数字化神经传送）手段才能获得。这种情形愈演愈烈，最后，学术刊物只能发表翻译成人类语言的二手文章。如果不借助ＤＮＴ，人类就不能真正彻底领会最重要的研究成就，也不能有效地利用新工具来从事研究。另一方面，超人还在继续改进ＤＮＴ，更加依赖它。人类阅读的刊物非但已经沦为普及读物，而且是非常低劣的普及读物，就连最杰出的人类精英也发现这些最新研究成果的译本不知所云。

无人否认超人科学带来的诸多益处，但科学研究者所付出的代价之一是：他们也许再也不能对科学做出原创性的贡献了。有些人干脆离开了研究领域，即使留下的也把注意力从独创性研究转移到诠释学：诠释超人的科研成果。

首先，文本诠释学流行起来，因为已经有了兆兆亿字节的超人类出版物。虽然这些出版物的译文意义晦涩难懂，不过大抵并非完全不确切。诚然，破译这些文本与传统古文字学家所做的工作迥然不同，但这方面的工作在不断取得进步：最近的试验证明，汉弗莱对面世已有十年之久的组织亲和性遗传理论的破译是正确的。

由于有了基于超人科学的崭新手段，从而催生出有关超人成果的诠释学。科学家开始尝试“逆向处理”这些成果，其目标不是批量制造可以同超人成果相竞争的产品，只是为了理解超人工作背后的物理原理。最通常的技术是对毫微器物的晶体学分析，这种分析经常为我们理解机械提供崭新的视觉。

最新同时也是迄今为止最为深思熟虑的科学探索模式是超人研究装置的远程感应。最近的研究对象是新近安装在戈壁沙漠下面的超级碰撞器，它的令人困惑的中微子信号是众多争议的主题（便携式中子探测仪当然是另一个超人装置，它的操作原理仍然难以捉摸）。

现在的问题是，这些研究项目值得科学家去从事吗？有些人认为这纯粹是浪费时间，把它比作当可以在市场上轻而易举获得欧洲制造的钢铁器具时，美洲印第安人却把研究的精力耗费在青铜熔炼上。如果人类是在同超人竞争，这个比喻就恰如其分了，但现在经济繁荣，物资充裕，并不存在这种竞争的迹象。事实上，重要的是认识到。与早期众多低科技文化面对一种高科技文化的冲击时的情况不同，人类既无被同化也无被灭绝的危险。

目前仍然无法增大人脑，以植入超人的大脑。为了使大脑适应ＤＮＴ，苏吉莫托基因理疗法必须在胚胎神经开始形成之前进行。由于这种疗法缺乏同化机制，这就意味着超人孩子的人类父母面临一个艰难的选择：要么允许他们的孩子浸润于超人文化，眼睁睁地看着自己的孩子变得对父母完全隔膜，要么在孩子成长时期限制他们使用ＤＮＴ，而这对于超人来说是一种无情的折磨，剥夺了他们应有的权利，就像把孩子隔绝于世人一样。难怪近年来父母们选择苏吉莫托基因理疗法的人数几乎降至零。

结果是，人类文明可能会继续存在下去，这一文明传统将把科学当作其关键部分。诠释学是科学探索的正当方法，并且像原创性研究一样，能够增进人类知识。此外，人类研究者可以洞悉被超人们所忽略的种种用途。超人由于拥有优势，因而容易忽视我们所关注的问题。比如，设想一下，是否可以研究出一种不同的智力提高法，允许人们逐步把自己的智力提高到堪与超人比肩。这种疗法将提供一座桥梁，架通我们人类这一物种历史上最大的文化鸿沟。这方面的问题，超人可能连想都不曾想过去探索它。仅仅这一可能性便足以说明人类继续科学研究事业的合理性。

我们不必对超人的科学成就而感到惊恐。我们应该始终铭记：使超人成为可能的科学技术正是人类创造的，他们并不比我们更聪明。

后记

这篇小说最初是为《自然》杂志创作的。这家专业科学杂志决定在２０００年每周刊载一篇描写“未来”的小说。既然准备发表在科技刊物上，我决定写写科技刊物本身。我开始想像，如果未来产生了超级智力，这样一份科技刊物会像什么样子。威廉·吉布森曾经说过：“未来其实已经到了，只不过分布得不均衡而已。”比如现在，世界上有些地方的人根本没听说过电脑，即使听说，也觉得是发生在远方别人身上、与自己遥不可及的事。我觉得，不管未来发生什么科技大革命，这种情况仍然会出现。

（于飞译）

The Evolution of Human Science

by Ted Chiang

In the face of metahuman science, humans have become metascientists.

It has been 25 years since a report of original research was last submitted to our editors for publication, making this an appropriate time to revisit the question that was so widely debated then: what is the role of human scientists in an age when the frontiers of scientific inquiry have moved beyond the comprehensibility of humans?

No doubt many of our subscribers remember reading papers whose authors were the first individuals ever to obtain the results they described. But as metahumans began to dominate experimental research, they increasingly made their findings available only via DNT (digital neural transfer), leaving journals to publish second-hand accounts translated into human language.

Without DNT, humans could not fully grasp earlier developments nor effectively utilize the new tools needed to conduct research, while metahumans continued to improve DNT and rely on it even more. Journals for human audiences were reduced to vehicles of popularization, and poor ones at that, as even the most brilliant humans found themselves puzzled by translations of the latest findings.

No one denies the many benefits of metahuman science, but one of its costs to human researchers was the realization that they would probably never make an original contribution to science again. Some left the field altogether, but those who stayed shifted their attentions away from original research and toward hermeneutics: interpreting the scientific work of metahumans.

Textual hermeneutics became popular first, since there were already terabytes of metahuman publications whose translations, although cryptic, were presumably not entirely inaccurate. Deciphering these texts bears little resemblance to the task performed by traditional palaeographers, but progress continues: recent experiments have validated the Humphries decipherment of decade-old publications on histocompatibility genetics.

The availability of devices based on metahuman science gave rise to artefact hermeneutics. Scientists began attempting to 'reverse engineer' these artefacts, their goal being not to manufacture competing products, but simply to understand the physical principles underlying their operation. The most common technique is the crystallographic analysis of nanoware appliances, which frequently provides us with new insights into mechanosynthesis.

The newest and by far the most speculative mode of inquiry is remote sensing of metahuman research facilities. A recent target of investigation is the ExaCollider recently installed beneath the Gobi Desert, whose puzzling neutrino signature has been the subject of much controversy. (The portable neutrino detector is, of course, another metahuman artefact whose operating principles remain elusive.)

The question is, are these worthwhile undertakings for scientists? Some call them a waste of time, likening them to a Native American research effort into bronze smelting when steel tools of European manufacture are readily available. This comparison might be more apt if humans were in competition with metahumans, but in today's economy of abundance there is no evidence of such competition. In fact, it is important to recognize that — unlike most previous low-technology cultures confronted with a high-technology one — humans are in no danger of assimilation or extinction.

There is still no way to augment a human brain into a metahuman one; the Sugimoto gene therapy must be performed before the embryo begins neurogenesis in order for a brain to be compatible with DNT. This lack of an assimilation mechanism means that human parents of a metahuman child face a difficult choice: to allow their child DNT interaction with metahuman culture, and watch him or her grow incomprehensible to them; or else restrict access to DNT during the child's formative years, which to a metahuman is deprivation like that suffered by Kaspar Hauser. It is not surprising that the percentage of human parents choosing the Sugimoto gene therapy for their children has dropped almost to zero in recent years.

As a result, human culture is likely to survive well into the future, and the scientific tradition is a vital part of that culture. Hermeneutics is a legitimate method of scientific inquiry and increases the body of human knowledge just as original research did. Moreover, human researchers may discern applications overlooked by metahumans, whose advantages tend to make them unaware of our concerns.

For example, imagine if research offered hope of a different intelligence-enhancing therapy, one that would allow individuals to gradually 'upgrade' their minds to a level equivalent to that of a metahuman. Such a therapy would offer a bridge across what has become the greatest cultural divide in our species' history, yet it might not even occur to metahumans to explore it; that possibility alone justifies the continuation of human research.

We need not be intimidated by the accomplishments of metahuman science. We should always remember that the technologies that made metahumans possible were originally invented by humans, and they were no smarter than we.

Story Notes

This short-short was written for the British science journal Nature. Throughout the year 2000, Nature ran a feature called "Futures;" each week a different writer provided a short fictional treatment of a scientific development occurring in the next millenium. Nature happens to be a distant corporate cousin of Tor Books, so the editor in charge of "Futures," Dr. Henry Gee, asked Patrick Nielsen Hayden to suggest some possible contributors. Patrick was kind enough to mention me.

Since the piece would appear in a scientific journal, making it about a scientific journal seemed like a natural choice. I started wondering about what such a journal might look like after the advent of superhuman intelligence. William Gibson once said, "The future is already here; it's just not evenly distributed." Right now there are people in the world who, if they're aware of the computer revolution at all, know of it only as something happening to other people, somewhere else. I expect that will remain true no matter what technological revolutions await us.

(A note about the title: this short-short originally appeared under a title chosen by the editors of Nature; I've chosen to restore its original title for this reprint.)

注：本文发表在Nature上（2000年）, 其时题名为 Catching crumbs from the table。

网址：http://www.nature.com/nature/journal/v405/n6786/full/405517a0.html

七十二个字母

一

小时候，罗伯特最喜欢的玩具是一个只能朝前走的泥娃娃。每当爸爸妈妈在自家后院和客人们讨论维多利亚女王登基或宪章派改革的时候，罗伯特就带着它在走廊里走动，遇到转角时把它掉个头或者放回原来出发的地方。这个小泥人既听不懂指挥，也没有任何意识，即使前面是墙，它也会继续走，直到碾碎手臂和腿。为了好玩，有时罗伯特会故意让它撞墙。等到泥人的四肢完全变形，他就拾起它，把名字取出来，它马上不动了。他把它揉成一块光滑的泥团，又摊成一个厚板，塑成另一个泥人，只剩一只弯曲的腿，或者比原来那个更细长。他把名字塞回去，这时泥人就会倒下来，以身体为轴心兜圈子。

罗伯特并不喜欢雕塑，他是在测试名字的功能。想看看他能把泥人的体形改到什么程度后，它还能被名字激活。为了节省雕塑时间，他几乎不加任何修饰性的细节，只随测试的需要不断变换泥人的身体形状。

他的另一个玩具有四条腿，很精致，是一匹瓷马。罗伯特的兴趣也是测试它的名字。这个名字能听懂命令，知道开始和停止，也知道避开障碍物。罗伯特想把它插进自己塑的泥人躯体中。但这个名字对躯体的要求很严格，他塑的泥人不能激活。于是他单独塑了四条腿，把它们和躯干粘在一起。但因为抹不平腿和躯干之间的缝隙，名字不把它们视为一个整体。

他详细查看了名字，想找出一些能区分两条腿和四条腿、可以使躯体服从一些简单命令的名字。但名字们看起来很不同，每个名字的羊皮纸碎片上都刻着七十二个希伯来字母，排成十二排，每排六个字。在他看来，这些字母的排列完全是无序的。

二

四年级学生罗伯特·斯特雷顿和他的同学们安静地坐在教室里，特里威廉老师在他们身边走来走去。

“兰德尔，名字的原理是什么？”

“一切事物都是上帝的影像，嗯，这个，所有——”

“别啰嗦了。索尔伯恩，你能说说名字的原理吗？”

“因为一切事物都是上帝的影像，所以一切名字都是上帝圣名的影像。”

“那么，什么是一个物体的真实名字？”

“一个物体的真实名字就是那个反映上帝名字的名字，这就像反映了上帝的物体才是真实的物体一样。”

“一个真实名字能起什么作用？”

“将上帝力量的映像赋予这个名字所代表的物体。”

“非常正确。哈利维尔，签名的原理是什么？”

自然哲学课一直持续到中午。因为是周六，下午就没课了。特里威廉老师的课完了后，切尔顿汉姆学校的孩子们三三两两走出校门。

罗伯特在宿舍门口的操场边碰到了好朋友利恩勒尔。“等待结束了？今天可以看你的试验结果了？”罗伯特问。

“我说过今天可以的，对吧？”

“那我们赶紧走吧。”他俩一起朝利恩勒尔家走去。他家离学校有一英里半的路程。

一年级的时候，罗伯特几乎不认识利恩勒尔。利恩勒尔是走读生，像所有寄宿生一样，罗伯特对走读生很不信任。但一次偶然的机会，罗伯特在英国博物馆遇见了利恩勒尔。罗伯特喜欢博物馆。特别喜欢那些易碎的木乃伊和巨大的石棺，被制成标本的鸭嘴兽和浸泡着的美人鱼，以及高高直立着的墙，上面挂满了象牙、驼鹿和独角兽的茸角。那天是个假日，罗伯特在鬼怪展台前参观，仔细研读着一张卡片，上面解释了为什么火蜥蜴没有被展出。这时他发现了站在身旁、正盯着坛子里水精的利恩勒尔。于是他们交谈了起来，对科学的共同爱好使他俩成了好朋友。

他们沿着马路走着，不时把一块鹅卵石踢来踢去。利恩勒尔飞起一脚，鹅卵石蹦跳着碰到了罗伯特的脚踝。“我简直等不及想放学。”他说，“再来一条理论，我肯定受不了了。”

“他们干吗非得管这门课叫自然哲学？”罗伯特说，“就叫它神学课好了，大家省心。”他俩最近买了一本《命名法少儿指南》，上面的说法和学校里教的很不一样。书上说命名师再也不根据上帝或者神的名字来给对象定名了，流行的看法是，同时存在着词的世界和物理的世界。如果一个物体和合适的名字配在一起，就可以激活两个世界的潜能。物体本身也并不是只存在惟一一个“真名”——根据其精确形状，一个对象可以和多个名字相配，通常称作对象的“佳名”。与佳名相反，也可以给对象起一个比较粗略、比较简单的名字，这个名字可以接受对象的多种变化，童年时代他的那些泥娃娃拥有的就是这种名字，所以可以接受他替它做的身体变形。

他们到了利恩勒尔家，告诉厨子一会儿就回来吃晚饭，然后朝后花园走去。利恩勒尔把后院的一个工具房改建成了实验室，他经常在那儿作一些试验。平时，罗伯特经常都会来这儿看看。但最近利恩勒尔作了一个秘密试验，直到现在才肯让罗伯特看他的试验结果。利恩勒尔叫罗伯特在外面等等，他自己先进去了一会儿，然后才请罗伯特进去。

屋里放着一排排长架子，把四面墙都占满了。架子上堆满绿色的玻璃小瓶，盖着塞子，分门别类地装着岩石和矿物质样品。一张沾满污渍、灼痕斑斑的桌子占据着侠小房间的主要位置，上面摆放着利恩勒尔新近试验用的仪器：一个葫芦形蒸馏瓶，稳稳地固定在一个支架上，底部浸在一只盛满水的盆子里。盆子放在一个三角架上，被一盏油灯烧烤着。盆里还有一个温度计。

“瞧瞧吧，”利恩勒尔说。

罗伯特凑近了些，查看蒸馏瓶里的东西。一开始，他只看到了水泡，像从啤酒瓶口冒出来的泡沫。仔细看时才发现，他刚才当成泡沫的东西，实际上一种亮晶晶的细密栅格之间的空隙。泡沫里面是一些小人：小小的、精液发育成的胚胎。单个儿看，它们的身体呈透明状，但合起来看时，它们的球茎状脑袋和线状四肢纠缠在一起，相互挤着，粘着，形成了一团又白又密的泡沫。

“你冲着瓶子干坏事打飞机，再给它们保温？”他问。利恩勒尔推了他一把。罗伯特笑着举起手以示和解，“不，说真的，这真是个奇迹。你是怎么做的？”

利恩勒尔停了停，说：“说穿了，就是要保持均衡。既要保持一定的温度，还必须有均衡的营养。营养不足，它们会饿死。营养过剩，它们又会过分活跃，打起架来。”

“你在开玩笑吧。”

“这是真的。不信可以去查查看。精子之间的争斗可以引起胚胎畸形。如果伤残的胚胎和卵子结合，生出来的孩子肯定是残疾。”

“我还以为生出残疾儿是因为当妈的怀孕时受到了惊吓。”这时，罗伯特几乎可以清晰地看到那一个个蠕动着的胚胎。他发现泡沫之所以不断缓缓搅动，正是由于它们的整体动作。

“那只是对某几类残疾情况而言，诸如多毛，或者多斑等。而那些缺胳膊少腿，或躯体畸形的婴儿，却是由于它们还是精子的时候就受到了侵害。所以，不能在瓶里放太多精力旺盛的精子，尤其是当空间狭小的时候。它们会疯狂厮杀，弄得你最后一个精子都得不到。”

“它们能存活多久？”

“可能不会太久。”利恩勒尔说，“如果没有卵子，很难让它们一直存活。我知道在法国，有人曾经把它们养到了拳头那么大。但他们有最好的设备。我想知道我能不能也养到那么大。”

罗伯特看着这些泡沫，不禁想起特里威廉老师向他们灌输的教条：所有生命都是许久以前被同时创造出来的，彼此之间只有难以察觉的细微区别。生命体出生之后之所以彼此大不相同，只不过是把当时的细微区别扩大了一些而已。所以，这些小人虽然看起来是新的，但实际上已经存在了很多年了。整个人类发展历史中，它们一直存在着，等待着被生出来。

其实，等待出生的还不止是它们。他自己在出生之前肯定也曾经等待过。如果作试验的是他的父亲，那么罗伯待看到的小人就有可能是他未出生的兄弟或者姐妹。虽然他知道这些小人在与卵子结合之前不会有什么意识，但他仍然想知道，假设它们是有意识的话会怎么想。他想像着自己的躯体，每一根骨头和器官都清晰可见，像凝胶体一样软软的，和无数个一模一样的小人粘在一起。如果小人透过自己透明的眼睑向外望，它会看到什么？会不会意识到远方那一座高耸的山峦其实是一个人？而且是自己的兄弟？如果让它知道，只要跟一个卵子结合，它就可以变得像旁边的那个庞然大物一样巨大而坚固的话，它会有什么反应呢？难怪它们会彼此争斗。

三

罗伯特·斯特雷顿在剑桥三一学院的时候仍然在继续研读命名法。他研究了几个世纪以前犹太教神秘哲学的一些文本。那时候，命名师被称作“美名大师”，自动机被叫做“有生命的假人”。他研讨那些奠定了名字科学基础的著作：比如《ＳｅｆｅｒＹｅｚｉｒａｈ》，以及伊利埃泽的《ＳｏｄｅｉＲａｚａｙｙａ》，还有阿布拉弗亚的《Ｈａｙｙｅｉｈａ——Ｏｌａｍｈａ——Ｂａ》。接下来，他钻研以更加广阔的哲学和数学领域为背景分析字母排列技术的论文，比如勒鲁尔的《ＡｒｓＭａｇｎａ》、阿格雷帕的《ＤｅＯｃｃｕｌｔａＰｈｉｌｏｓｏｐｈｉａ》，迪的《ＭｏｎａｓＨｉｅｒｏｇｌｙｐｈｉｃａ》等。

他了解到，每一个名字都是由几个种名综合而成的，每个种名具体描述了对象所具备的一种特定的特征或能力。为了得到描述某种特征的种名，必须对形容这种特征的全部语词进行综合汇编：同源词或词源，正在使用的语言，已经灭绝的语言，等等。将所有这些字词进行筛选、替代和重新排列，从中提取出最本质的东西，那就是种名。种名还可以作为引申定义的基础：有些特征在任何语言中都没有适当的描述词，这种情况下，使用引申定义的技术，人们就可能推导出描述这些特征的种名。语词汇编的整个过程既要依赖规则，也要依靠命名师的直觉。选择最佳字母排列的能力是一种无法言传的高超技巧。

他还研究了现代的名字组合及分解技术。组合技术是把一系列种名——既简练，又能激活对象的潜能，这是对种名的要求——融合在一起，组成一串似乎是随意排列的字母，这些字母构成了对象的名字。分解技术就是把一个名字分解成各个种名。并不是每一个形成整体的名字都只能分解成固定的种名：一个威力强大的名字完全可能有多种拆分方法，可以被再次分解成好几套迥然不同的种名。有些名字极难分解，命名师必须费尽心机，开发出新的拆分方法，以揭示这个名字的奥秘。

目前这个时代，命名法也有了一些改革。很久以来，名字一直被分为两类：一类用于激活对象，另一类的功能相当于护身符。健康护身符保护人们免遭伤害和疾病，其他护身符则可以防火或者保护海船不致沉没等等。但到了现在，名字种类之间的界限变得模糊起来，出现了很多激动人心的研究成果。

新兴的热力科学研究的是热和功的交互作用。它解释了自动机如何通过周围的环境得到动力。基于这种理论，一个柏林的命名师开发了一类新的护身符，它可使作用对象在一个地方吸收热量，又在另一个地方把它释放出来，通过这种方式，冷藏变成更方便、更高效，远胜于过去采用的挥发液技术，具有极大的商业应用价值。护身符同样大大改进了自动机。例如，有一个爱丁堡的命名师研制出了一种护身符，可以防止丢失东西。他因此获得了一项能够把物体放回指定地点的家务自动机专利。

毕业后，斯特雷顿定居伦敦，在英国最有名的自动机制造厂商之一科德制造厂找到了一份命名师的工作。

四

斯特雷顿走进工厂大门，身后跟着他新近用巴黎灰浆浇铸的自动机。这是一幢用砖砌成的巨大建筑，屋顶有天窗。建筑的一半是浇铸金属自动机的车间，另一半则生产陶土产品。两边有弯弯曲曲的走道，连着不同的房间。每个房间都是上个房间的下一道工序，连成一道生产线，将原材料最后制成自动机。斯特雷顿和他的自动机走进陶土车间。

他们穿过一排搅拌陶土的矮桶。不同的桶盛着不同级别的陶土，从普通的红土到精致的白色高岭瓷土，应有尽有。这些桶就像装满液体巧克力或浓浓冰激凌的巨大圆筒杯，但一股刺鼻的矿物质味儿打破了这种幻觉。泥土搅拌棒通过传动装置连着驱动轴，高齐天窗，长度相当于整个房间。屋子尽头是一台充当引擎的自动机：一个铁铸的巨人，不知疲倦地用曲柄转动着驱动轮。从它旁边经过的时候，能感觉到空气中的一丝冷气，那是引擎吸收周围的热量所造成的。

另一间屋子里装着浇铸用的模子，一个个和各类自动机的轮廓正好相反的粉白色空壳，堆放在墙角里。屋子的中央是穿着围裙的雕塑师，或者单个、或者两人一组，围着像蚕蛹的模具工作。自动机就将从这些蚕蛹中诞生。

有个年轻的雕塑师正在组装一台用来推车子的自动机。这是个大块头，四只脚，专门用于在矿山推动那些装满矿石的小车。雕塑师抬起头看了他们一眼，“先生，你是在找人吧？”他问。

“我想见见这儿的威洛比大师。”斯特雷顿回答说。

“对不起，我没看见他。他可能马上就会来了。”雕塑师又埋头于自己的工作。哈罗德·威洛比是一位一级雕塑大师，斯特雷顿想找他商量，设计一个可重复使用的模子来浇铸他设计的自动机。斯待雷顿一边等，一边随意地看着那些模子。他的自动机一动不动站在后面，随时准备执行命令。

不一会儿，威洛比从铸造车间走了进来，热气把他的脸烤得红红的。“对不起，斯特雷顿先生，我来晚了。”他说，“我们正在制作一个很大的青铜自动机，都几周了。今天浇铸。我不想在这个关键时刻离开那里。”

“我完全理解。”斯特雷顿回答道。

威洛比急匆匆大步走向斯特雷顿的新自动机。“这就是你搞的那个自动机？你让摩尔做了几个月的那个？”摩尔是斯特雷顿的助手。

斯特雷顿点点头。“那小伙子做得很不错。”根据斯特雷顿的要求，摩尔把塑泥放在电转子上，做了许多个躯体，大路子是一个，但每一个都有些细节上的不同。最后再做成塑模，让斯特雷顿测试他设计的名字。

威洛比检查着自动机的躯体。“细节很好，看起来并不复杂嘛——哦，等等。”他指着自动机的手：这不是一般自动机像桨叶或连指手套一样的手。它有手指，手面上有沟槽。造型很完美，有拇指，其他四个手指也是分开的。“这些手指真的能用吗？”

“能用。”

威洛比毫不掩饰他的怀疑。“试试看。”

斯特雷顿命令自动机：“弯一弯你的手指。”自动机张开两只手，轮流弯曲着每一对手指，然后伸直，最后把手臂放回躯体两侧。

“祝贺你，斯特雷顿先生。”威洛比说，他蹲下来仔细查看自动机的手指，“它的名字能让手指的每一个关节都可以弯曲？”

“对。你可以为它设计一套模子吗？”

威洛比咂咂舌头，“那可得费点劲。”他说，“可以用废弃的模子来浇铸。你知道，一套新瓷模是很贵的。”

“可它值这个价。我给你看看。”斯特雷顿命令自动机，“用那边的模子浇铸一个躯体。”

自动机蹒跚着走到墙边，捡起斯特雷顿指定的模子：这套模子是用来制作小型陶瓷邮差的。几个雕塑师停下了手中的活儿，看着自动机把模子搬到工作间。它把各种模子进行匹配，再用麻绳紧紧捆好。使雕塑师们大为惊讶的是，自动机用它的手指把麻绳末端打了一个圈，绕成一个结。然后它把要用的模子竖直，走过去取了一罐泥浆。

“行了。”威洛比说，自动机停下来，又恢复了原来的姿势。威洛比一边检查着自动机，一边问：“你训练过它用泥浆浇模？”

“是的。我希望摩尔能训练它用金属浇模。”

“你还有能学会别的技术的名字吗？”

“现在没有。但这已经足以证明，这样的名字是存在的，可以学会各类和手的灵巧性有关的技术。”

“不见得吧？”这时，威洛比注意到有些雕塑师在周围看着。他厉声对他们吼道：“这儿没你们的事。”雕塑师们马上回到自己的岗位。他转向斯特雷顿，“我们到你的办公室谈。”

“好吧。”他叫自动机在科德制造厂那一片联体式综合建筑楼前等着。两人进了斯特雷顿的工作室，就在办公室后面。斯特雷顿问威洛比道：“你对我的自动机怎么看？”

威洛比打量着工作台上的一对泥手。墙上用大头钉别着一幅简图，画着各种姿势的手。“很了不起，这双手完全能和人类的手媲美。但是，你教给你的新自动机的第一个技术是雕塑，这让我很担心。”

“你是担心我用自动机取代雕塑师吧。这种担心完全没有必要，我的目的绝不是这个。”

“这我就放心了。”威洛比说，“既然这样，你什么选择了雕塑呢？”

“这只是第一步。我的最终目标是想降低引擎自动机的制造费用，使一般的家庭都能买得起。”

威洛比迷惑不解。“告诉我，一般家庭要引擎自动机来干什么？”

“举个例子吧，可以用它来驱动一台动力式织布机。”

“你是什么意思？”

“你见到过纺织厂的童工吗？他们每大都精疲力竭，肺里塞满了棉尘，身体极差，几乎不能活到成年。你知道，廉价布料的生产付出的是健康的代价。当纺织工业还局限在村社作坊的时候，织工们的境遇要好得多。”

“既然动力式织布机使他们离开了村舍，又怎么能使他们重回村舍呢？”

斯特雷顿以前从未谈过这个话题，现在很高兴有了解释的机会。“引擎自动机的造价很高，所以很多纺织厂靠一个用煤炭加热来发动的巨型引擎来驱动织布机。但我的自动机却可以浇铸制造出引擎自动机，而且费用不高。如果普通家庭买得起这种能带动机器的小引擎，织工们就可以像从前一样在家里织布了。人们不必到工厂去就可以赚到可观的收入。”

“你忘了织布机的费用。”威洛比温和地说，好像被他说服了，“动力织布机比老式的手工织布机贵多了。”

“我的自动机也有助于铸件的生产，能降低一些价格。当然，我知道这不是万灵药。但我相信，廉价的引擎自动机能给个体手工劳动者带来很大好处。”

“你的改革愿望让人钦佩。但我认为有更简单的办法来消除社会弊端，比如减少工作时间，改善工作环境等。你没有必要瓦解我们整个自动机制造业嘛。”

“更确切地说，不是瓦解，只是改进而已。”

威洛比有点被激怒了。“回到家庭作坊的时代？非常好，很不错。但雕塑师们怎么办？无论如何，你的自动机会让他们失业。这些人熬过了很多年的学徒期，受过严格培训。如果被自动机取代了，你叫他们怎么养家糊口？”

斯特雷顿没料到威洛比的反应会这样剧烈。“你高估了我的技术。我只是一个命名师。”他竭力使气氛轻松下来，但威洛比仍然闷闷不乐。他继续说道：“这些自动机的学习能力非常有限。它们能复制模子，但不能设计模子。真正的雕塑工艺只能由雕塑师来做。你刚才不是正在指导他们浇铸青铜模子吗，自动机永远不会做这样的事。它们只能完成一些机械性的任务。”

“如果雕塑师的整个学徒期都只是袖手旁观，让自动机来做本该由他们做的工作，你认为我们能培养出什么样的雕塑师呢？我不会眼看着这神圣而古老的职业简化成由牵线木偶来操作。”

“不是那样的。”斯特雷顿也有些恼怒了，“请你想想你刚才说的话：你希望保留古老的职业，而织工们却因此丧失了他们古老的职业。自动机能帮助很多人恢复职业尊严，你们这一行也不会蒙受多大损失。”

但威洛比好像根本没听他的话。“关键是由自动机制造自动机这种理论！这不仅仅是对我们的侮辱，对我们来说，这是大祸临头！那首民歌是怎么说来着？就是那首会提水桶的扫帚柄发疯的民歌？”

“你是指《魔法师的学徒》？”斯特雷顿说，“这种比喻很荒唐。没有人类的参与，这些自动机根本不能复制自己。我不知道你为什么会这么反感。知道吗，一只能跳舞的机器熊马上就要在伦敦芭蕾舞剧院演出了。”

“如果你的兴趣在于研制一台能跳芭蕾的自动机，我完全支持。但你不能搞现在这种会灵巧手艺的自动机。”

“对不起，先生。我不能接受你的建议。”

“没有雕塑师的合作，你的工作会很困难。我要召回摩尔，并且禁止其他雕塑师参与你的研究。”

斯特雷顿顿时吃了一惊，“你没有理由这样做。”

“我认为这么做很合适。”

“如果那样，我就和其他制造厂的雕塑师合作。”

威洛比皱了皱眉头，“我会找雕塑师行会的负责人，建议他禁止所有的行会成员浇铸你的自动机。”

斯特雷顿感到血在往上涌。“我不会被吓倒。”他说，“随你怎么样，我都不会放弃。”

“我认为我们的谈话该结束了。”威洛比大步朝门口走去，“再见，斯特雷顿先生。”

“再见。”斯特雷顿愤愤地回答道。

五

第二天中午，斯特雷顿在科德制造厂旁边的兰贝斯街上散步。穿过几个街区就到了一个当地市场。有时候，在成筐扭曲的鳗鱼和摊在毯子上的各种廉价手表间会发现一些自动玩具娃娃。他还像童年时一样，喜欢搜寻一些新鲜玩意儿。他注意到了一对装在盒子里的玩具娃娃，像是探险家和土著。他一边仔细看着，一边听着小贩们在那儿争抢顾客。

“先生，我发现你的健康符不能保护你。”一个男商贩说。他身边的桌子上摆满了四方形的小盒，“你需要有磁力的药物，疗效很好。试试这种塞奇威克博士研制的极化药丸吧。”

“他在吹牛！”一个老太婆反驳道，“你需要的是曼德拉酊草。试一下这个，绝对不是假货。”她取出一瓶清亮的液体，“现抽的，新鲜极了。很有效的。”

看看没有什么新的玩具娃娃，斯特雷顿离开了市场。一路上，他的思绪又回到了昨天和威洛比的谈话。如果雕塑师行会真的拒绝合作，他只好去雇用那些单干的雕塑师。他以前从没有和这些人合作过，可能还需要做一些调查：表面上，他们用版权公开的名字来浇铸躯体，但实际上有些人干的却是侵权和盗版的行为。跟这些人合作，无疑会使他的声誉永远蒙羞。

“斯特雷顿先生。”

斯特雷顿抬起头。一个衣着朴素、个子矮小结实的男人站在他面前。“先生，我们认识吗？”

“哦，不。我叫戴维斯，是菲尔德赫斯特勋爵的雇员。”他递给斯特雷顿一张印着菲尔德赫斯特饰章的名片。

菲尔德赫斯特勋爵的名字叫爱德华兹·玛特兰德，是第三任菲尔德赫斯特伯爵，著名的动物学家和比较解剖学家，皇家学会主席。斯特雷顿在学会开会时曾听过他的演讲，但他俩并不认识。“我能为你做什么？”

“菲尔德赫斯特勋爵想和你谈谈你的最新研究成果，在你方便的时候。”

斯特雷顿很惊讶伯爵怎么会知道他的研究。“那为什么不到办公室来找我呢？”

“菲尔德赫斯特勋爵想和你私下谈。”斯特雷顿很不解，但戴维斯没有多说什么，“今天晚上你有空吗？”

这个邀请不仅不同寻常，而且还是一种荣耀，“当然。请转告菲尔德赫斯特勋爵，我很高兴去。”

“今晚八点有一辆马车在楼下等你。”

戴维斯脱下帽子行礼告别。

晚上，戴维斯和一辆马车准时到了楼下。这是一辆非常华丽的马车。里面装饰着漆得油亮的桃花木、澄亮的黄铜和厚厚的天鹅绒。拖车的是一匹青铜浇铸的骏马，一看就知道十分昂贵。它不需要驾驶员就可以把车拉到熟悉的地方。

在途中，戴维斯礼貌地拒绝回答斯特雷顿的所有问题。很明显，他既不是男仆也不是秘书，斯特雷顿一时难以判定他的身份。马车载着他们离开伦敦，到了乡间菲尔德赫斯特家族所拥有的达林顿·霍尔别墅。

戴维斯带着斯特雷顿穿过门厅，进了一间装潢考究的书房。然后关上门，退了出去。

书桌旁坐着一个身材粗壮的男人。穿一件丝绸外套，打着领结，脸上的皱纹又深又宽，毛茸茸的灰色络腮胡子清晰地勾勒出脸颊的轮廓。斯特雷顿马上认出了他。

“菲尔德赫斯特勋爵，很荣幸见到你。”

“很高兴和你见面，斯特雷顿先生。你最近的工作干得很出色。”

“过奖了。我不记得我公开了自己的研究。”

“我一直在关注这些事。请告诉我，你为什么要研究这类自动机呢？”

斯特雷顿把他生产廉价引擎的计划解释了一番。菲尔德赫斯特专注地听着，偶尔提出一些中肯的建议。

“你的想法值得敬佩。”他点着头，表示赞同，“很高兴你有这样仁慈的动机，因为我也想请求你的帮助。”

“我很荣幸。”

“谢谢。”菲尔德赫斯特的表情严肃了些，“这件事很重要。我希望你能保守秘密。”

斯特雷顿正视对方的眼睛，道：“以绅士的名誉担保，我不会泄露你告诉我的任何事情。”

“谢谢你，斯特雷顿先生。请到这边来。”菲尔德赫斯特打开书房后墙的一扇门。两人走下一条短短的走廊，走廊尽头是一间试验室。一张长长的、极为整洁的工作台，分成许多个工作位。每个位子上都有一台显微镜，一个带关节的黄铜架子，架子下有三个彼此垂直的凸轮，可以精密调节。最里面的工作位上，一位老者正用显微镜观察着。见他们进来，他抬起了头。

“斯特雷顿先生，我想你认识阿什伯恩博士吧。”

斯特雷顿惊得一时说不出话来。尼古拉斯·阿什伯恩是斯特雷顿在剑桥三一学院读书时的老师，但多年前就听说他已经离开了那儿，去从事某种“异端”研究。在斯特雷顿的印象中，他是一位富于激情的老师。多少年过去了，他的脸瘦削了些，前额也显得更高了，但眼睛仍和从前一样明亮机敏。他拄着一根象牙雕饰的拐杖，走了过来。

“斯特雷顿，很高兴又和你见面了。”

“见到你我也很高兴，先生。真没想到会在这儿遇见你。”

“今晚让你吃惊的事还多，孩子。要做好准备。”他转向菲尔德赫斯特，“可以开始了吗？”

他们跟着菲尔德赫斯特走到试验室的后面，打开另一扇门，走下一段楼梯。“只有少数人——有的是皇家学会的，有的是议会的——秘密参与了这件事。五年前，我秘密接触了巴黎科学院的人。他们希望英国科学家能够证实一下他们的一项试验结果。”

“是吗？”

“他们当然很不情愿，不用说你也能想像出来。但他们感到这件事比国家之间的竞争更重要。我了解了这事的真相后，也认同他们的看法。”

三个人到了地下室。地下室的墙上悬挂着煤气壁灯，灯光照出地下室的面积，实在大得惊人。一排石柱把屋子隔开，形成穹窿似的拱顶。屋里安放着一排排坚固的木桌，每张桌上都放着浴缸大小的箱子。箱子是用锌作的，四壁镶着玻璃盘一样的窗子，可以清楚地看到里面那些淡淡的、稻草色的液体。

斯特雷顿看着身旁的箱子。箱子中央漂浮着一个奇怪的东西，仿佛被冻结的一团巨大果冻。很难把这团东西和箱子底部杂色斑驳的阴影区分开来。他走到箱子的另一面，蹲下来，就着煤气灯的光亮仔细观察。就在这时，那团凝结物变成了一个朦胧的人形，花色肉冻般清晰，蜷曲着，像一个胎儿。

“真是难以置信。”斯特雷顿低声说。

“我们叫它巨型胚胎。”菲尔德赫斯特解释道。

“由精子培育出来的？这一肯定需要几十年时间。”

“不，还有更让你惊讶的呢。几年前，巴黎有两个叫杜彪森和杰利的自然科学家发现了一种方法，能使精液胚胎迅速生长。如果注入营养剂，胚胎在短短两周内就可以长到现在的大小。”

他来来回回看着。就着灯光的折射，能隐隐约约看到巨型胚胎内部各器官之间的界线。“这东西是……活着的吗？”

“活着，但没有任何知觉，像精子一样。你知道，任何人工手段都不能取代妊娠过程。和卵子的结合是个关键，因为它能加快胚胎生长，注入母体的影响，这些都是胚胎最终变成人的重要条件。我们现在能作的只是让它们在大小和体积上长得像成人。”菲尔德赫斯特指着巨型胚胎说，“母体使胚胎具有染色体，以及所有能够区别各个个体的体貌特征。我们的巨型胚胎是没有性别的。雄性和雌性的外表看起来都一样。无论这些胚胎的父亲多么不同，都不可能根据躯体特征把它们区分出来。只有精确的记录才使我们能够辨认出每一个胚胎。”

斯特雷顿站了起来。“如果不能研制出人工子宫，试验的目的又是什么呢？”

“为了测试人类的稳定性。”斯特雷顿不是动物学家，所以伯爵又进一步解释道，“假设凸透镜磨工能磨制出有无限放大能力的显微镜，生物学家就可以对任何由精子孕育出来的后代进行检测，看它们是稳定的呢，还是变成了一类新的物种，如果变成了新物种，还可以知道这种变化是逐渐发生的还是突变。”

“然而，色像差使任何光学仪器的放大功能都有一个极限。梅索尔斯·杜彪森和杰利于是想到了通过人工方式增大胚胎的体积，当胚胎达到了成人的体积时，人们就可以从中提取精子，用同样的方法放大下一代胚胎。”菲尔德赫斯特说着走到另一张桌子，指着上面的箱子，“不断重复这个过程，我们就可以对任何未出生的物种进行检测。”斯特雷顿朝四周看着，一排排箱子仿佛有了崭新的意义。“也就是说，可以通过缩短‘出生’的时间间隔来了解种系的未来。”“很正确。”

“这个试验太大胆了！结果如何呢？”

“他们测试了很多动物种类，但没有发现它们的结构会有什么变化。然而，当研究人类的精液胚胎时，却发现了惊人的结果。那就是，不出五代，男性胚胎将不再有精子，女性也不再有卵子。人类将不再生育。”“这个结果并不十分出乎预料。”斯特雷顿盯着那些冻凝的团块说，“任何一次重复提取都会削弱有机体的精髓。从某种程度上讲，下一代的衰弱是惟一的结局。”“杜彪森和杰利刚开始也是这样推定的。”菲尔德赫斯特赞同道，“所以他们改进了技术。但发现巨型胚胎的后代在体积和生命力方面没有什么不同。精子和卵子的数量也没有任何减少；倒数第二代与第一代的生育能力一样强。由此可知，向不育的转变是一个突变。”

“他们还发现了另一个异常之处：有些精子只有四代或更少，变异并不发生在在单个精子样本里，只出砚在交叉的样本中。他们评估了父亲和儿子捐赠者的样本，发现父亲的精子刚好比儿子的精子多产生一代后代。由此可知，一些年老的捐赠者，他们的样本虽然精子稀少，但却能比壮年期的儿子辈多产生一代后代。因此，精子的生殖能力与捐赠者的健康及精力没有什么关系，但与捐蹭者属于那一代很有关系。”

菲尔德赫斯待停下来，严肃地看着斯特雷顿。“得出这个结论后，巴黎科学院和我联系，想知道皇家协会能否重复他们的试验。通过从对各类人的精子样本的研究，我们得出了同样的结果。我们一致认为：人类生殖能力的延续具有一个限度，而且，五代之内，人类就将达到最后一代。”

六

斯特雷顿把头转向阿什伯恩，希望他说这一切都不是真的，只是玩笑而已。但老人的表情却非常凝重。斯特雷顿再一次看了看巨型胚胎，皱着眉头接受了这个事实。“如果你们说的都是真的话，别的物种也肯定会有期限。但就我所知，还没有发现什么物种已经灭绝了。”

菲尔德赫斯特点点头。“是的。但是，我们发现了化石，证明物种恒定一段时间后，会突然被另一种新物种所代替。灾变学者认为物种灭绝是环境的剧烈变化造成的。但从某种意义上讲，根据我们的胚中预成说原理，灭绝只是物种到达其生命末期的自然结局，而不是由突发事件所造成。”说着他指指门口，“我们回楼上去吧。”

斯特雷顿一边走一边问道：“那么，新物种又起源于哪里呢？如果不是来自现存的物种，难道它们会自发产生出来？”

“那也不一定。通常，最简单的动物可以自发产生下一代：比如蛆和一些典型的受温度影响的蠕虫状生物。灾变学家们所设想的突发事件——洪水、火山爆发、彗星撞击等等——肯定会样放出大量能量。或许这种能量可以使一些原种产生出全新的物种。如果是这样的话，灾变给我们带来的就不止是大毁灭，还有随之而来的新物种的产生。”

回到实验室，两位老人在椅子上坐下。斯特雷顿过分激动，一时难以平静下来：“如果动物物种与人类都产生于同一个灾变，那么，它们也应该到了生命的末期。除了人类之外，你们还有没有发现其他接近灭绝的物种？”

菲尔德赫斯特摇摇头，“目前还没有。其他物种的灭绝期与我们不同，这和动物的复杂程度有关；人类是最复杂的有机体，这样的有机体在精子里存活的代数会更少。”

“同样，”斯特雷顿反驳道，“或许正是因为有机体的复杂性，使人工催化的方法不适合人类。因此，具有既定世代数的是这些人工培育的胚胎，而不是人类。”

“你很敏锐，斯特雷顿先生。我们正在对许多与人类近似的物种做试验，如黑猩猩等。然而，可能要等很多年才会有确切的答案。如果现在的解释是正确的，那我们已经来不及去求证答案了。必须马上行动起来。”

“但五代的时间足有一个多世纪——”他突然有些尴尬地顿了顿，因为他发现自己忽略了一个明显的事实：不是所有的人都在同一个年龄段成为父母。

菲尔德赫斯特看出了他的尴尬，“你想必已知道了，为什么不是所有来自同年龄捐赠者的精子都会存活同样的代数：因为有些精子谱系已接近尾声，而其他的谱系却没有。对那些通常在年老的时候才生育孩子的人来说，五代意味着两个多世纪的生育能力。但这期间内，其他的很多谱系都已经不能生育了。”

斯特雷顿想像着这件事可能带来的后果。“随着时间的推移，失去生育能力的人会越来越多。这样，不等末日来临，人们就开始恐慌了。”

“是的，骚乱将很快使我们的种族灭绝，与失去生育能力的效果一样。所以时间是关键。”

“依你看，解决办法是什么？”

“这个问题让阿什伯恩博士来讲。”伯爵说。

阿什伯恩站了起来，很自然地摆出了教授上课的架势。“你还记得我们为什么放弃了用木材做自动机的尝试吗？”

斯特雷顿没想到他会提到这个问题。“因为木头的纹理会和雕刻上去的形状产生冲突。现在我们想用橡胶作为浇铸的原材料，但没有获得成功。”

“不错。但是，如果木头的纹理是惟一障碍的话，我们是不是可以用名字来激活某种动物的尸体呢？它们的躯体形状是相当理想的。”

“真令人毛骨悚然。我不认为这样的试验会成功。以前做过吗？”

“做是做过，但没有成功。所以这两种截然不同的方法都没有结果。这是不是意味着不能用名字来激活有机体呢？我就是带着这个问题离开三一学院的。”

“这些年来有什么发现吗？”

阿什伯恩挥挥手，换了一个话题。“我们先讨论讨论热力学。你注意到最近的研究成果没有？热的消散反映了在热水平上的无序。相反，如果自动机吸取周围的热来做功的话，热力次序就会增加。这证明词序变化导致热力次序的变化，这是我很早就有的一个观点。例如，护身符的次序可以强化躯体内已有的次序，所以能使躯体免受侵害。同样的原理，有激活功能的词序也可以增加对象的次序，使自动机活起来。”

“还有一个问题就是，有机体内怎样反映出次序的增加呢？因为名字不能激活死组织，很明显有机体不能在热水平上有次序；但它有可能在另外的水平产生次序。注意：如果一匹公牛变成了一桶胶状的肉汤。肉汤的成分和公牛是一样的，哪一个有更多更高的次序？”“是公牛。”斯特雷顿有点犹豫地说。

“当然，一个有机体，因为有物理结构，所以体现了次序；有机体越复杂，次序就越多。我有个设想，也许可以通过赋予形体的方法来增加有机体的次序。但是，大多数有生命的有机体都已经具有了理想的形体。所以，问题在于，什么东西是有生命而又没有形体的呢？”老命名师并不希望得到回答。“答案就是，一个没有受精的卵子。卵子包含了能使生物激活的本原。这个本原最终导致生命的产生，但它本身却没有形体。通常，卵子是通过与压缩在精子里的胚胎结合而获得形体的。所以，我们下一步的工作就应该很明确了。”说到这里，阿什伯恩停住了，充满期待地看着斯特雷顿。

但斯特雷顿并没有反应。阿什伯恩好像很失望，继续说道：“下一步就是用人工手段在卵子里培育出胚胎，也就是，用名字。”“但是，如果卵子没有受精的话，”斯特雷顿反驳说，“就没有形体，也就无法放大它。”“很正确。”

“你的意思是可以从同质介质中生成形体？不可能。”“为什么？几年来我一直想证明这种假设。我首先试着把名字植入未受精的青蛙卵。”“你是怎么做的？”

“实际上名字不是被植入，而是通过一种特殊的针头印进去。”阿什伯恩说着打开一个放在工作台上的箱子：里面是一排木架，放满了成对的小仪器。每一对都有一个长长的玻璃针头；它们有的像编织针一样粗，有的如皮下注射针般细。他从最大一对上抽取一个针头递给斯特雷顿看。玻璃针头不太透明，似乎有一些带斑点的核。

阿什伯恩解释说：“这东西看起来好像一种医疗用具，但实际上是名字的载体，就像从前把羊皮纸当作载体一样。只是，唉，把名字放进针头比用笔在羊皮纸上写字要困难得多。为了造出这样的针头，必须首先在一卷无色玻璃里放一股黑色玻璃线，这样名字才能被看得清楚。然后，这卷玻璃被融化成一个坚固的玻璃杆，随后杆又被抽出来放进一卷更薄的玻璃里。一个训练有素的技工可以完整保留名字的每一个细节，无论线变得多细。最后，针头被制成了，名字就包含在它的横切面里。”“那么，你又是怎么命名的呢？”

“这个我们待会儿再详细讨论。为了解决我们正在讨论的问题，惟一的办法是合并与性欲有关的种名。你熟悉性欲种名吗？”“我听说过。”“这是很罕见的双形种名，同时有雌性和雄性两类变体。”

“我需要两形的名字，这样才能同时产生出雄性和雌性。”他边说边指点着箱子里一对对的针头。

斯特雷顿发现针头被固定在黄铜架上，末端靠着显微镜下的玻璃片；而凸轮则用于把针头送进去和卵子结合。“你说过名字不是被植入，而是被印进去。指的是不是用这种针头去接触蛙卵？成功之后，即使把名字拿走也仍然有效？”“很正确。名字激活了蛙卵的某种进程，而这个进程是不可逆转的。接触时间的长短不会影响效果。”“蛙卵孵出蝌蚪了吗？”

“第一批用于试验的名字没有产生这种效果，惟一的结果就是在蛙卵的表面出现了对称结构。但通过合并不同的种名，我可以让蛙卵产生不同的形状，有的完全像小青蛙。渐渐地，我发现了一个名字，它不仅可以使蛙卵呈现蝌蚪的形状，而且还可以长大并被孵化。因此，蝌蚪可以通过这种方式被孵化并长成青蛙，与同类的其他青蛙没有区别。”“你已经找到了那个品种的青蛙的‘佳名’。”斯特雷顿说。

阿什伯恩微笑着。“因为这种繁殖方式不需要性交，所以我称它为‘单性生殖’。”斯特雷顿看看他，又看看菲尔德赫斯特。“我明白你们设想的解决办法了，那就是找出人类的‘佳名’。你们希望人类能够通过命名法永续种族。”“你会觉得这个前景令人不安，”菲尔德赫斯特说，“这是预料之中的事。阿什伯恩博士和我刚开始的时候也有同样的感受，很多想到这个办法的人都是这样。没有人希望人类的未来只能靠人工受孕。但又能有什么好办法呢？”斯特雷顿沉默了。菲尔德赫斯特继续说，“所有关注阿什伯恩博士及杜彪森和杰利的研究的人都同意：没有别的解决办法了。”斯特雷顿提醒自己，作为一个科学家，要保持冷静客观。“这些名字怎么利用？你们的具体想法是什么？”阿什伯恩回答说：“当丈夫不能使妻子怀孕时，就会向医生求助。医生收集妻子的月经，分离出卵子，把名字印进去，然后将其注入子宫。”“用这种方法生出来的孩子没有生物学上的父亲。”“对在这里，父亲的作用微乎其微。但因为母亲把丈夫看作孩子的父亲，所以她和丈夫的长相及性格会通过她的思维传给胎儿。当然，我们不会对未婚妇女使用印入名字的办法。”“你相信这种办法能得到健康的孩子吗？”斯特雷顿问，“你知道我指的是什么。”他们都对上个世纪试图通过催眠怀孕妇女得到优质孩子所引发的灾难记忆犹新。

阿什伯恩点点头。“幸运的是，卵子对自己应该接受什么非常挑剔。对于任何有机体来说，适用的‘佳名’只有极少几种排列组合。如果名字的词的次序与物种的结构次序不十分相配的话，胚胎是不会生长的。当然，怀孕期间，母亲仍需保持平静；因为名字的印入并不能抵御母体的激动和焦虑，但卵子的挑剔可以保证胚胎各方面正常，它无法保证的只有一个方面。”斯特雷顿警觉起来。“哪个方面？”

“你猜不出来吗？对青蛙的研究发现，名字压入引起的畸形只出现在雄蛙身上；它们没有生育能力，因为它们的精子里没有预先构成的胚胎。相反，雌蛙才有生育能力：它们的卵既可以通过传统方式受精，又可以通过压入名字的方式受精。”斯特雷顿大大地松了口气，“也就是说，名字的雄性变体是不完整的。可能雄性和雌性变体的区别还应该更大些，不能简单地使用性欲种名。”“这种做法是把雄性变体的不完整性考虑进去，”阿什伯恩说，“但我没有做这种考虑。想想看：有生殖能力的雄性和有生殖能力的雌性看起来没有什么区别，但实际上它们的复杂程度大为不同。有卵子的雌性是单个的有机体，而有精子的雄性实际上有多个有机体：即一个父亲和他所有潜在的孩子。从这点来讲，名字的这两个变体配合得天衣无缝：每个变体都能产生单个有机体，但只有雌性的单个有机体有生殖能力。”“我明白了。”斯特雷顿认识到，需要好好想想在有机体内命名的问题了，“你们是否研制出了其他物种的‘佳名’呢？”“只研制出了几个物种的；速度已经很快了。对人类名字的研究才刚刚开始，会比以前的研究困难得多。”“有多少命名师参与了这项研究？”

“很少。”菲尔德赫斯特回答道，“我们邀请了皇家学会的一些成员，法国科学院也推荐了一些著名的命名师。我不能公开他们的名字，想必你会理解。但我保证我们拥有英国最优秀的命名师。”“请原凉，但我还是想知道，为什么你会联系我？我不属于优秀之列。”你“干这行的时间还不太长。”阿什伯恩说，“但你开发的名字种类是独一无二的。跟人相比，自动机在身体和功能上很有优势。它更像动物：有的擅长爬行，有的擅长挖掘，但都不可能同时擅长两者。然而，你的自动机却有像人类一样灵巧的手。人手是最独特最灵巧的工具：还有其他的什么工具能够操纵粗到扳手、细至钢琴的所有东西呢？人手的灵巧证明了人脑的机智，这些对名字来说都是最基本的。”“我们一直在很谨慎地调查跟灵巧有关的名字的研究。”菲尔德赫斯特说，“听说了你的研究成果后，我们马上就来找你了。”“事实上，”阿什伯恩接着说，“你发明的名字之所以使一些雕塑师担忧，是因为它们能使自动机比以前任何时候都更像人，这一点也是我们最感兴趣的。现在我要问你了，愿意和我们一块儿干吗？”斯特雷顿想考虑考虑再说。这是一个命名师所能承担的最重要的任务。在通常情况下，斯特雷顿会迫不及待地抓住这个机会。但现在，他觉得必须先弄清情况，才能问心无愧地去做这件事。

“你能邀请我，我深感荣幸。但我的灵巧自动机能有什么用呢？我仍旧相信，廉价引擎能改善劳动者的生活。”“这个目标值得去争取。”菲尔德赫斯特说，“我不是让你放弃它。但我们希望你先完成灵巧种名的研究，因为如果连人类都无法延续的话，你的社会改革就没有用武之地了。”“那是当然。但我也不想忽视灵巧种名的社会改革潜力。除了这项研究，可能再也没有使普通劳动者恢复尊严的机会了。如果延续生命是以劳动者尊严为代价，我们的成功又有何意义可言呢？”“说得好。”伯爵赞同道，“我有一个建议。你可以自由利用你的时间，皇家学会提供你研究灵巧自动机所需要的一切，比如寻找投资者，等等。我相信你会合理分配时间做这两件事。但你生物命名师的工作必须保密。这样好吗？”“非常好。先生们，我接受。”他们相互握手。

七

那场谈话已经过去了几周，斯特雷顿和他们的关系已经远远不止停留在互致问候的阶段了。实际上，他几乎已经中断了和雕塑师行会的联系，花了大量时间在办公室琢磨置换字母，想找出灵巧种名。

他穿过工厂的前厅，客户们通常在这里浏览自动机目录。这天，客厅里挤满了家用自动机，都是家务类的。营业员正在检查这些自动机的名字。

“早上好，皮尔斯。”他说，“这儿在干什么？”

“出了一个经过改进、专用于‘摄政王’的新名字。”营业员说，“人人都想要最新版的自动机。”“今下午你可得忙一阵了。“打开自动机名字的钥匙被锁在保险柜里，要有两个科德的经理同时在场才能取出来。每天下午的开机时间都是固定的，只能开启短短一段时间，超过一点经理们都很不情愿。”

“我会按时准备好的。”

“你不会告诉美丽的主妇说，她的家用自动机要明天才能准备好吧？”营业员微笑着说：“你在责备我，先生？”

“不，我没有。”斯特雷顿轻声笑着，转身向大厅后的办公室走去，迎面碰见了威洛比。

“也许你想让保险箱大敞着，这样主妇们挑选起来会方便些。”威洛比说，“你似乎总想整垮我们这儿。”“早上好，威洛比大师。”斯特雷顿冷冷地说。他想走过去，但对方挡住了道。

“有人告诉我科德要让一些不是雕塑师行会的人来帮你。”是的。但我保证他们都是声誉很好的独立雕塑师。”“说起来好像真有这种人似的。”威洛比嘲弄地说，“你应该知道我已经向行会提议举行罢工，抗议科德的行为。”“我想你不是当真的。”雕塑师几十年都没有举行过罢工了，最后一次罢工曾导致骚乱。

“我是认真的。这件事已经提交给行会成员投票表决，肯定会通过：我和别的雕塑师讨论过你的作品，他们和我的意见一致，它会威胁我们的生存。但是，行会的领导层不同意举行投票。”“这就是说，他们不同意你的看法。”

威洛比皱着眉头，“很明显皇家学会卷进来了，他们在为你说话，劝说雕塑师行会控制局势。有些很有背景的人在支持你，斯特雷顿先生。”斯特雷顿有点不自在地回答道：“皇家学会认为我的研究很有价值。”“也许吧。但这事还没有完。”

“你没有必要对我充满敌意。我告诉你，”斯特雷顿继续说，“当你看见雕塑师如何使用这些自动机后，就不认为会有什么威胁了。”威洛比没有回答，阴沉着脸走开了。

下一次和菲尔德赫斯特勋爵见面时，斯特雷顿询问了皇家学会介入的事。当时他们正在菲尔德赫斯特的书房。伯爵给自己倒了一杯威士忌。

“嗯，是的。”他说。“作为一个整体，雕塑师行会相当棘手，但他们的个体成员却能够被说服。”“怎么说服？”

“皇家学会注意到雕塑师行会的某些领导成员参与了欧洲大陆一起剽窃名字的案件，这案子至今末破。为了减少麻烦，他们同意拖延罢工决定，直到你的自动机作了公开演示。”“非常感谢你的帮助，菲尔德赫斯特勋爵。”斯特雷顿惊讶地说，“我不知道皇家学会还会用这种办法。”“很明显，在学会公开讨论这此问题不太合适。”菲尔德赫斯特勋爵带着慈祥的微笑，“科学的进步不会总是一帆风顺的，斯特雷顿先生。有时，皇家学会也要同时采用官方和非官方两种渠道。”“我意识到了。”

“虽然雕塑师行会不会组织正式的罢工，但同样也会采取间接手段；例如，他们可能分发一些匿名小册子，激起公众对你的自动机的反感。”他啜了口威士忌，“也许我应该找人留意一下威洛比大师了。”

八

同其他直接为菲尔德赫斯特勋爵工作的命名师一样，斯特雷顿也住进了达林顿·霍尔别墅的客房。他们中有的是本行业的著名人物，如霍尔库姆、米尔本和帕克尔等。能和他们一起工作，斯特雷顿感到很荣幸，虽然他几乎不能做什么，只是跟着阿什伯恩学习生物命名法。

有机体的名字与自动机的名字有很多相同的种名，但阿什伯恩开发了一套完全不同的组合和分解系统，增添了很多新的字母置换方式。对斯特雷顿来说，这犹如再次回到大学，重新学习。然而，各物种名字迅速发展的技术脉络是很清楚的；因此，通过找出各类物种系统间的相似性，就可以从一个物种推断出另一个物种。

斯特雷顿还了解了很多关于性欲种名的知识。性欲种名把雄性或雌性特征赋予自动机。目前他只知道有一类这样的种名，并且还惊异地发现它是现存变体中最简单的一类。命名界以前没有注意到它，但现在这类种名却被广泛研究。它最早出现在圣经时代。据说，约瑟夫的兄弟们造了一个有生命的女性假人，这样他们就可以和她做爱而不违反禁令。几世纪以来，该种名得到了秘密开发。最初的应用成果出现在君士坦丁堡，最新模型则运用于现在的伦敦妓院，这就是交际花自动机。这种用皂石雕成的自动机被打磨得发亮。身体也被加热，和普通人的血液温度相等。全身涂满香油，闪闪发光。她们要价很高，只有男女妖魔自动机的价格比她更贵。

他们的研究就开始于这个卑贱的行道。这种能激活交际花的名字可以把强大的性欲种名与男性和女性身体结合在一起。通过分解出共同的肉欲，命名师能提取出男性化或女性化种名，比从动物中提取的更为精纯。以这种种名为核心进行整合，就可以找到人类所需要的、能使卵子受精的名字。

渐渐地，斯特雷顿知道了很多这方面的知识，开始和其他命名师一块儿从事人类名字的研究工作。他们根据各种可能性，从不同方向进行研究，不断放弃那些证明是没有结果的方向，而发展那些看起来很有前途的方向。

命名师们付钱给女人——通常是年轻健康的家庭主妇——从她们的月经里取出卵子，把试验的名字压入卵子里，然后在显微镜下进行仔细观察，寻找与人类胚胎相似的形状。斯特雷顿问，是否可以从女性巨型胚胎里得到卵子。阿什伯恩提醒说只有从活的妇女身上直接提取的卵子才会有用。生物学有一条基本原理：雌性提供产生后代的本原，雄性则提供基本的形状。因此，两者都不能自己产生出自己。

自然，阿什伯恩的发现改变了上述理论：他认为，雄性的参与不再重要，因为形状可以词汇的方式得到。一旦某种名字能够产生人类胚胎，妇女就可以不需男人的参与而生出后代。斯特雷顿猜想，这样的发现一定很受那些同性恋妇女的欢迎。而且，一旦这种名字投入使用，她们就会建立一个单性繁殖的社区。这个社区到底会因为增加了性欲的感受更加圆满而兴盛呢，还是会因其成员病态行为的泛滥而崩溃？不得而知。

在斯特雷顿加盟之前，命名师们已经开发了一些名字，能够在卵子里产生与小人隐约相似的物体。利用杜彪森和杰利的办法，他们增大这些物体的体积，以便观察。这些形状更像自动机，而不像人类，四肢像桨叶，没有指头。通过与灵巧种名结合，斯特雷顿可以把这些桨叶状指头分离出来，提炼出整个指头的形状。阿什伯恩反复强调要创新，不能局限于传统方法。

一次讨论中，阿什伯恩说：“想想现有的多数自动机可以作些什么吧，它们从事的工作都是热力效应层次的。采矿自动机能挖矿，收割自动机能收割麦子，伐木自动机能砍伐木材；但无论它们多么有用，都不能创造次序。它们的名字可以在热力水平上制造次序，也就是把热能转化成动能。但多数情况下，在可见水平上，它们的工作成果却是无序的。”“很有趣。”斯特雷顿若有所思地说，“从这个角度看，自动机的缺陷显然很明显：比如，自动机虽然能很快找到柳条箱，但却不能灵巧地堆放它们；不能根据碎矿石的成分进行分类，等等。所以，你认为各类适用于工业的名字不能光根据热力学，这种做法不够有力。”“完全正确！”阿什伯恩很激动，像导师发现了聪明的学生，“所以说，你的那类灵巧名字才不同凡响。你的自动机能够做一些技术性的工作，证明你的名字不仅能够制造热力水平上的次序，而且还可产生可见水平上的次序。”“米尔本的研究也和我的一样。”斯特雷顿说。米尔本已经开发出了能够把东西放回指定地点的家务自动机，他的名字同样能产生可见水平上的次序。“的确如此。这也证明了我们的假设。”阿什伯恩往前倾了倾，“假设能够分解出你和米尔本的名字共同拥有的种名，这个种名就可以制造两类水平上的次序。再假设我们找到了人类的‘佳名’，又能把种名结合到名字中，你能想像通过压入名字的方法会生出什么东西来吗？如果你说会生出‘双胞胎’，我可就要敲你的脑袋了。”斯特雷顿大笑起来：“我夸句海口，凭我对你的了解，还不至于说出那种荒唐话。你的意思是，如果种名能在无机体上产生两种水平上的次序，也就可能在有机体上生产出两代后代。这种名字可以使雄性精子含有预成形胚胎。这样的雄性有生育能力，虽然他们的儿子不能生育。”老师拍拍他的手。“很正确：次序能生出次序！很有趣的推断，你同意吗？这样的话，医学的参与就可以减少一半，人类也依然会延续下去。”“那么，可不可以开发出能让对象有两代以上的胚胎呢？比如自动机，自动机必须拥有哪类能力，才能使它们的名字里含有这种种名呢？”“恐怕目前的热力学还不能回答这些问题。什么东西能在无机体内构成很高的次序？也许是能协调工作的自动机？我们还不得而知，也许迟早会知道的。”斯特雷顿提出了一个很久以前就困扰着他的问题：“阿什伯恩博士，我刚加入你们团队的时候，菲尔德赫斯特勋爵曾谈到灾变可能创造新物种。有没有这种可能：我们现存的全部物种都是用命名的方式产生吧？”“哦，这样的话，我们就涉及到神学问题了。一个新物种的产生，首先要求其生殖器官里有原形体，该原体蕴含了大量后代，并体现了最高级的次序。一个单纯的物理过程是不是也具有这样的次序？自然学家认为机械装置不会产生这样的次序。另外，我们知道词语能创造次序，一个全新物种的产生需要一个拥有巨大威力的名字。命名法有类似上帝造人一样的权力，甚至可以给物种下定义。”

“这是一个难题，斯特雷顿。也许我们永远不知道答案，但不能让它妨碍目前的工作。我相信，无论是否能创造物种，名字都是使物种能得到延续的一个机会。”

“我同意。”斯特雷顿说。停了一会儿，他又继续说，“必须承认，我工作的大部分时间都专注于字母的置换和组合，而没有看到全局。如果能预先知道成功后会得到怎样的结果，会使人更清醒些。”

“我也这样想。”阿什伯恩回答道。

九

斯特雷顿坐在制造厂的办公桌后面，眯缝着眼睛读着从街上捡来的小册子。它印刷粗糙，字迹模糊。

“究竟人类是名字的主人，还是名字是人类的主人？很久以来，资本家们把名字藏在他们的保险箱里，用专利、钥匙和锁紧紧锁住，仅仅因为拥有字母就集聚了大量财富而普通人却不得不为每一先令而苦苦劳作。富人们霸占着整个字母表，直到从中榨取最后一个便士，才肯把它扔给我们使用。这种现状还要延续多久？”

斯特雷顿把小册子看了一遍，没有发现什么新鲜东西。两个月来，他一直在读这些小册子，看到的都是一些无政府主义者的大喊大叫。没有证据表明雕塑师们直接把矛头指向了斯特雷顿的研究工作。他的灵巧自动机预定在下周表演，威洛比已经没有机会提出公开抗议了。实际上，斯特雷顿也想散发一些小册子获取公众支持。他可以解释说，改进自动机的目的是为了给大家带来方便，严格控制名字专利也是为了防止名字落在不法商贩手里。他甚至还想到了一条标语：“自动机让我们自治。”行不行？

门外响起了一阵敲门声。斯特雷顿把小册子扔进废纸篓。“谁呀？”

一个穿戴古板的男人走了进来，他的下唇上留着一长串小胡子。“斯特雷顿先生吗？”他问，“请允许我自我介绍一下。我叫本杰明·罗斯，是奥秘教教徒。”

斯特雷顿非常惊讶。神秘主义历来视命名为宗教，而现代命名法却成了一门科学。神秘主义者对此大为恼怒。没想到这样的人会到制造厂里来。“很高兴见到你。有什么需要我帮助的吗？”

“我听说你在字母置换方面取得了很大进展。”

“谢谢。我不认为你会对我的研究感兴趣。”

罗斯尴尬地笑笑，“我的兴趣不在于它的实际运用。奥秘教的目的是更好地理解上帝。要实现这个目标，最好的办法是了解他的创造物。我们对各种名字进行冥思，以达到意识的迷狂状态；名字越强有力，我们离上帝越近。”

“我明白了。”斯特雷顿心想，如果这个奥秘主义者知道了他们正在将命名法用于生物，以期创造生物，不知他们会有什么反应，“请继续。”

“你的灵巧种名使自动机能够雕刻另一个自动机，能复制自己。你知道，能创造生命的名字可以使我们比任何时候更加接近上帝。”

“恐怕你误解了我的工作，当然，你不是第一个产生这方面误解的人。自动机能浇铸模子并不意味着它可以复制自己。还有很多其他的技术要求。”

这位神秘教徒点点头，“这我明白。我在研究中也开发出了一种有着其他特殊技术的种名。”

听了来客的解释，斯特雷顿突然有了兴趣，把身子往前靠了靠。浇铸身体的过程完了后，接下来的事情就是用名字把身体激活。“你的种名能让自动机写作吗？”他自己研制的自动机能很容易地抓住钢笔，但不能写出哪怕最简单的字，“你的自动机的灵巧程度达了能够写作的地步，怎么会不能浇铸模子？”

罗斯谦虚地摇摇头，“我的种名不能赋予写作能力，也不能斌予灵巧的手工操作能力。它只能使自动机写出激活它的名字而已。”

“哦，我明白了。”看来它不具备学习一整类技术的能力，只能使作用对象掌握一种单独的、被动的技术罢了。要让一个自动机具有不假思索写出一连串字母的本领，它的名字必定复杂到让人难以置信的程度。斯特雷顿想像着其中的困难，“很有意思。但没有多大实用价值，对吧？”

罗斯淡淡地笑了笑。斯特雷顿意识到自己的话有些不妥。但罗斯竭力让气氛轻松一点。“也可以这么说吧。”罗斯承认道，“但我们的目的不同。对我们来说，这个种名和其他任何种名一样，其重要与否不在于它能让自动机做什么，而在于我们。对我们来说，种名好不好，是看它对我们达到迷狂状态的帮助有多大。”

“自然，那是自然。你对我的灵巧自动机感兴趣也是因为它能帮助你们达到迷狂状态吗？”

“是的，我希望你能把你的种名拿出来和我们一起分享。”

从来没有奥秘教徒向斯特雷顿提出过这样的请求，很显然罗斯自己也不愿意当这第一个人。斯特雷顿想了想，“奥秘教徒必须得达到一定的级别，才能用最强有力的名字进行冥思吗？”

“是的，绝对是这样。”

“也就是说，达不到一定的级别，就接触不到一定的名字。”

“哦，不；很抱歉误导了你，只有掌握了必要的冥思技术的人才能通过名字达到迷狂，这种技术被严密控制着。如果没有严格的训练，擅用该技术会导致疯狂。因此，对一个新手来说，即使有最强有力的名字，也不能达到迷狂。对他们来说，这些名字只能激活泥土塑造的偶人罢了，仅此而已。”

“仅此而已。”斯特雷顿赞同道，心想，这些人跟自己真是太不一样了，“那样的话，恐怕我不能让你使用我的名字。”

罗斯阴沉着点点头，仿佛料到了这样的回答。“你想要版权费用。”

现在轮到斯特雷顿来忽略罗斯说话的冒昧了。“我不是为了钱，我的灵巧自动机要用于特殊目的，因此必须保护我的专利。我不能不加区别地分发这些名字，使我的计划受损。”实际上，他已经把名字分发给了菲尔德赫斯特勋爵手下的命名师们，但他们都是绅士，发誓要保守秘密。更何况他并不相信神秘主义。

“我向你保证不会把你的名字用于迷狂练习以外的任何其他目的。”

“很抱歉。我相信你是真诚的，但风险太大了。可以告诉你的是，专利是有期限的。期限一过，你就可以自由使用名字了。”

“但要等很多年的时间！”

“你总得考虑考虑其他人的利益吧。”

“我知道了，商业利益成了精神觉醒的障碍。是我的错。我总希望事情会有所不同。”

“这样说有些不公平吧。”斯特雷顿抗议道。

“公平？”罗斯竭力掩饰着他的愤怒，“你们这些命名师盗窃上帝的技术，为自己聚敛财富。你们的工业以名字为商品，却还奢谈什么公平。”

“你看——”

“谢谢你的接待。”罗斯走了。

斯特雷顿叹了口气。

十

斯特雷顿透过显微镜目镜调整着操纵轮，直到针头压住卵子的一侧。卵子猛地缩了起来，像被戳痛的软体动物，从球体变成了一个小小的胚胎。斯特雷顿从玻璃片上取出针头，松开上面的夹子，放了一个新针头上去，然后把它放进孵化器加热。随后又拿了另一块玻璃片，上面放着未受精的人类卵子。他把它放到显微镜下，聚精会神地重复着刚才的过程。

最近，命名师又开发了一种可以产生形体的名字，所产生的形体与人类胚胎没有多大差别，但这类名字没有激活功能：作用对象一动不动，对刺激也没有反应，这类名字不能精确地描述人类的非物理性特征。斯特雷顿和他的同事们煞费苦心地编纂了一些人类独有的特征，想提取出一套种名，既足以代表人类的本质，又足够简洁，能和物理种名结合成一个由七十二个字母构成的名字。

斯特雷顿把最后一张玻璃片放进孵化器，又在工作日志上做好记录。放进针头的名字已经用完，今天没有新胚胎可测试激活性能了。他决定到楼上的起居室打发剩下的时间。

进了那间用胡桃木装饰的房间，他发现菲尔德赫斯特和阿什伯恩在皮椅子上坐着，抽着雪茄，饮着白兰地。“哦，斯特雷顿。”菲尔德赫斯特说，“快过来，喝点酒。”

“好的。”斯特雷顿说着，朝吧台走去，从一个细颈瓶里给自己倒了些白兰地，和他们坐在一起。

“刚离开实验室吗，斯特雷顿？”菲尔德赫斯特问道。

斯特雷顿点点头，“几分钟前我才把最近研制的一套名字压进去。我感到最近的字母置换方向弄对了。”

“不止你一个人有乐观的感觉，阿什伯恩博士和我刚才还在谈论最近的新进展。看来我们有望在人类绝种之前找到‘佳名’。”菲尔德赫斯特把头靠在椅背上，一口一口抽着雪茄，“灾难最终会转成恩赐。”

“恩赐？为什么这样说？”

“一旦我们控制了人类的生殖，就可以阻止穷人生很多孩子。他们现在生得太多了。”

斯特雷顿竭力掩饰着自己的惊讶。“我倒从没这么想过。”他小心翼翼地说。

阿什伯恩看起来似乎也很吃惊。“我还不知道你有这个计划。”

“也许我不该这么早就提这件事。”菲尔德赫斯特说，“俗话说，到孵蛋的时候再数小鸡嘛。”

“那是自然。”

“我们必须承认潜力是巨大的。通过判决谁可以生小孩，政府能保护人类这一种族。”

“我们的种族受到威胁了吗？”斯特雷顿问。

“你可能还没有注意到，下层人的繁殖速度远远超过贵族和有教养的人。平民不是没有美德，但他们缺乏优雅和智力。精神贫困会造成和物质贫困一样的后果，一个生长在恶劣环境中的妇女，生出来的孩子肯定会有同样的命运。如果下层的人生得过多，我们的种族就会逐渐充斥大量粗俗的笨蛋。”

“因此，不给下层人印入名字？”

“也不完全是这样，刚开始肯定不会这么做：生殖能力消失的真相传出后，如果不给下层人压入名字，肯定会引发骚乱。而且，下层人也可以在我们的社会中承担一定的角色，只要他们的数量控制在某种范围内。我想，这个计划只有在很多年之后才能实施。那时，人们已经习惯了用名字压入法来进行生育。也许，我们可以配合人口普查来监管人口的增长和构成。”

“这样使用名字合适吗？”阿什伯恩问，“我们的目的是延续种族的生存，而非党派斗争的工具。”

“恰恰相反，这是纯粹的科学。我们的责任既是为了保证种族的延续，也是为了保证人口的健康和平衡。这里面没有政治。如果情况改变了，如果只有很少一部分下层人，我们会采取相反的政策。”

斯特雷顿建议道：“如果改善穷人的生存环境，也许会使他们生出更聪明的孩子？”

“你是在想用你的廉价引擎机达到这个目的，对吗？”菲尔德赫斯特笑道。斯特雷顿点点头，“你的改革和我的改革可以相互促进。减少下层人口的数量应该更能提高他们的生活水平。然而，不要希望经济状况的改善能提高他们的精神素养。”

“为什么不呢？”

“你忘了文化的本质。”菲尔德赫斯特说，“虽然所有的巨型胚胎都是相同的，但不能否认，等胚胎成为人之后，他们在外表和气质上是有差别的。这都是母亲的影响所造成的：母亲的子宫是一个肉体容器，同时又体现着社会环境的差异。举例来说，和普鲁士人生活在一起的妇女，生出来的孩子很自然地具有普鲁士人的特征。同样，某个阶层的独特气质，可以延续几个世纪，尽管肯定会产生一些变化。所以，穷人和富人没有区别的观点是很不现实的。”

“作为一个动物学家，在这些方面你肯定比我们更明智。”阿什伯恩边说边默默地看了一眼斯特雷顿，“我们听从你的判断。”

接下来，话题转到了其他方面。斯特雷顿尽力掩饰着他的不快，维持着表面上的友好态度。菲尔德赫斯特离开后，斯特雷顿和阿什伯恩到楼下的实验室继续商谈。

“我们帮助的是什么人啊？”门一关上，斯特雷顿便大声道，“一个对待人民像对待畜生一样的人？”

“也许我们早该意料到。”阿什伯恩叹了口气，在实验室的高凳上坐了下来，“我们团队的研究目标就是复制人类的生殖过程，而这个过程本来是用于动物的。”

“但不能以个体的自由为代价呀！我要退出这项研究。”

“别太冲动了。你退出研究又能怎么样？你已经为我们的研究付出了那么多，你离开了只会使人类的未来更加渺茫。相反，如果没有你的帮助研究小组仍然达到了目的，菲尔德赫斯特勋爵就更能实施他的计划了。”

斯特雷顿努力保持着镇静。他知道阿什伯恩是对的。过了一会儿，他说道：“那我们应该采取什么行动？还有没有其他人，或者其他议会成员反对菲尔德赫斯特勋爵的计划？”

“我认为大多数贵族与菲尔德赫斯特勋爵的观点相同。”阿什伯恩用指尖托着前额，突然之间变得十分苍老，“我应该早一点预料到的。我的错误在于把人类视为一个物种，一个整体。我只行到英国人和法国人在为一个共同的目标努力，而忘记了不是只有国家之间才能相互争斗。”

“我们私下把名字分发给下层人民怎么样？他们可以暗地里取出针头，把名字压进去。”

“他们是可以这样做。但压入名字是一个精细的过程，最好能在实验室进行。我怀疑这样规模的动作会引起政府的注意，并且会受到政府的控制。”

“有没有另外的方法？”

他们沉默了很长一段时间，最后，阿什伯恩说：“你还记得我们曾经设想过能生出两代胚胎的名字吗？”

“当然记得。”

“我们可以开发这种名字，但在把它交给菲尔德赫斯特勋爵的时候并不交出所有权。”

“好主意。”斯特雷顿惊喜地说，“所有通过这种方式生出来的孩子都有生殖能力，所以他们可以不受政府的控制而进行繁殖。”

阿什伯恩点点头，“在人口控制政策实施之前，可以广泛分发这种名字。”

“但下一代怎么办呢？丧失生殖能力的情况会再次发生，下层人民还是不得不依赖政府繁殖后代。”

“对的。”阿什伯恩说，“这只能暂时解决问题。也许惟一长远的办法是成立一个更加民主、更加自由的议会，但这不是我们擅长的事。”

斯特雷顿又想到廉价引擎可能带来的变化；如果劳动者的生存环境改善了，就可以向贵族们证明贫穷不是与生俱来的。但是，即使一切很顺利，要使议会改变看法也得需要很多年的时间。“可不可以用压入名字的办法繁殖出更多的代呢？有生育能力的代数多一点，可为我们争取更多的时间来创建更加自由和民主的社会。”

“你这只是幻想。”阿什伯恩回答说，“多代繁殖的技术太困难了，我宁愿打赌说人可以长出翅膀飞翔。繁殖两代都已经很了不起了。”

两人讨论着对策，直到深夜。如果不打算把最有价值的一个个“真名”交给菲尔德赫斯特勋爵，他们必须伪造大量试验记录。而且也会陷入一场不平等竞赛，因为没有专利，他们必须不断开发更高级更复杂的名字，而其他命名师却可以找到相当简单的“佳名”。为了在一定程度上克服这些障碍，阿什伯恩和斯特雷顿必须招募一些志同道合者；这样也许可以巧妙地阻止其他人的研究。

“你认为小组中哪些人和我们的观点相同？”阿什伯恩问。

“我肯定米尔本和我们一样，其他人就不知道了。”

“要小心点。挑选成员时要加倍小心，比菲尔德赫斯特勋爵开始组建这个小组时更加小心。”

“我同意。”斯特雷顿说，然后又怀疑地摇摇头，“我们这是在一个秘密组织内成立另一个秘密组织。还有胚胎的问题，比成立组织更加棘手。”

十一

第二天晚上，正是太阳落山的时候，斯特雷顿沿着威斯敏斯特大桥走着。小贩们推着卖水果的独轮车渐渐远去。他刚在一家小餐馆吃完了可心的晚餐，漫步走回科德制造厂。昨天晚上在达林顿·霍尔别墅的谈话使他难以平静。他一早就回了伦敦，尽后减少和菲尔德赫斯特勋爵的接触，直到确信自己的表情能够保持正常。

他回想起很久以的和阿什伯恩的谈话。当时，他们第一次谈到可以分解出一类产生两个水平次序的种名。那时他就曾尝试想找到这样的种名，但考虑到和小组的研究计划不相干，于是只做了些零星的试验，没有任何结果，现在，目的已经不同了：以前的目标还远远不够，两代似乎是最低目标，每增加一代都极为珍贵。

他再次想到了他的灵巧名字，那种名字可以改变热水平上的次序。次序的改变激活自动机，自动机又可以产生出可见水平上的次序。次序产生次序。阿什伯恩曾提出下一个水平上的次序可能是其有协调能力的自动机。可能吗？为了协同工作，它们必须相互交流，但自动机天生不会说话。有没有其他的方法使自动机能从事复杂的工作呢？

不知不觉中已经到了科德制造厂。天早已黑尽了，但他仍找到了回办公室的路。斯特雷顿打开厂区大门，穿过前厅和营业室。

来到办公室前的走廊时，他发现门上的毛玻璃依稀透着亮光。难道离开前没关汽灯？他开门进去，被眼前的一幕惊呆了。

一个男人面朝下躺在桌子前的地板上，双手被捆在背后。斯特雷顿冲向前去，是本杰明·罗斯，那个奥秘教教徒，已经死了。斯特雷顿发现死者的手指已断；想必死前曾经受过折磨。

斯特雷顿脸色苍白，颤抖着站起来。办公室一片狼藉。书橱大开，书在橡木地板上撒得到处都是。桌子上的东西全不见了，旁边是一堆有着黄铜把柄的抽屉，里面空空的，东西全被倒了出来。零碎的纸屑一路撒到工作室。斯特雷顿惶惑地朝工作室走去，想知道到底出了什么事。

他的灵巧自动机被毁坏了；只剩下了下半身，其余的被砸破，成了石膏块和灰尘。工作台上，用泥土铸成的手模也被砸得粉碎，设计草图也从墙上撕了下来。和着石膏的大桶装满了办公室里的碎纸屑。斯特雷顿上前看了看，发现里面洒满了灯油。

身后突然传来一声响动，他猛地转身对着办公室。办公室的前门关上了，一个宽肩的男人从门背后闪了出来，斯特雷顿进来的时候他就藏在那里。“你来得正好。”他边说边用那双像猛兽一样残忍的眼睛审视着斯特雷顿。一个刺客。

斯特雷顿从工作室的后门向走廊跑去。那人紧追不舍。

他拼命奔跑着，穿过黑魆魆的大楼和塞满焦炭、铁棍、熔化炉、模子的车间。月光从头上的天窗透过来，照得一片通明。最后，他跑进了厂里的铸造区。他在屋子里上气不接下气地喘息，发现自己的脚步声响亮地回荡着。他停了下来。看来，躲起来更容易逃脱些。这时，他听见追赶的脚步声停了：刺客似乎也觉得悄没声儿的办法更好。

斯特雷顿扫视着四周，想找到合适的藏身之处。他的周围全是一些半成品的铸铁自动机。这是成型车间，浇铸出来的自动机在这里作最后的精加工，锯掉多余的部分，磨光身体表面。没有地方可藏。他正想继续逃跑，突然自动机的腿部绑着一捆像来复枪一样的东西，于是悄悄挪了过去。是军用自动机。

这些自动机都是为战争事务部铸造的：为己方大炮运送炮弹的自动机，速射自动枪手——这一个就是，用曲柄跟身上的弹药舱相联。真是可怕的家伙。但克什米亚战争证明了这种自动机的价值，发明者因此得到了贵族头衔。斯特雷顿不知道能激活这种武器的任何名字——这是军事秘密，好在装备来复枪的自动机只有身体是自动的，来复枪的发射装置完全是机械的。如果他能把自动机的身体指向正确的方向，就可以人工操纵来复枪。

片刻后，他咒骂着自己的愚蠢：这儿没有弹药。他偷偷溜进隔壁房间。

这是包装车间；到处都是柳条箱和散落的稻草。他弯下身子跑过箱子、到了后墙边。窗户外面是工厂的后院，成品自动机就从这里运走。但他无法从这条路逃出去：后院的门在晚上被锁住了。惟一的办法是通过工厂的前门，但这样的话，他必须返同原路，有可能碰上刺客。因为他不得不穿过烧陶车间，再次回到那片厂区。

就在这时，包装车间的前门响起一阵脚步声。斯特雷顿赶紧藏到一排柳条箱后面。几英尺远的地方有一道边门，池摄手跟脚地推开门走进去，又轻轻把门关上。刺客听到他的走动了吗？他从门口的一排小栅栏里悄悄探出头来他什么也看不见，但感觉刺客并没有察觉到他。刺客有可能正在搜寻包装车间。

斯特雷顿转过身，发现自己犯了一个错误。烧陶车间的门在对面。他进了一间装满成品自动机的储藏室，没有另外的出口。而且门也无法锁上，他陷入了困境。

屋里还有别的什么可以当作武器的东西吗？这儿有些蹲伏着的采矿自动机。它们的上肢有巨大的鸭嘴锄，但斧头的前端是和肢体连在一起的，没办法拿下来。

刺客开了边门，正在搜寻其余几间储藏室。斯特雷顿注意到对面有一个搬运存货的自动机。它是屋子里惟一一个具有人形身体的自动机。他突然想到了一个主意。

斯特雷顿查看搬运工的后脑勺。搬运工自动机的名字很久以前就公开了，因此它的名字狭口处没有锁住，可以看到一小片突出的羊皮纸。他从口袋里掏出笔记本和铅笔，撕下一小张空白纸片，在黑暗中迅速写下他许久以前便熟记于心的七十二个字母，然后把它折成坚固的正方形。

他低声对自动机说：“向前走，尽量靠近门。”这个铁铸的人儿立即向门边走去。步伐很流畅，但不快，而刺客随时都可能找到这里，“快一点。”斯特雷顿悄声命令道。自动机加快了脚步。

它到了门口。斯特雷顿从栅栏后便看到刺客已追到了对面。“滚开。”他大声吼道。

自动机驯服地后退一步，就在这时，斯特雷顿猛地拉出自动机的名字。刺客使劲推门，但斯特雷顿已经把折成正方形的新名字深深地塞进了自动机的后脑中。

自动机又向前走去，这次步伐很快，很僵硬：他童年时的玩具娃娃，但现在的块头跟成年人一样大小。它很快走到门边，机器的冲力猛地撞上了门。门关了。它顶在门上，手臂扇动着，每动一下，铁手便在坚实的门上留下深深的印记，橡胶浇铸的双脚在砖石地板上重重地磨来磨去。斯特雷顿退到了贮藏室的后面。

“站住。”刺客命令自动机，“你，不许走动！站住！”

但自动机继续行进，毫不理会任何命令。刺客气急败坏地推着门，但毫无结果。接着又用肩部使劲顶，每次都顶得自动机不得不轻轻地往后退，但它的步子很快，马上便将门重新顶死，刺客没办法硬挤进来。短暂的僵持后，有什么东西捅穿了栅栏。原来刺客在用一根棍棒撬门。栅栏砰地被撬开一个孔。刺客把手臂伸了进来，在自动机的脑后乱抓，想找到它的名字。虽然每次抓扯都使自动机的头向前摇动着，但什么也没有抓到：新名字被插得很深。

刺客缩回手臂，露出脑袋叫喊着：“你以为你很聪明，是吗？”然后便消失了。

斯特雷顿稍微松了口气。刺客走了吗？一分钟过去了，斯特雷顿盘算着下一步怎么行动。他可以待在这儿直到工厂开门；人多了刺客就无法行凶。

突然，刺客的手臂又在小孔上出现了。这次他拿了一罐液体洒在自动机的头上。液体到处溅泼，滴进了它的后脑勺。刺客抽回手臂，斯特雷顿听到了擦火柴的声音，然后是火光一闪。刺客拿着火柴的手伸进来，点着了自动机。

房间里立即火光熊熊，自动机的头和上半身都被烧着了，刺客已经在它身上洒满了灯油。斯特雷顿眯着眼睛看着眼前的景象：火焰和着光影在地板和墙上乱窜，把贮藏室变成了巫师乱舞的祭祀场。全身是火的自动机更加顽强地顶住门，徒劳地向前走动，直到它突然停止了一切动作：名字着了火，字母也被烧毁了。

火势渐渐平息下来，已经适应了光亮的斯特雷顿感到房间好像完全黑了。但他听见刺客又在推门。这次，他很轻易地推开自动机，跨了进来。

“够了，出来吧。”

斯特雷顿试图从对方身边逃出去。但被刺客一把抓住，头部被猛地一击，倒在地上。

他马上恢复了神智，但刺客已经把他按在地上，一只脚踩着他的背。刺客撕掉他手腕上的护身符，用一条麻绳把他的双手反捆在背后。绳子紧紧的，深深勒进了他的皮肤。

“你是什么人？为什么要害我？”斯特雷顿气喘吁吁地说，他的脸被死死压在砖石地板上。

刺客嘿嘿一笑。“人类和你的自动机没有区别。给一个伙计一大摞纸片，只要纸片上的数目合适，他就会照你的吩咐办。”他点燃了一盏油灯，屋里顿时亮堂起来。

“我付你更多的钱，放了我，如何？”

“不行，我也要考虑声誉问题，对吧？我们办正事吧。”他抓住斯特雷顿的左小手指，砰的一声，把它折断了。

一阵钻心的疼痛，斯特雷顿禁不住一声大叫，几乎晕了过去。刺客又说话了。“现在，老老实实回答我的问题。你是否复印了一份研究数据在家里？”

“是的。”他断断续续地说。“我的书桌上。在书房。”

“还有没有藏在其他地方？比如说地板下？”

“没有。”

“楼上你那位朋友没有复印件。也许其他地方有？”

他不能招出达林顿·霍尔别墅。“没有。”

刺客从斯特雷顿的大衣口袋里掏出笔记本。斯特雷顿听见他快速翻看着。“没有邮过任何信件？没有和同事们通信讨论过？”

“没有涉及我的研究。”

“你在撒谎。”刺客抓住了斯特雷顿的无名指。

“没有！真的！”他歇斯底里地尖叫着。

传来一阵重击声，背上的压力顿时减轻了。他小心翼翼抬起头。刺客倒在地板上，已经失去了知觉。戴维斯拿着一根金属棍站在旁边。

戴维斯把金属棍塞进口袋，蹲下来替斯特雷顿解开手上的绳子。“伤得历害吗，先生？”

“他折断了我的一根手指。戴维斯，你怎么——？”

“菲尔德赫斯特勋爵一打听到威洛比找了杀手，就派我来了。”

“感谢上帝，你来得真及时。”斯特雷顿发现事情突然变得很有讽刺性——他阴谋反对的人恰恰是来搭救他的人——但他感激得顾不上别的了。

戴维斯扶着斯特雷顿站起来，把笔记本还给他。然后用绳子把刺客绑起来。“我先到了你的办公室。那个人是谁？”

“他叫——本杰明·罗斯。”斯特雷顿详细叙述了他和奥秘教徒的那次面谈，“我不知道他在那儿干什么。”

“多数宗教信徒都有点疯狂。”戴维斯边说边检查着刺客的绳子，“你不愿把名字交给他，他可能觉得自己有资格亲自来拿，于是就到了你的办公室。但运气不好，碰上了刺客。”

斯特雷顿感到很内疚。“我应该把东西给他的。”

“你也不知道会是这个结局。”

“他死了，这太不公平。他什么也没做呀。”

“事情总是这样的，先生。来吧，看看你的手伤得怎样了。”

十二

戴维斯替斯特雷顿的手指安上夹板，缠上绷带。向他保证皇家学会一定会对今晚的事件进行追查。他们把办公室里沾满油污的文件收到一个大行李箱里，准备带出工厂，让斯特雷顿在方便的时候查看。一切就绪后，一辆四轮马车载着斯特雷顿向达林顿·霍尔别墅驶去，戴维斯是驾着骏马自动机来到伦敦的。斯特雷顿把一箱文件装在马车上，戴维斯留下来处理刺客和奥秘教徒的尸体。

在马车上，斯特雷顿饮着白兰地，竭力使自己镇定下来。回到达林顿·霍尔别墅使他感到很轻松。虽然有另外的威胁，但这儿至少没有刺客。他进了自己的房间，感到筋疲力尽，躺上床就睡着了。

第二天早上他镇定了许多，打算整理那一箱子文件。他正准备把这些文件放进一堆原始资料中时，突然发现了一本他不认识的笔记本。里面都是西伯莱字母，其排列组合的方式他很熟悉，所有注释也都是西伯莱文字。他感到一阵内疚和伤心，这些笔记肯定是罗斯的；刺客在他身上找到了它，随后把它扔进了斯特雷顿的文件堆，准备烧掉它。

他想把它收捡起来，但好奇心使他想读一读这个本子。他以前从未见过奥秘教徒的笔记本。虽然本子里的许多术语都是古语，但他还是能读懂。在咒语和图表中，他找到了那个能使自动机写出自己名字的种名。斯特雷顿仔细阅读着这些笔记，发现罗斯取得的成就超出了自己的想像。

这个种名并不描述一套特殊的行为，而是普通的反射行为。名字如果和这样的种名结合，就会变成一种可以自我定义行为方式的名字。笔记还说明，这个种名适用于任何身体行为，被它激话的对象甚至不需要手就可以写出它的名字。只要该种名以适当的方式与名字结合，一匹瓷马也能用它的蹄子在地上画出它的名字。

如果加上斯特雷顿的灵巧种名，罗斯的种名确实可以让自动机承担大部分制作自动机的工作。自动机可以浇铸一个和自己一模一样的身体，写出自己的名字，然后把它塞进头部，使身体激活。但它不能训练新自动机从事雕塑，因为它不会说话。真正不需人类帮助就可自身复制的自动机是没有的，但只要能够接近这个目标，罗斯无疑会感到欣喜若狂。

自动机比人类更容易繁殖，这太不公平了。这就说，自动机的繁殖问题可以一次性解决，而人类的繁殖却像一个永远难以完成的西绪弗斯任务，每多生一代人，就需要更复杂的名字。

斯特雷顿突然意识到他不必增加名字的复杂性，只要能够复制词就行了。

综合了他与罗斯的成就，得到的就是人类这个种族的“真名”。只要在卵子中压入这个真名，胚胎就可以自行生出它自己的名字。

就像当初设想的那样，名字有两个变体：一个产生雄性胚胎，一个产生雌性胚胎。通过这种方式受孕的女性与往常一样有生殖能力。男性虽然也会有生殖能力，但情况有所不同：他们的精子里没有预成形胚胎，但可以压入这两个名字的任一个。刚开始名字是通过玻璃针头压入的。当精子和卵子结合后，名字就可产生新的胚胎。就这样，不需要医学的帮助，物种就可以自己繁殖自己，因为它自己体内便携带着名字。

他和阿什伯恩博士过去一直是这样假设的：创造有繁殖能力的生物意味着使它们含有预成形胚胎，这样更符合自然的逻辑。但他们忽略了另一种可能性：那就是，如果某种生物能够以名字的形式表达自己，那么，只要能够转录它的名字，那种生物就能繁殖下去。也就是说，这样一个有机体所包含的不是它的形态的一个缩微体，即预成形胚胎，而是能够完全代表它的形态的词。

人类既可以是名字的载体，也可以是它的产品。每一代都既有内容又有载体，不断重复着。

斯特雷顿想像着有那么一天，人类这个种族的大限不再取决于天定寿限，它的生存与毁灭完全取决于自己的行为。只要人类自己不犯下愚蠢的错误，这个种族就不会因为天定寿限的终结而消失。其他物种也许会像鲜花般随着四季的变化而繁盛凋零，但人类的存在与否却取决于自身。

而且，任何人都不会拥有控制别人繁衍的能力。至少从生殖的角度来讲，个体是自由的。这虽然并非罗斯的初衷，但斯特雷顿相信，罗斯一定会认为这一点具有宝贵的价值。当人们发现了真名的威力时，世界各地将出现成千上万借助它出生的人，没有任何政府能控制他们的生育。菲尔德赫斯特勋爵——或者他的后继者——将会非常愤怒。代价是一定要付出的，斯特雷顿能够接受。

他快步走向书桌，罗斯的笔记本和他自己的并排放在桌上。在一张空页处，他写下了罗斯的种名可能被结合进入人类“佳名”的观点。在他的脑海里，斯特雷顿已经开始不断交换着字母的顺序，寻找那种既能表达人类的躯体特点、又能表达人类精神的组合方式——即人类的个体编码。

后记

写这个故事源于两点启发。首先是“有生命的假人”的传说。

布拉格的犹太拉比勒韦激活了一个泥塑雕像，使它成了保护犹太人免受迫害的保护神，这可能是老百姓最熟悉的有关假人的故事。其实这个故事只是假人传说的现代版，始于１９０９年。早在十六世纪，就有了把傻瓜泥人或多或少当作佣人的故事，但这还不是最古老的假人。在公元二世纪的许多故事中，犹太拉比激活泥塑成的人，不是为了让它去干一些俗事，而是要证明字母排列艺术有无上权威。拉比们做这些工作是为了更接近上帝。

语言有创造力，很多比我聪明的人已经讨论过这个观点。我对假人不会说话这点很感兴趣。因为假人是由语言创造出来的，因此不会说话的局限会限制它们的繁殖。那么，如果假人能够使用语言，它就应该有自我繁殖的能力，它和冯·诺伊曼的机器人不一样。

另一个观点是预成形说。这个理论是说，生物的形状早就存在于其父母的生殖细胞中。现在的人当然把它视作无稽之谈，但在当时，这种理论有其意义。它要解决的是生物为什么能够自我繁殖的问题。我对以上两个问题都很感兴趣，于是便把它们写了出来。

（苏益群译)

Seventy-Two Letters

by Ted Chiang

When he was a child, Robert’s favorite toy was a simple one, a clay doll that could do nothing but walk forward. While his parents entertained their guests in the garden outside, discussing Victoria’s ascension to the throne or the Chartist reforms, Robert would follow the doll as it marched down the corridors of the family home, turning it around corners or back where it came from. The doll didn’t obey commands or exhibit any sense at all; if it met a wall, the diminutive clay figure would keep marching until it gradually mashed its arms and legs into misshapen flippers. Sometimes Robert would let it do that, strictly for his own amusement. Once the doll’s limbs were thoroughly distorted, he’d pick the toy up and pull the name out, stopping its motion in mid-stride. Then he’d knead the body back into a smooth lump, flatten it out into a plank, and cut out a different figure: a body with one leg crooked, or longer than the other. He would stick the name back into it, and the doll would promptly topple over and push itself around in a little circle.

It wasn’t the sculpting that Robert enjoyed; it was mapping out the limits of the name. He liked to see how much variation he could impart to the body before the name could no longer animate it. To save time with the sculpting, he rarely added decorative details; he refined the bodies only as was needed to test the name.

Another of his dolls walked on four legs. The body was a nice one, a finely detailed porcelain horse, but Robert was more interested in experimenting with its name. This name obeyed commands to start and stop and knew enough to avoid obstacles, and Robert tried inserting it into bodies of his own making. But this name had more exacting body requirements, and he was never able to form a clay body it could animate. He formed the legs separately and then attached them to the body, but he wasn’t able to blend the seams smooth enough; the name didn’t recognize the body as a single continuous piece.

He scrutinized the names themselves, looking for some simple substitutions that might distinguish two-leggedness from four- leggedness, or make the body obey simple commands. But the names looked entirely different; on each scrap of parchment were inscribed seventy-two tiny Hebrew letters, arranged in twelve rows of six, and so far as he could tell, the order of the letters was utterly random.

* * *

Robert Stratton and his fourth form classmates sat quietly as Master Trevelyan paced between the rows of desks.

"Langdale, what is the doctrine of names?"

"All things are reflections of God, and, um, all--"

"Spare us your bumbling. Thorburn, can you tell us the doctrine of names?"

"As all things are reflections of God, so are all names reflections of the divine name."

"And what is an object’s true name?"

"That name which reflects the divine name in the same manner as the object reflects God."

"And what is the action of a true name?"

"To endow its object with a reflection of divine power."

"Correct. Halliwell, what is the doctrine of signatures?"

The natural philosophy lesson continued until noon, but because it was a Saturday, there was no instruction for the rest of the day. Master Trevelyan dismissed the class, and the boys of Cheltenham school dispersed.

After stopping at the dormitory, Robert met his friend Lionel at the border of school grounds. "So the wait’s over? Today’s the day?" Robert asked.

"I said it was, didn’t I?"

"Let’s go, then." The pair set off to walk the mile and a half to Lionel’s home.

During his first year at Cheltenham, Robert had known Lionel hardly at all; Lionel was one of the day-boys, and Robert, like all the boarders, regarded them with suspicion. Then, purely by chance, Robert ran into him while on holiday, during a visit to the British Museum. Robert loved the Museum: the frail mummies and immense sarcophagi; the stuffed platypus and pickled mermaid; the wall bristling with elephant tusks and moose antlers and unicorn horns. That particular day he was at the display of elemental sprites: he was reading the card explaining the salamander’s absence when he suddenly recognized Lionel, standing right next to him, peering at the undine in its jar. Conversation revealed their shared interest in the sciences, and the two became fast friends.

As they walked down the road, they kicked a large pebble back and forth between them. Lionel gave the pebble a kick, and laughed as it skittered between Robert’s ankles. "I couldn’t wait to get out of there," he said. "I think one more doctrine would have been more than I could bear."

"Why do they even bother calling it natural philosophy?" said Robert. "Just admit it’s another theology lesson and be done with it." The two of them had recently purchased A Boy’s Guide to Nomenclature, which informed them that nomenclators no longer spoke in terms of God or the divine name. Instead, current thinking held that there was a lexical universe as well as a physical one, and bringing an object together with a compatible name caused the latent potentialities of both to be realized. Nor was there a single "true name" for a given object: depending on its precise shape, a body might be compatible with several names, known as its "euonyms," and conversely a simple name might tolerate significant variations in body shape, as his childhood marching doll had demonstrated.

When they reached Lionel’s home, they promised the cook they would be in for dinner shortly and headed to the garden out back. Lionel had converted a tool shed in his family’s garden into a laboratory, which he used to conduct experiments. Normally Robert came by on a regular basis, but recently Lionel had been working on an experiment that he was keeping secret. Only now was he ready to show Robert his results. Lionel had Robert wait outside while he entered first, and then let him enter.

A long shelf ran along every wall of the shed, crowded with racks of vials, stoppered bottles of green glass, and assorted rocks and mineral specimens. A table decorated with stains and scorch marks dominated the cramped space, and it supported the apparatus for Lionel’s latest experiment: a cucurbit clamped in a stand so that its bottom rested in a basin full of water, which in turn sat on a tripod above a lit oil lamp. A mercury thermometer was also fixed in the basin.

"Take a look," said Lionel.

Robert leaned over to inspect the cucurbit’s contents. At first it appeared to be nothing more than foam, a dollop of suds that might have dripped off a pint of stout. But as he looked closer, he realized that what he thought were bubbles were actually the interstices of a glistening latticework. The froth consisted of homunculi: tiny seminal foetuses. Their bodies were transparent individually, but collectively their bulbous heads and strand-like limbs adhered to form a pale, dense foam.

"So you wanked off into a jar and kept the spunk warm?" he asked, and Lionel shoved him. Robert laughed and raised his hands in a placating gesture. "No, honestly, it’s a wonder. How’d you do it?"

Mollified, Lionel said, "It’s a real balancing act. You have to keep the temperature just right, of course, but if you want them to grow, you also have to keep just the right mix of nutrients. Too thin a mix, and they starve. Too rich, and they get over lively and start fighting with each other."

"You’re having me on."

"It’s the truth; look it up if you don’t believe me. Battles amongst sperm are what cause monstrosities to be born. If an injured foetus is the one that makes it to the egg, the baby that’s born is deformed."

"I thought that was because of a fright the mother had when she was carrying." Robert could just make out the minuscule squirmings of the individual foetuses. He realized that the froth was ever so slowly roiling as a result of their collective motions.

"That’s only for some kinds, like ones that are all hairy or covered in blotches. Babies that don’t have arms or legs, or have misshapen ones, they’re the ones that got caught in a fight back when they were sperm. That’s why you can’t provide too rich a broth, especially if they haven’t any place to go: they get in a frenzy. You can lose all of them pretty quick that way."

"How long can you keep them growing?"

"Probably not much longer," said Lionel. "It’s hard to keep them alive if they haven’t reached an egg. I read about one in France that was grown till it was the size of a fist, and they had the best equipment available. I just wanted was to see if I could do it at all."

Robert stared at the foam, remembering the doctrine of preformation that Master Trevelyan had drilled into them: all living things had been created at the same time, long ago, and births today were merely enlargements of the previously imperceptible. Although they appeared newly created, these homunculi were countless years old; for all of human history they had lain nested within generations of their ancestors, waiting for their turn to be born.

In fact, it wasn’t just them who had waited; he himself must have done the same thing prior to his birth. If his father were to do this experiment, the tiny figures Robert saw would be his unborn brothers and sisters. He knew they were insensible until reaching an egg, but he wondered what thoughts they’d have if they weren’t. He imagined the sensation of his body, every bone and organ soft and clear as gelatin, sticking to those of myriad identical siblings. What would it be like, looking through transparent eyelids, realizing the mountain in the distance was actually a person, recognizing it as his brother? What if he knew he’d become as massive and solid as that colossus, if only he could reach an egg? It was no wonder they fought.

* * *

Robert Stratton went on to read nomenclature at Cambridge’s Trinity College. There he studied kabbalistic texts written centuries before, when nomenclators were still called ba’alei shem and automata were called golem, texts that laid the foundation for the science of names: the Sefer Yezirah, Eleazar of Worms’ Sodei Razayya, Abulafia’s Hayyei ha-Olam ha-Ba. Then he studied the alchemical treatises that placed the techniques of alphabetic manipulation in a broader philosophical and mathematical context: Llull’s Ars Magna, Agrippa’s De Occulta Philosophia, Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica.

He learned that every name was a combination of several epithets, each designating a specific trait or capability. Epithets were generated by compiling all the words that described the desired trait: cognates and etymons, from languages both living and extinct. By selectively substituting and permuting letters, one could distill from those words their common essence, which was the epithet for that trait. In certain instances, epithets could be used as the bases for triangulation, allowing one to derive epithets for traits undescribed in any language. The entire process relied on intuition as much as formulae; the ability to choose the best letter permutations was an unteachable skill.

He studied the modern techniques of nominal integration and factorization, the former being the means by which a set of epithets--pithy and evocative--were commingled into the seemingly random string of letters that made up a name, the latter by which a name was decomposed into its constituent epithets. Not every method of integration had a matching factorization technique: a powerful name might be refactored to yield a set of epithets different from those used to generate it, and those epithets were often useful for that reason. Some names resisted refactorization, and nomenclators strove to develop new techniques to penetrate their secrets.

Nomenclature was undergoing something of a revolution during this time. There had long been two classes of names: those for animating a body, and those functioning as amulets. Health amulets were worn as protection from injury or illness, while others rendered a house resistant to fire or a ship less likely to founder at sea. Of late, however, the distinction between these categories of names was becoming blurred, with exciting results.

The nascent science of thermodynamics, which established the interconvertibility of heat and work, had recently explained how automata gained their motive power by absorbing heat from their surroundings. Using this improved understanding of heat, a Namenmeister in Berlin had developed a new class of amulet that caused a body to absorb heat from one location and release it in another. Refrigeration employing such amulets was simpler and more efficient than that based on the evaporation of a volatile fluid, and had immense commercial application. Amulets were likewise facilitating the improvement of automata: an Edinburgh nomenclator’s research into the amulets that prevented objects from becoming lost had led him to patent a household automaton able to return objects to their proper places.

Upon graduation, Stratton took up residence in London and secured a position as a nomenclator at Coade Manufactory, one of the leading makers of automata in England.

* * *

Stratton’s most recent automaton, cast from plaster of Paris, followed a few paces behind him as he entered the factory building. It was an immense brick structure with skylights for its roof; half of the building was devoted to casting metal, the other half to ceramics. In either section, a meandering path connected the various rooms, each one housing the next step in transforming raw materials into finished automata. Stratton and his automaton entered the ceramics portion.

They walked past a row of low vats in which the clay was mixed. Different vats contained different grades of clay, ranging from common red clay to fine white kaolin, resembling enormous mugs abrim with liquid chocolate or heavy cream; only the strong mineral smell broke the illusion. The paddles stirring the clay were connected by gears to a drive shaft, mounted just beneath the skylights, that ran the length of the room. At the end of the room stood an automatous engine: a cast- iron giant that cranked the drive wheel tirelessly. Walking past, Stratton could detect a faint coolness in the air as the engine drew heat from its surroundings.

The next room held the molds for casting. Chalky white shells bearing the inverted contours of various automata were stacked along the walls. In the central portion of the room, apron-clad journeymen sculptors worked singly and in pairs, tending the cocoons from which automata were hatched.

The sculptor nearest him was assembling the mold for a putter, a broad-headed quadruped employed in the mines for pushing trolleys of ore. The young man looked up from his work. "Were you looking for someone, sir?" he asked.

"I’m to meet Master Willoughby here," replied Stratton.

"Pardon, I didn’t realize. I’m sure he’ll be here shortly." The journeyman returned to his task. Harold Willoughby was a Master Sculptor First-Degree; Stratton was consulting him on the design of a reusable mold for casting his automaton. While he waited, Stratton strolled idly amongst the molds. His automaton stood motionless, ready for its next command.

Willoughby entered from the door to the metalworks, his face flushed from the heat of the foundry. "My apologies for being late, Mr. Stratton," he said. "We’ve been working toward a large bronze for some weeks now, and today was the pour. You don’t want to leave the lads alone at a time like that."

"I understand completely," replied Stratton.

Wasting no time, Willoughby strode over to the new automaton. "Is this what you’ve had Moore doing all these months?" Moore was the journeyman assisting Stratton on his project.

Stratton nodded. "The boy does good work." Following Stratton’s requests, Moore had fashioned countless bodies, all variations on a single basic theme, by applying modeling clay to an armature, and then used them to create plaster casts on which Stratton could test his names.

Willoughby inspected the body. "Some nice detail; looks straightforward enough--hold on now." He pointed to the automaton’s hands: rather than the traditional paddle or mitten design, with fingers suggested by grooves in the surface, these were fully formed, each one having a thumb and four distinct and separate fingers. "You don’t mean to tell me those are functional?"

"That’s correct."

Willoughby’s skepticism was plain. "Show me."

Stratton addressed the automaton. "Flex your fingers." The automaton extended both hands, flexed and straightened each pair of fingers in turn, and then returned its arms to its sides.

"I congratulate you, Mr. Stratton," said the sculptor. He squatted to examine the automaton’s fingers more closely. "The fingers need to be bent at each joint for the name to take?"

"That’s right. Can you design a piece mold for such a form?"

Willoughby clicked his tongue several times. "That’ll be a tricky bit of business," he said. "We might have to use a waste mold for each casting. Even with a piece mold, these’d be very expensive for ceramic."

"I think they will be worth the expense. Permit me to demonstrate." Stratton addressed to the automaton. "Cast a body; use that mold over there."

The automaton trudged over to a nearby wall and picked up the pieces of the mold Stratton had indicated: it was the mold for a small porcelain messenger. Several journeymen stopped what they were doing to watch the automaton carry the pieces over to a work area. There it fitted the various sections together and bound them tightly with twine. The sculptors’ wonderment was apparent as they watched the automaton’s fingers work, looping and threading the loose ends of the twine into a knot. Then the automaton stood the assembled mold upright and headed off to get a pitcher of clay slip.

"That’s enough," said Willoughby. The automaton stopped its work and resumed its original standing posture. Examining the mold, Willoughby asked, "Did you train it yourself?"

"I did. I hope to have Moore train it in metal casting."

"Do you have names that can learn other tasks?"

"Not as yet. However, there’s every reason to believe that an entire class of similar names exists, one for every sort of skill needing manual dexterity."

"Indeed?" Willoughby noticed the other sculptors watching, and called out, "If you’ve nothing to do, there’s plenty I can assign to you." The journeymen promptly resumed their work, and Willoughby turned back to Stratton. "Let us go to your office to speak about this further."

"Very well." Stratton had the automaton follow the two of them back to the frontmost of the complex of connected buildings that was Coade Manufactory. They first entered Stratton’s studio, which was situated behind his office proper. Once inside, Stratton addressed the sculptor. "Do you have an objection to my automaton?"

Willoughby looked over a pair of clay hands mounted on a work-table. On the wall behind the table were pinned a series of schematic drawings showing hands in a variety of positions. "You’ve done an admirable job of emulating the human hand. I am concerned, however, that the first skill in which you trained your new automaton is sculpture."

"If you’re worried that I am trying to replace sculptors, you needn’t be. That is absolutely not my goal."

"I’m relieved to hear it," said Willoughby. "Why did you choose sculpture, then?"

"It is the first step of a rather indirect path. My ultimate goal is to allow automatous engines to be manufactured inexpensively enough so that most families could purchase one."

Willoughby’s confusion was apparent. "How, pray tell, would a family make use of an engine?"

"To drive a powered loom, for example."

"What are you going on about?"

"Have you ever seen children who are employed at a textile mill? They are worked to exhaustion; their lungs are clogged with cotton dust; they are so sickly that you can hardly conceive of their reaching adulthood. Cheap cloth is bought at the price of our workers’ health; weavers were far better off when textile production was a cottage industry."

"Powered looms were what took weavers out of cottages. How could they put them back in?"

Stratton had not spoken of this before, and welcomed the opportunity to explain. "The cost of automatous engines has always been high, and so we have mills in which scores of looms are driven by an immense coal-heated Goliath. But an automaton like mine could cast engines very cheaply. If a small automatous engine, suitable for driving a few machines, becomes affordable to a weaver and his family, then they can produce cloth from their home as they did once before. People could earn a decent income without being subjected to the conditions of the factory."

"You forget the cost of the loom itself," said Willoughby gently, as if humoring him. "Powered looms are considerably more expensive than the hand looms of old."

"My automata could also assist in the production of cast- iron parts, which would reduce the price of powered looms and other machines. This is no panacea, I know, but I am nonetheless convinced that inexpensive engines offer the chance of a better life for the individual craftsman."

"Your desire for reform does you credit. Let me suggest, however, that there are simpler cures for the social ills you cite: a reduction in working hours, or the improvement of conditions. You do not need to disrupt our entire system of manufacturing."

"I think what I propose is more accurately described as a restoration than a disruption."

Now Willoughby became exasperated. "This talk of returning to a family economy is all well and good, but what would happen to sculptors? Your intentions notwithstanding, these automata of yours would put sculptors out of work. These are men who have undergone years of apprenticeship and training. How would they feed their families?"

Stratton was unprepared for the sharpness in his tone. "You overestimate my skills as a nomenclator," he said, trying to make light. The sculptor remained dour. He continued. "The learning capabilities of these automata are extremely limited. They can manipulate molds, but they could never design them; the real craft of sculpture can be performed only by sculptors. Before our meeting, you had just finished directing several journeymen in the pouring of a large bronze; automata could never work together in such a coordinated fashion. They will perform only rote tasks."

"What kind of sculptors would we produce if they spend their apprenticeship watching automata do their jobs for them? I will not have a venerable profession reduced to a performance by marionettes."

"That is not what would happen," said Stratton, becoming exasperated himself now. "But examine what you yourself are saying: the status that you wish your profession to retain is precisely that which weavers have been made to forfeit. I believe these automata can help restore dignity to other professions, and without great cost to yours."

Willoughby seemed not to hear him. "The very notion that automata would make automata! Not only is the suggestion insulting, it seems ripe for calamity. What of that ballad, the one where the broomsticks carry water buckets and run amuck?"

"You mean ‘Der Zauberlehrling’?" said Stratton. "The comparison is absurd. These automata are so far removed from being in a position to reproduce themselves without human participation that I scarcely know where to begin listing the objections. A dancing bear would sooner perform in the London Ballet."

"If you’d care to develop an automaton that can dance the ballet, I would fully support such an enterprise. However, you cannot continue with these dexterous automata."

"Pardon me, sir, but I am not bound by your decisions."

"You’ll find it difficult to work without sculptors’ cooperation. I shall recall Moore and forbid all the other journeymen from assisting you in any way with this project."

Stratton was momentarily taken aback. "Your reaction is completely unwarranted."

"I think it entirely appropriate."

"In that case, I will work with sculptors at another manufactory."

Willoughby frowned. "I will speak with the head of the Brotherhood of Sculptors, and recommend that he forbid all of our members from casting your automata."

Stratton could feel his blood rising. "I will not be bullied," he said. "Do what you will, but you cannot prevent me from pursuing this."

"I think our discussion is at an end." Willoughby strode to the door. "Good day to you, Mr. Stratton."

"Good day to you," replied Stratton heatedly.

* * *

It was the following day, and Stratton was taking his midday stroll through the district of Lambeth, where Coade Manufactory was located. After a few blocks he stopped at a local market; sometimes among the baskets of writhing eels and blankets spread with cheap watchs were automatous dolls, and Stratton retained his boyhood fondness for seeing the latest designs. Today he noticed a new pair of boxing dolls, painted to look like an explorer and a savage. As he looked them over while, he could hear nostrum peddlers competing for the attention of a passerby with a runny nose.

"I see your health amulet failed you, sir," said one man whose table was arrayed with small square tins. "Your remedy lies in the curative powers of magnetism, concentrated in Doctor Sedgewick’s Polarising Tablets!"

"Nonsense!" retorted an old woman. "What you need is tincture of mandrake, tried and true!" She held out a vial of clear liquid. "The dog wasn’t cold yet when this extract was prepared! There’s nothing more potent."

Seeing no other new dolls, Stratton left the market and walked on, his thoughts returning to what Willoughby had said yesterday. Without the cooperation of the sculptors’ trade- union, he’d have to resort to hiring independent sculptors. He hadn’t worked with such individuals before, and some investigation would be required: ostensibly they cast bodies only for use with public-domain names, but for certain individuals these activities disguised patent infringement and piracy, and any association with them could permanently blacken his reputation.

"Mr. Stratton."

Stratton looked up. A small, wiry man, plainly dressed, stood before him. "Yes; do I know you, sir?"

"No, sir. My name is Davies. I’m in the employ of Lord Fieldhurst." He handed Stratton a card bearing the Fieldhurst crest.

Edward Maitland, third earl of Fieldhurst and a noted zoologist and comparative anatomist, was President of the Royal Society. Stratton had heard him speak during sessions of the Royal Society, but they had never been introduced. "What can I do for you?"

"Lord Fieldhurst would like to speak with you, at your earliest convenience, regarding your recent work."

Stratton wondered how the earl had learned of his work. "Why did you not call on me at my office?"

"Lord Fieldhurst prefers privacy in this matter." Stratton raised his eyebrows, but Davies didn’t explain further. "Are you available this evening?"

It was an unusual invitation, but an honor nonetheless. "Certainly. Please inform Lord Fieldhurst that I would be delighted."

"A carriage will be outside your building at eight tonight." Davies touched his hat and was off.

At the promised hour, Davies arrived with the carriage. It was a luxurious vehicle, with an interior of lacquered mahogany and polished brass and brushed velvet. The tractor that drew it was an expensive one as well, a steed cast of bronze and needing no driver for familiar destinations.

Davies politely declined to answer any questions while they rode. He was obviously not a man-servant, nor a secretary, but Stratton could not decide what sort of employee he was. The carriage carried them out of London into the countryside, until they reached Darrington Hall, one of the residences owned by the Fieldhurst lineage.

Once inside the home, Davies led Stratton through the foyer and then ushered him into an elegantly appointed study; he closed the doors without entering himself.

Seated at the desk within the study was a barrel-chested man wearing a silk coat and cravat; his broad, deeply creased cheeks were framed by woolly gray muttonchops. Stratton recognized him at once.

"Lord Fieldhurst, it is an honor."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stratton. You’ve been doing some excellent work recently."

"You are most kind. I did not realize that my work had become known."

"I make an effort to keep track of such things. Please, tell me what motivated you to develop such automata?"

Stratton explained his plans for manufacturing affordable engines. Fieldhurst listened with interest, occasionally offering cogent suggestions.

"It is an admirable goal," he said, nodding his approval. "I’m pleased to find that you have such philanthropic motives, because I would ask your assistance in a project I’m directing."

"It would be my privilege to help in any way I could."

"Thank you." Fieldhurst’s expression became solemn. "This is a matter of grave import. Before I speak further, I must first have your word that you will retain everything I reveal to you in the utmost confidence."

Stratton met the earl’s gaze directly. "Upon my honor as a gentleman, sir, I shall not divulge anything you relate to me."

"Thank you, Mr. Stratton. Please come this way." Fieldhurst opened a door in the rear wall of the study and they walked down a short hallway. At the end of the hallway was a laboratory; a long, scrupulously clean work-table held a number of stations, each consisting of a microscope and an articulated brass framework of some sort, equipped with three mutually perpendicular knurled wheels for performing fine adjustments. An elderly man was peering into the microscope at the furthest station; he looked up from his work as they entered.

"Mr. Stratton, I believe you know Dr. Ashbourne."

Stratton, caught off guard, was momentarily speechless. Nicholas Ashbourne had been a lecturer at Trinity when Stratton was studying there, but had left years ago to pursue studies of, it was said, an unorthodox nature. Stratton remembered him as one of his most enthusiastic instructors. Age had narrowed his face somewhat, making his high forehead seem even higher, but his eyes were as bright and alert as ever. He walked over with the help of a carved ivory walking stick.

"Stratton, good to see you again."

"And you, sir. I was truly not expecting to see you here."

"This will be an evening full of surprises, my boy. Prepare yourself." He turned to Fieldhurst. "Would you care to begin?"

They followed Fieldhurst to the far end of the laboratory, where he opened another door and led them down a flight of stairs. "Only a small number of individuals--either Fellows of the Royal Society or Members of Parliament, or both--are privy to this matter. Five years ago, I was contacted confidentially by the Académie des Sciences in Paris. They wished for English scientists to confirm certain experimental findings of theirs."

"Indeed?"

"You can imagine their reluctance. However, they felt the matter outweighed national rivalries, and once I understood the situation, I agreed."

The three of them descended to a cellar. Gas brackets along the walls provided illumination, revealing the cellar’s considerable size; its interior was punctuated by an array of stone pillars that rose to form groined vaults. The long cellar contained row upon row of stout wooden tables, each one supporting a tank roughly the size of a bathtub. The tanks were made of zinc and fitted with plate glass windows on all four sides, revealing their contents as a clear, faintly straw-colored fluid.

Stratton looked at the nearest tank. There was a distortion floating in the center of the tank, as if the some of the liquid had congealed into a mass of jelly. It was difficult to distinguish the mass’s features from the mottled shadows cast on the bottom of the tank, so he moved to another side of the tank and squatted down low to view the mass directly against a flame of a gas lamp. It was then that the coagulum resolved itself into the ghostly figure of a man, clear as aspic, curled up in foetal position.

"Incredible," Stratton whispered.

"We call it a megafoetus," explained Fieldhurst.

"This was grown from a spermatozoon? This must have required decades."

"It did not, more’s the wonder. Several years ago, two Parisian naturalists named Dubuisson and Gille developed a method of inducing hypertrophic growth in a seminal foetus. The rapid infusion of nutrients allows such a foetus to reach this size within a fortnight."

By shifting his head back and forth, he saw slight differences in the way the gas-light was refracted, indicating the boundaries of the megafoetus’s internal organs. "Is this creature . . . alive?"

"Only in an insensate manner, like a spermatozoon. No artificial process can replace gestation; it is the vital principle within the ovum which quickens the foetus, and the maternal influence which transforms it into a person. All we’ve done is effect a maturation in size and scale." Fieldhurst gestured toward the megafoetus. "The maternal influence also provides a foetus with pigmentation and all distinguishing physical characteristics. Our megafoetuses have no features beyond their sex. Every male bears the generic appearance you see here, and all the females are likewise identical. Within each sex, it is impossible to distinguish one from another by physical examination, no matter how dissimilar the original fathers might have been; only rigorous record-keeping allows us to identify each megafoetus."

Stratton stood up again. "So what was the intention of the experiment if not to develop an artificial womb?"

"To test the notion of the fixity of species." Realizing that Stratton was not a zoologist, the earl explained further. "Were lens-grinders able to construct microscopes of unlimited magnifying power, biologists could examine the future generations nested in the spermatozoa of any species and see whether their appearance remains fixed, or changes to give rise to a new species. In the latter case, they could also determine if the transition occurs gradually or abruptly.

"However, chromatic aberration imposes an upper limit on the magnifying power of any optical instrument. Messieurs Dubuisson and Gille hit upon the idea of artificially increasing the size of the foetuses themselves. Once a foetus reaches its adult size, one can extract a spermatozoon from it and enlarge a foetus from the next generation in the same manner." Fieldhurst stepped over to the next table in the row and indicated the tank it supported. "Repetition of the process lets us examine the unborn generations of any given species."

Stratton looked around the room. The rows of tanks took on a new significance. "So they compressed the intervals between ‘births’ to gain a preliminary view of our genealogical future."

"Precisely."

"Audacious! And what were the results?"

"They tested many animal species, but never observed any changes in form. However, they obtained a peculiar result when working with the seminal foetuses of humans. After no more than five generations, the male foetuses held no more spermatozoa, and the females held no more ova. The line terminated in a sterile generation."

"I imagine that wasn’t entirely unexpected," Stratton said, glancing at the jellied form. "Each repetition must further attenuate some essence in the organisms. It’s only logical that at some point the offspring would be so feeble that the process would fail."

"That was Dubuisson and Gille’s initial assumption as well," agreed Fieldhurst, "so they sought to improve their technique. However, they could find no difference between megafoetuses of succeeding generations in terms of size or vitality. Nor was there any decline in the number of spermatozoa or ova; the penultimate generation was fully as fertile as the first. The transition to sterility was an abrupt one.

"They found another anomaly as well: while some spermatozoa yielded only four or fewer generations, variation occurred only across samples, never within a single sample. They evaluated samples from father and son donors, and in such instances, the father’s spermatozoa produced exactly one more generation than the son’s. And from what I understand, some of the donors were aged individuals indeed. While their samples held very few spermatozoa, they nonetheless held one more generation than those from sons in the prime of their lives. The progenitive power of the sperm bore no correlation with the health or vigor of the donor; instead, it correlated with the generation to which the donor belonged."

Fieldhurst paused and looked at Stratton gravely. "It was at this point that the Académie contacted me to see if the Royal Society could duplicate their findings. Together we have obtained the same result using samples collected from peoples as varied as the Lapps and the Hottentots. We are in agreement as to the implication of these findings: that the human species has the potential to exist for only a fixed number of generations, and we are within five generations of the final one."

* * *

Stratton turned to Ashbourne, half expecting him to confess that it was all an elaborate hoax, but the elder nomenclator looked entirely solemn. Stratton looked at the megafoetus again and frowned, absorbing what he had heard. "If your interpretation is correct, other species must be subject to a similar limitation. Yet from what I know, the extinction of a species has never been observed."

Fieldhurst nodded. "That is true. However, we do have the evidence of the fossil record, which suggests that species remain unchanged for a period of time, and then are abruptly replaced by new forms. The Catastrophists hold that violent upheavals caused species to become extinct. Based on what we’ve discovered regarding preformation, it now appears that extinctions are merely the result of a species reaching the end of its lifetime. They are natural rather than accidental deaths, in a manner of speaking." He gestured to the doorway from which they had entered. "Shall we return upstairs?"

Following the two other men, Stratton asked, "And what of the origination of new species? If they’re not born from existing species, do they arise spontaneously?"

"That is as yet uncertain. Normally only the simplest animals arise by spontaneous generation: maggots and other vermiform creatures, typically under the influence of heat. The events postulated by Catastrophists--floods, volcanic eruptions, cometary impacts--would entail the release of great energies. Perhaps such energies affect matter so profoundly as to cause the spontaneous generation of an entire race of organisms, nested within a few progenitors. If so, cataclysms are not responsible for mass extinctions, but rather generate new species in their wake."

Back in the laboratory, the two elder men seated themselves in the chairs present. Too agitated to follow suit, Stratton remained standing. "If any animal species were created by the same cataclysm as the human species, they should likewise be nearing the end of their life spans. Have you found another species that evinces a final generation?"

Fieldhurst shook his head. "Not as yet. We believe that other species have different dates of extinction, correlated with the biological complexity of the animal; humans are presumably the most complex organism, and perhaps fewer generations of such complex organisms can be nested inside a spermatozoon."

"By the same token," countered Stratton, "perhaps the complexity of the human organism makes it unsuitable for the process of artificially accelerated growth. Perhaps it is the process whose limits have been discovered, not the species."

"An astute observation, Mr. Stratton. Experiments are continuing with species that more closely resemble humans, such as chimpanzees and ourang-outangs. However, the unequivocal answer to this question may require years, and if our current interpretation is correct, we can ill afford the time spent waiting for confirmation. We must ready a course of action immediately."

"But five generations could be over a century--" He caught himself, embarrassed at having overlooked the obvious: not all persons became parents at the same age.

Fieldhurst read his expression. "You realize why not all the sperm samples from donors of the same age produced the same number of generations: some lineages are approaching their end faster than others. For a lineage in which the men consistently father children late in life, five generations might mean over two centuries of fertility, but there are undoubtedly lineages that have reached their end already."

Stratton imagined the consequences. "The loss of fertility will becomes increasingly apparent to the general populace as time passes. Panic may arise well before the end is reached."

"Precisely, and rioting could extinguish our species as effectively as the exhaustion of generations. That is why time is of the essence."

"What is the solution you propose?"

"I shall defer to Dr. Ashbourne to explain further," said the earl.

Ashbourne rose and instinctively adopted the stance of a lecturing professor. "Do you recall why it was that all attempts to make automata out of wood were abandoned?"

Stratton was caught off guard by the question. "It was believed that the natural grain of wood implies a form in conflict with whatever we try to carve upon it. Currently there are efforts to use rubber as a casting material, but none have met with success."

"Indeed. But if the native form of wood were the only obstacle, shouldn’t it be possible to animate an animal’s corpse with a name? There the form of the body should be ideal."

"It’s a macabre notion; I couldn’t guess at such an experiment’s likelihood of success. Has it ever been attempted?"

"In fact it has: also unsuccessfully. So these two entirely different avenues of research proved fruitless. Does that mean there is no way to animate organic matter using names? This was the question I left Trinity in order to pursue."

"And what did you discover?"

Ashbourne deflected the question with a wave of his hand. "First let us discuss thermodynamics. Have you kept up with recent developments? Then you know the dissipation of heat reflects an increase in disorder at the thermal level. Conversely, when an automaton condenses heat from its environment to perform work, it increases order. This confirms a long-held belief of mine that lexical order induces thermodynamic order. The lexical order of an amulet reinforces the order a body already possesses, thus providing protection against damage. The lexical order of an animating name increases the order of a body, thus providing motive power for an automaton.

"The next question was, how would an increase in order be reflected in organic matter? Since names don’t animate dead tissue, obviously organic matter doesn’t respond at the thermal level; but perhaps it can be ordered at another level. Consider: a steer can be reduced to a vat of gelatinous broth. The broth comprises the same material as the steer, but which embodies a higher amount of order?"

"The steer, obviously," said Stratton, bewildered.

"Obviously. An organism, by virtue of its physical structure, embodies order; the more complex the organism, the greater the amount of order. It was my hypothesis that increasing the order in organic matter would be evidenced by imparting form to it. However, most living matter has already assumed its ideal form. The question is, what has life but not form?"

The elder nomenclator did not wait for a response. "The answer is, an unfertilized ovum. The ovum contains the vital principle that animates the creature it ultimately gives rise to, but it has no form itself. Ordinarily, the ovum incorporates the form of the foetus compressed within the spermatozoon that fertilizes it. The next step was obvious." Here Ashbourne waited, looking at Stratton expectantly.

Stratton was at a loss. Ashbourne seemed disappointed, and continued. "The next step was to artificially induce the growth of an embryo from an ovum, by application of a name."

"But if the ovum is unfertilized," objected Stratton, "there is no preexisting structure to enlarge."

"Precisely."

"You mean structure would arise out of a homogenous medium? Impossible."

"Nonetheless, it was my goal for several years to confirm this hypothesis. My first experiments consisted of applying a name to unfertilized frog eggs."

"How did you embed the name into a frog’s egg?"

"The name is not actually embedded, but rather impressed by means of a specially manufactured needle." Ashbourne opened a cabinet that sat on the work-table between two of the microscope stations. Inside was a wooden rack filled with small instruments arranged in pairs. Each was tipped with a long glass needle; in some pairs they were nearly as thick as those used for knitting, in others as slender as a hypodermic. He withdrew one from the largest pair and handed it to Stratton to examine. The glass needle was not clear, but instead seemed to contain some sort of dappled core.

Ashbourne explained. "While that may appear to be some sort of medical implement, it is in fact a vehicle for a name, just as the more conventional slip of parchment is. Alas, it requires far more effort to make than taking pen to parchment. To create such a needle, one must first arrange fine strands of black glass within a bundle of clear glass strands so that the name is legible when they are viewed end-on. The strands are then fused into a solid rod, and the rod is drawn out into an ever thinner strand. A skilled glass-maker can retain every detail of the name no matter how thin the strand becomes. Eventually one obtains a needle containing the name in its cross section."

"How did you generate the name that you used?"

"We can discuss that at length later. For the purposes of our current discussion, the only relevant information is that I incorporated the sexual epithet. Are you familiar with it?"

"I know of it." It was one of the few epithets that was dimorphic, having male and female variants.

"I needed two versions of the name, obviously, to induce the generation of both males and females." He indicated the paired arrangement of needles in the cabinet.

Stratton saw that the needle could be clamped into the brass framework with its tip approaching the slide beneath the microscope; the knurled wheels presumably were used to bring the needle into contact with an ovum. He returned the instrument. "You said the name is not embedded, but impressed. Do you mean to tell me that touching the frog’s egg with this needle is all that’s needed? Removing the name doesn’t end its influence?"

"Precisely. The name activates a process in the egg that cannot be reversed. Prolonged contact of the name had no different effect."

"And the egg hatched a tadpole?"

"Not with the names initially tried; the only result was that symmetrical involutions appeared in the surface of the egg. But by incorporating different epithets, I was able to induce the egg to adopt different forms, some of which had every appearance of embryonic frogs. Eventually I found a name that caused the egg not only to assume the form of a tadpole, but also to mature and hatch. The tadpole thus hatched grew into a frog indistinguishable from any other member of the species."

"You had found a euonym for that species of frog," said Stratton.

Ashbourne smiled. "As this method of reproduction does not involve sexual congress, I have termed it ‘parthenogenesis.’"

Stratton looked at both him and Fieldhurst. "It’s clear what your proposed solution is. The logical conclusion of this research is to discover a euonym for the human species. You wish for mankind to perpetuate itself through nomenclature."

"You find the prospect troubling," said Fieldhurst. "That is to be expected: Dr. Ashbourne and myself initially felt the same way, as has everyone who has considered this. No one relishes the prospect of humans being conceived artificially. But can you offer an alternative?" Stratton was silent, and Fieldhurst went on. "All who are aware of both Dr. Ashbourne’s and Dubuisson and Gille’s work agree: there is no other solution."

Stratton reminded himself to maintain the dispassionate attitude of a scientist. "Precisely how do you envision this name being used?" he asked.

Ashbourne answered. "When a husband is unable to impregnate his wife, they will seek the services of a physician. The physician will collect the woman’s menses, separate out the ovum, impress the name upon it, and then reintroduce it into her womb."

"A child born of this method would have no biological father."

"True, but the father’s biological contribution is of minimal importance here. The mother will think of her husband as the child’s father, so her imagination will impart a combination of her own and her husband’s appearance and character to the foetus. That will not change. And I hardly need mention that name impression would not be made available to unmarried women."

"Are you confident this will result in well-formed children?" asked Stratton. "I’m sure you know to what I refer." They all knew of the disastrous attempt in the previous century to create improved children by mesmerizing women during their pregnancies.

Ashbourne nodded. "We are fortunate in that the ovum is very specific in what it will accept. The set of euonyms for any species of organism is very small; if the lexical order of the impressed name does not closely match the structural order of that species, the resulting foetus does not quicken. This does not remove the need for the mother to maintain a tranquil mind during her pregnancy; name impression cannot guard against maternal agitation. But the ovum’s selectivity provides us assurance that any foetus induced will be well-formed in every aspect, except the one anticipated."

Stratton was alarmed. "What aspect is that?"

"Can you not guess? The only incapacity of frogs created by name impression was in the males; they were sterile, for their spermatozoa bore no preformed foetuses inside. By comparison, the female frogs created were fertile: their eggs could be fertilized in either the conventional manner, or by repeating the impression with the name."

Stratton’s relief was considerable. "So the male variant of the name was imperfect. Presumably there needs to be further differences between the male and female variants than simply the sexual epithet."

"Only if one considers the male variant imperfect," said Ashbourne, "which I do not. Consider: while a fertile male and a fertile female might seem equivalent, they differ radically in the degree of complexity exemplified. A female with viable ova remains a single organism, while a male with viable spermatozoa is actually many organisms: a father and all his potential children. In this light, the two variants of the name are well- matched in their actions: each induces a single organism, but only in the female sex can a single organism be fertile."

"I see what you mean." Stratton realized he would need practice in thinking about nomenclature in the organic domain. "Have you developed euonyms for other species?"

"Just over a score, of various types; our progress has been rapid. We have only just begun work on a name for the human species, and it has proved far more difficult than our previous names."

"How many nomenclators are engaged in this endeavor?"

"Only a handful," Fieldhurst replied. "We have asked a few Royal Society members, and the Académie has some of France’s leading designateurs working on it. You will understand if I do not mention any names at this point, but be assured that we have some of the most distinguished nomenclators in England assisting us."

"Forgive me for asking, but why are you approaching me? I am hardly in that category."

"You have not yet had a long career," said Ashbourne, "but the genus of names you have developed is unique. Automata have always been specialized in form and function, rather like animals: some are good at climbing, others at digging, but none at both. Yet yours can control human hands, which are uniquely versatile instruments: what else can manipulate everything from a wrench to a piano? The hand’s dexterity is the physical manifestation of the mind’s ingenuity, and these traits are essential to the name we seek."

"We have been discreetly surveying current nomenclatoral research for any names that demonstrate marked dexterity," said Fieldhurst. "When we learned of what you had accomplished, we sought you out immediately."

"In fact," Asbourne continued, "the very reason your names are worrisome to sculptors is the reason we are interested in them: they endow automata with a more human-like manner than any before. So now we ask, will you join us?"

Stratton considered it. This was perhaps the most important task a nomenclator could undertake, and under ordinary circumstances he would have leapt at the opportunity to participate. But before he could embark upon this enterprise in good conscience, there was another matter he had to resolve.

"You honor me with your invitation, but what of my work with dexterous automata? I still firmly believe that inexpensive engines can improve the lives of the labouring class."

"It is a worthy goal," said Fieldhurst, "and I would not ask you to give it up. Indeed, the first thing we wish you to do is to perfect the epithets for dexterity. But your efforts at social reform would be for naught unless we first ensure the survival of our species."

"Obviously, but I do not want the potential for reform that is offered by dexterous names to be neglected. There may never be a better opportunity for restoring dignity to common workers. What kind of victory would we achieve if the continuation of life meant ignoring this opportunity?"

"Well said," acknowledged the earl. "Let me make a proposal. So that you can best make use of your time, the Royal Society will provide support for your development of dexterous automata as needed: securing investors and so forth. I trust you will divide your time between the two projects wisely. Your work on biological nomenclature must remain confidential, obviously. Is that satisfactory?"

"It is. Very well then, gentlemen: I accept." They shook hands.

* * *

Some weeks had passed since Stratton last spoke with Willoughby, beyond a chilly exchange of greetings in passing. In fact, he had little interaction with any of the union sculptors, instead spending his time working on letter permutations in his office, trying to refine his epithets for dexterity.

He entered the manufactory through the front gallery, where customers normally perused the catalogue. Today it was crowded with domestic automata, all the same model char-engine. Stratton saw the clerk ensuring they were properly tagged.

"Good morning, Pierce," he said. "What are all these doing here?"

"An improved name is just out for the ‘Regent’," said the clerk. "Everyone’s eager to get the latest."

"You’re going to be busy this afternoon." The keys for unlocking the automata’s name-slots were themselves stored in a safe that required two of Coade’s managers to open. The managers were reluctant to keep the safe open for more than a brief period each afternoon.

"I’m certain I can finish these in time."

"You couldn’t bear to tell a pretty house-maid that her char-engine wouldn’t be ready by tomorrow."

The clerk smiled. "Can you blame me, sir?"

"No, I cannot," said Stratton, chuckling. He turned toward the business offices behind the gallery, when he found himself confronted by Willoughby.

"Perhaps you ought to prop open the safe," said the sculptor, "so that house-maids might not be inconvenienced. Seeing how destroying our institutions seems to be your intent."

"Good morning, Master Willoughby," said Stratton stiffly. He tried to walk past, but the other man stood in his way.

"I’ve been informed that Coade will be allowing non-union sculptors on to the premises to assist you."

"Yes, but I assure you, only the most reputable independent sculptors are involved."

"As if such persons exist," said Willoughby scornfully. "You should know that I recommended that our trade-union launch a strike against Coade in protest."

"Surely you’re not serious." It had been decades since the last strike launched by the sculptors, and that one had ended in rioting.

"I am. Were the matter put to a vote of the membership, I’m certain it would pass: other sculptors with whom I’ve discussed your work agree with me about the threat it poses. However, the union leadership will not put it to a vote."

"Ah, so they disagreed with your assessment."

Here Willoughby frowned. "Apparently the Royal Society intervened on your behalf and persuaded the Brotherhood to refrain for the time being. You’ve found yourself some powerful supporters, Mr. Stratton."

Uncomfortably, Stratton replied, "The Royal Society considers my research worthwhile."

"Perhaps, but do not believe that this matter is ended."

"Your animosity is unwarranted, I tell you," Stratton insisted. "Once you have seen how sculptors can use these automata, you will realize that there is no threat to your profession."

Willoughby merely glowered in response and left.

The next time he saw Lord Fieldhurst, Stratton asked him about the Royal Society’s involvement. They were in Fieldhurst’s study, and the earl was pouring himself a whiskey.

"Ah yes," he said. "While the Brotherhood of Sculptors as a whole is quite formidable, it is composed of individuals who individually are more amenable to persuasion."

"What manner of persuasion?"

"The Royal Society is aware that members of the trade- union’s leadership were party to an as-yet unresolved case of name piracy to the Continent. To avoid any scandal, they’ve agreed to postpone any decision about strikes until after you’ve given a demonstration of your system of manufacturing."

"I’m grateful for your assistance, Lord Fieldhurst," said Stratton, astonished. "I must admit, I had no idea that the Royal Society employed such tactics."

"Obviously, these are not proper topics for discussion at the general sessions." Lord Fieldhurst smiled in an avuncular manner. "The advancement of Science is not always a straightforward affair, Mr. Stratton, and the Royal Society is sometimes required to use both official and unofficial channels."

"I’m beginning to appreciate that."

"Similarly, although the Brotherhood of Sculptors won’t initiate a formal strike, they might employ more indirect tactics; for example, the anonymous distribution of pamphlets that arouse public opposition to your automata." He sipped at his whiskey. "Hmm. Perhaps I should have someone keep a watchful eye on Master Willoughby."

* * *

Stratton was given accomodations in the guest wing of Darrington Hall, as were the other nomenclators working under Lord Fieldhurst’s direction. They were indeed some of the leading members of the profession, including Holcombe, Milburn, and Parker; Stratton felt honored to be working with them, although he could contribute little while he was still learning Ashbourne’s techniques for biological nomenclature.

Names for the organic domain employed many of the same epithets as names for automata, but Ashbourne had developed an entirely different system of integration and factorization, which entailed many novel methods of permutation. For Stratton it was almost like returning to university and learning nomenclature all over again. However, it was apparent how these techniques allowed names for species to be developed rapidly; by exploiting similarities suggested by the Linnaean system of classification, one could work from one species to another.

Stratton also learned more about the sexual epithet, traditionally used to confer either male or female qualities to an automaton. He knew of only one such epithet, and was surprised to learn it was the simplest of many extant versions. The topic went undiscussed by nomenclatoral societies, but this epithet was one of the most fully researched in existence; in fact its earliest use was claimed to have occurred in biblical times, when Joseph’s brothers created a female golem they could share sexually without violating the prohibition against such behavior with a woman. Development of the epithet had continued for centuries in secrecy, primarily in Constantinople, and now the current versions of automatous courtesans were offered by specialized brothels right here in London. Carved from soapstone and polished to a high gloss, heated to blood temperature and sprinkled with scented oils, the automata commanded prices exceeded only by those for incubi and succubi.

It was from such ignoble soil that their research grew. The names animating the courtesans incorporated powerful epithets for human sexuality in its male and female forms. By factoring out the carnality common to both versions, the nomenclators had isolated epithets for generic human masculinity and femininity, ones far more refined than those used when generating animals. Such epithets were the nuclei around which they formed, by accretion, the names they sought.

Gradually Stratton absorbed sufficient information to begin participating in the tests of prospective human names. He worked in collaboration with the other nomenclators in the group, and between them they divided up the vast tree of nominal possibilities, assigning branches for investigation, pruning away those that proved unfruitful, cultivating those that seemed most productive.

The nomenclators paid women--typically young housemaids in good health--for their menses as a source of human ova, which they then impressed with their experimental names and scrutinized under microscopes, looking for forms that resembled human foetuses. Stratton inquired about the possibility of harvesting ova from female megafoetuses, but Ashbourne reminded him that ova were viable only when taken from a living woman. It was a basic dictum of biology: females were the source of the vital principle that gave the offspring life, while males provided the basic form. Because of this division, neither sex could reproduce by itself.

Of course, that restriction had been lifted by Ashbourne’s discovery: the male’s participation was no longer necessary since form could be induced lexically. Once a name was found that could generate human foetuses, women could reproduce purely by themselves. Stratton realized that such a discovery might be welcomed by women exhibiting sexual inversion, feeling love for persons of the same rather than the opposite sex. If the name were to become available to such women, they might establish a commune of some sort that reproduced via parthenogenesis. Would such a society flourish by magnifying the finer sensibilities of the gentle sex, or would it collapse under the unrestrained pathology of its membership? It was impossible to guess.

Before Stratton’s enlistment, the nomenclators had developed names capable of generating vaguely homuncular forms in an ovum. Using Dubuisson and Gille’s methods, they enlarged the forms to a size that allowed detailed examination; the forms resembled automata more than humans, their limbs ending in paddles of fused digits. By incorporating his epithets for dexterity, Stratton was able to separate the digits and refine the overall appearance of the forms. All the while, Ashbourne emphasized the need for an unconventional approach.

"Consider the thermodynamics of what most automata do," said Ashbourne during one of their frequent discussions. "The mining engines dig ore, the reaping engines harvest wheat, the wood- cutting engines fell timber; yet none of these tasks, no matter how useful we find them to be, can be said to create order. While all their names create order at the thermal level, by converting heat into motion, in the vast majority the resulting work is applied at the visible level to create disorder."

"This is an interesting perspective," said Stratton thoughtfully. "Many long-standing deficits in the capabilities of automata become intelligible in this light: the fact that automata are unable to stack crates more neatly than they find them; their inability to sort pieces of crushed ore based on their composition. You believe that the known classes of industrial names are not powerful enough in thermodynamic terms."

"Precisely!" Ashbourne displayed the excitement of a tutor finding an unexpectedly apt pupil. "This is another feature that distinguishes your class of dexterous names. By enabling an automaton to perform skilled labour, your names not only create order at the thermal level, they use it to create order at the visible level as well."

"I see a commonality with Milburn’s discoveries," said Stratton. Milburn had developed the household automata able to return objects to their proper places. "His work likewise involves the creation of order at the visible level."

"Indeed it does, and this commonality suggests a hypothesis." Ashbourne leaned forward. "Suppose we were able to factor out an epithet common to the names developed by you and Milburn: an epithet expressing the creation of two levels of order. Further suppose that we discover a euonym for the human species, and were able to incorporate this epithet into the name. What do you imagine would be generated by impressing the name? And if you say ‘twins’ I shall clout you on the head."

Stratton laughed. "I dare say I understand you better than that. You are suggesting that if an epithet is capable of inducing two levels of thermodynamic order in the inorganic domain, it might create two generations in the organic domain. Such a name might create males whose spermatozoa would contain preformed foetuses. Those males would be fertile, although any sons they produced would again be sterile."

His instructor clapped his hands together. "Precisely: order that begets order! An interesting speculation, wouldn’t you agree? It would halve the number of medical interventions required for our race to sustain itself."

"And what about inducing the formation of more than two generations of foetuses? What kind of capabilities would an automaton have to possess, for its name to contain such an epithet?"

"The science of thermodynamics has not progressed enough to answer that question, I’m afraid. What would constitute a still higher level of order in the inorganic domain? Automata working cooperatively, perhaps? We do not yet know, but perhaps in time we will."

Stratton gave voice to a question that had posed itself to him some time ago. "Dr. Ashbourne, when I was initiated into our group, Lord Fieldhurst spoke of the possibility that species are born in the wake of catastrophic events. Is it possible that entire species were created by use of nomenclature?"

"Ah, now we tread in the realm of theology. A new species requires progenitors containing vast numbers of descendants nested within their reproductive organs; such forms embody the highest degree of order imaginable. Can a purely physical process create such vast amounts of order? No naturalist has suggested a mechanism by which this could occur. On the other hand, while we do know that a lexical process can create order, the creation of an entire new species would require a name of incalculable power. Such mastery of nomenclature could very well require the capabilities of God; perhaps it is even part of the definition. "This is a question, Stratton, to which we may never know the answer, but we cannot allow that to affect our current actions. Whether or not a name was responsible for the creation of our species, I believe a name is the best chance for its continuation."

"Agreed," said Stratton. After a pause, he added, "I must confess, much of the time when I am working, I occupy myself solely with the details of permutation and combination, and lose sight of the sheer magnitude of our endeavor. It is sobering to think of what we will have achieved if we are successful."

"I can think of little else," replied Ashbourne.

* * *

Seated at his desk in the manufactory, Stratton squinted to read the pamphlet he’d been given on the street. The text was crudely printed, the letters blurred.

"Shall Men be the Masters of NAMES, or shall Names be the masters of MEN? For too long the Capitalists have hoarded Names within their coffers, guarded by Patent and Lock and Key, amassing fortunes by mere possession of LETTERS, while the Common Man must labour for every shilling. They will wring the ALPHABET until they have extracted every last penny from it, and only then discard it for us to use. How long will We allow this to continue?"

Stratton scanned the entire pamphlet, but found nothing new in it. For the past two months he’d been reading them, and encountered only the usual anarchist rants; there was as yet no evidence for Lord Fieldhurst’s theory that the sculptors would use them to target Stratton’s work. His public demonstration of the dexterous automata was scheduled for next week, and by now Willoughby had largely missed his opportunity to generate public opposition. In fact, it occurred to Stratton that he might distribute pamphlets himself to generate public support. He could explain his goal of bringing the advantages of automata to everyone, and his intention to keep close control over his names’ patents, granting licenses only to manufacturers who would use them conscientiously. He could even have a slogan: "Autonomy through Automata," perhaps?

There was a knock at his office door. Stratton tossed the pamphlet into his wastebasket. "Yes?"

A man entered, somberly dressed, and with a long beard. "Mr. Stratton?" he asked. "Please allow me to introduce myself: my name is Benjamin Roth. I am a kabbalist."

Stratton was momentarily speechless. Typically such mystics were offended by the modern view of nomenclature as a science, considering it a secularization of a sacred ritual. He never expected one to visit the Manufactory. "A pleasure to meet you. How may I be of assistance?"

"I’ve heard that you have achieved a great advance in the permutation of letters."

"Why, thank you. I didn’t realize it would be of interest to a person like yourself."

Roth smiled awkwardly. "My interest is not in its practical applications. The goal of kabbalists is to better know God. The best means by which to do that is to study the art by which He creates. We meditate upon different names to enter an ecstatic state of consciousness; the more powerful the name, the more closely we approach the Divine."

"I see." Stratton wondered what the kabbalist’s reaction would be if he learned about the creation being attempted in the biological nomenclature project. "Please continue."

"Your epithets for dexterity enable a golem to sculpt another, thereby reproducing itself. A name capable of creating a being that is, in turn, capable of creation would bring us closer to God than we have ever been before."

"I’m afraid you’re mistaken about my work, although you aren’t the first to fall under this misapprehension. The ability to manipulate molds does not render an automaton able to reproduce itself. There would be many other skills required."

The kabbalist nodded. "I am well aware of that. I myself, in the course of my studies, have developed an epithet designating certain other skills necessary."

Stratton leaned forward with sudden interest. After casting a body, the next step would be to animate the body with a name. "Your epithet endows an automaton with the ability to write?" His own automaton could grasp a pencil easily enough, but it couldn’t inscribe even the simplest mark. "How is it that your automata possess the dexterity required for scrivening, but not that for manipulating molds?"

Roth shook his head modestly. "My epithet does not endow writing ability, or general manual dexterity. It simply enables a golem to write out the name that animates it, and nothing else."

"Ah, I see." So it didn’t provide an aptitude for learning a category of skills; it granted a single innate skill. Stratton tried to imagine the nomenclatoral contortions needed to make an automaton instinctively write out a particular sequence of letters. "Very interesting, but I imagine it doesn’t have broad application, does it?"

Roth gave a pained smile; Stratton realized he had committed a faux pas, and the man was trying to meet it with good humor. "That is one way to view it," admitted Roth, "but we have a different perspective. To us the value of this epithet, like any other, lies not in the usefulness it imparts to a golem, but in the ecstatic state it allows us to achieve."

"Of course, of course. And your interest in my epithets for dexterity is the same?"

"Yes. I am hoping that you will share your epithets with us."

Stratton had never heard of a kabbalist making such a request before, and clearly Roth did not relish being the first. He paused to consider. "Must a kabbalist reach a certain rank in order to meditate upon the most powerful ones?"

"Yes, very definitely."

"So you restrict the availability of the names."

"Oh no; my apologies for misunderstanding you. The ecstatic state offered by a name is achievable only after one has mastered the necessary meditative techniques, and it’s these techniques that are closely guarded. Without the proper training, attempts to use these techniques could result in madness. But the names themselves, even the most powerful ones, have no ecstatic value to a novice; they can animate clay, nothing more."

"Nothing more," agreed Stratton, thinking how truly different their perspectives were. "In that case, I’m afraid I cannot grant you use of my names."

Roth nodded glumly, as if he’d been expecting that answer. "You desire payment of royalties."

Now it was Stratton who had to overlook the other man’s faux pas. "Money is not my objective. However, I have specific intentions for my dexterous automata which require that I retain control over the patent. I cannot jeopardize those plans by releasing the names indiscriminately." Granted, he had shared them with the nomenclators working under Lord Fieldhurst, but they were all gentlemen sworn to an even greater secrecy. He was less confident about mystics.

"I can assure you that we would not use your name for anything other than ecstatic practices."

"I apologize; I believe you are sincere, but the risk is too great. The most I can do is remind you that the patent has a limited duration; once it has expired, you’ll be free to use the name however you like."

"But that will take years!"

"Surely you appreciate that there are others whose interests must be taken into account."

"What I see is that commercial considerations are posing an obstacle to spiritual awakening. The error was mine in expecting anything different."

"You are hardly being fair," protested Stratton.

"Fair?" Roth made a visible effort to restrain his anger. "You ‘nomenclators’ steal techniques meant to honor God and use them to aggrandize yourselves. Your entire industry prostitutes the techniques of yezirah. You are in no position to speak of fairness."

"Now see here--"

"Thank you for speaking with me." With that, Roth took his leave.

Stratton sighed.

* * *

Peering through the eyepiece of the microscope, Stratton turned the manipulator’s adjustment wheel until the needle pressed against the side of the ovum. There was a sudden enfolding, like the retraction of a mollusc’s foot when prodded, transforming the sphere into a tiny foetus. Stratton withdrew the needle from the slide, unclamped it from the framework, and inserted a new one. Next he transferred the slide into the warmth of the incubator and placed another slide, bearing an untouched human ovum, beneath the microscope. Once again he leaned toward the microscope to repeat the process of impression.

Recently, the nomenclators had developed a name capable of inducing a form indistinguishable from a human foetus. The forms did not quicken, however: they remained immobile and unresponsive to stimuli. The consensus was that the name did not accurately describe the non-physical traits of a human being. Accordingly, Stratton and his colleagues had been diligently compiling descriptions of human uniqueness, trying to distill a set of epithets both expressive enough to denote these qualities, and succinct enough to be integrated with the physical epithets into a seventy-two-lettered name.

Stratton transferred the final slide to the incubator and made the appropriate notations in the logbook. At the moment he had no more names drawn in needle form, and it would be a day before the new foetuses were mature enough to test for quickening. He decided to pass the rest of the evening in the drawing room upstairs.

Upon entering the walnut paneled room, he found Fieldhurst and Ashbourne seated in its leather chairs, smoking cigars and sipping brandy. "Ah, Stratton," said Ashbourne. "Do join us."

"I believe I will," said Stratton, heading for the liquor cabinet. He poured himself some brandy from a crystal decanter and seated himself with the others.

"Just up from the laboratory, Stratton?" inquired Fieldhurst.

Stratton nodded. "A few minutes ago I made impressions with my most recent set of names. I feel that my latest permutations are leading in the right direction."

"You are not alone in feeling optimistic; Dr. Ashbourne and I were just discussing how much the outlook has improved since this endeavor began. It now appears that we will have a euonym comfortably in advance of the final generation." Fieldhurst puffed on his cigar and leaned back in his chair until his head rested against the antimacassar. "This disaster may ultimately turn out to be a boon."

"A boon? How so?"

"Why, once we have human reproduction under our control, we will have a means of preventing the poor from having such large families as so many of them persist in having right now."

Stratton was startled, but tried not to show it. "I had not considered that," he said carefully.

Ashbourne also seemed mildly surprised. "I wasn’t aware that you intended such a policy."

"I considered it premature to mention it earlier," said Fieldhurst. "Counting one’s chickens before they’re hatched, as they say."

"Of course."

"You must agree that the potential is enormous. By exercising some judgment when choosing who may bear children or not, our government could preserve the nation’s racial stock."

"Is our racial stock under some threat?" asked Stratton.

"Perhaps you have not noticed that the lower classes are reproducing at a rate exceeding that of the nobility and gentry. While commoners are not without virtues, they are lacking in refinement and intellect. These forms of mental impoverishment beget the same: a woman born into low circumstances cannot help but gestate a child destined for the same. Consequent to the great fecundity of the lower classes, our nation would eventually drown in coarse dullards."

"So name impressing will be withheld from the lower classes?"

"Not entirely, and certainly not initially: when the truth about declining fertility is known, it would be an invitation to riot if the lower classes were denied access to name impressing. And of course, the lower classes do have their role to play in our society, as long as their numbers are kept in check. I envision that the policy will go in effect only after some years have passed, by which time people will have grown accustomed to name impression as the method of fertilization. At that point, perhaps in conjunction with the census process, we can impose limits on the number of children a given couple would be permitted to have. The government would regulate the growth and composition of the population thereafter."

"Is this the most appropriate use of such a name?" asked Ashbourne. "Our goal was the survival of the species, not the implementation of partisan politics."

"On the contrary, this is purely scientific. Just as it’s our duty to ensure the species survives, it’s also our duty to guarantee its health by keeping a proper balance in its population. Politics doesn’t enter into it; were the situation reversed and there existed a paucity of labourers, the opposite policy would be called for."

Stratton ventured a suggestion. "I wonder if improvement in conditions for the poor might eventually cause them to gestate more refined children?"

"You are thinking about changes brought about by your cheap engines, aren’t you?" asked Fieldhurst with a smile, and Stratton nodded. "Your intended reforms and mine may reinforce each other. Moderating the numbers of the lower classes should make it easier for them to raise their living conditions. However, do not expect that a mere increase in economic comfort will improve the mentality of the lower classes."

"But why not?"

"You forget the self-perpetuating nature of culture," said Fieldhurst. "We have seen that all megafoetuses are identical, yet no one can deny the differences between the populaces of nations, in both physical appearance and temperament. This can only be the result of the maternal influence: the mother’s womb is a vessel in which the social environment is incarnated. For example, a woman who has lived her life among Prussians naturally gives birth to a child with Prussian traits; in this manner the national character of that populace has sustained itself for centuries, despite many changes in fortune. It would be unrealistic to think the poor are any different."

"As a zoologist, you are undoubtedly wiser in these matters than we," said Ashbourne, silencing Stratton with a glance. "We will defer to your judgment."

For the remainder of the evening the conversation turned to other topics, and Stratton did his best to conceal his discomfort and maintain a facade of bonhomie. Finally, after Fieldhurst had retired for the evening, Stratton and Ashbourne descended to the laboratory to confer.

"What manner of man have we agreed to help?" exclaimed Stratton as soon as the door was closed. "One who would breed people like livestock?"

"Perhaps we should not be so shocked," said Ashbourne with a sigh. He seated himself upon one of the laboratory stools. "Our group’s goal has been to duplicate for humans a procedure that was intended only for animals."

"But not at the expense of individual liberty! I cannot be a party to this."

"Do not be hasty. What would be accomplished by your resigning from the group? To the extent that your efforts contribute to our group’s endeavor, your resignation would serve only to endanger the future of the human species. Conversely, if the group attains its goal without your assistance, Lord Fieldhurst’s policies will be implemented anyway."

Stratton tried to regain his composure. Ashbourne was right; he could see that. After a moment, he said, "So what course of action should we take? Are there others whom we could contact, Members of Parliament who would oppose the policy that Lord Colhurst proposes?"

"I expect that most of the nobility and gentry would share Lord Fieldhurst’s opinion on this matter." Ashbourne rested his forehead on the fingertips of one hand, suddenly looking very old. "I should have anticipated this. My error was in viewing humanity purely as a single species. Having seen England and France working toward a common goal, I forgot that nations are not the only factions that oppose one another."

"What if we surreptitiously distributed the name to the labouring classes? They could draw their own needles and impress the name themselves, in secret."

"They could, but name impression is a delicate procedure best performed in a laboratory. I’m dubious that the operation could be carried out on the scale necessary without attracting governmental attention, and then falling under its control."

"Is there an alternative?"

There was silence for a long moment while they considered. Then Ashbourne said, "Do you recall our speculation about a name that would induce two generations of foetuses?"

"Certainly."

"Suppose we develop such a name but do not reveal this property when we present it to Lord Fieldhurst."

"That’s a wily suggestion," said Stratton, surprised. "All the children born of such a name would be fertile, so they would be able to reproduce without governmental restriction."

Ashbourne nodded. "In the period before population control measures go into effect, such a name might be very widely distributed."

"But what of the following generation? Sterility would recur, and the labouring classes would again be dependent upon the government to reproduce."

"True," said Ashbourne, "it would be a short-lived victory. Perhaps the only permanent solution would be a more liberal Parliament, but it is beyond my expertise to suggest how we might bring that about."

Again Stratton thought about the changes that cheap engines might bring; if the situation of the working classes was improved in the manner he hoped, that might demonstrate to the nobility that poverty was not innate. But even if the most favorable sequence of events obtained, it would require years to sway Parliament. "What if we could induce multiple generations with the initial name impression? A longer period before sterility recurs would increase the chances that more liberal social policies would take hold."

"You’re indulging a fancy," replied Ashbourne. "The technical difficulty of inducing multiple generations is such that I’d sooner wager on our successfully sprouting wings and taking flight. Inducing two generations would be ambitious enough."

The two men discussed strategies late into the night. If they were to conceal the true name of any name they presented to Lord Fieldhurst, they would have to forge a lengthy trail of research results. Even without the additional burden of secrecy, they would be engaged in an unequal race, pursuing a highly sophisticated name while the other nomenclators sought a comparatively straightforward euonym. To make the odds less unfavorable, Ashbourne and Stratton would need to recruit others to their cause; with such assistance, it might even be possible to subtly impede the research of others.

"Who in the group do you think shares our political views?" asked Ashbourne.

"I feel confident that Milburn does. I’m not so certain about any of the others."

"Take no chances. We must employ even more caution when approaching prospective members than Lord Fieldhurst did when establishing this group originally."

"Agreed," said Stratton. Then he shook his head in disbelief. "Here we are forming a secret organization nested within a secret organization. If only foetuses were so easily induced."

* * *

It was the evening of the following, the sun was setting, and Stratton was strolling across Westminster Bridge as the last remaining costermongers were wheeling their barrows of fruit away. He had just had supper at a club he favored, and was walking back to Coade Manufactory. The previous evening at Darrington Hall had disquieted him, and he had returned to London earlier today to minimize his interaction with Lord Fieldhurst until he was certain his face would not betray his true feelings.

He thought back to the conversation where he and Ashbourne had first entertained the conjecture of factoring out an epithet for creating two levels of order. At the time he had made some efforts to find such an epithet, but they were casual attempts given the superfluous nature of the goal, and they hadn’t borne fruit. Now their gauge of achievement had been revised upward: their previous goal was inadequate, two generations seemed the minimum acceptable, and any additional ones would be invaluable.

He again pondered the thermodynamic behavior induced by his dexterous names: order at the thermal level animated the automata, allowing them to create order at the visible level. Order begetting order. Ashbourne had suggested that the next level of order might be automata working together in a coordinated fashion. Was that possible? They would have to communicate in order to work together effectively, but automata were intrinsically mute. What other means were there by which automata could exchange in complex behavior?

He suddenly realized he had reached Coade Manufactory. By now it was dark, but he knew the way to his office well enough. Stratton unlocked the building’s front door and proceeded through the gallery and past the business offices.

As he reached the hallway fronting the nomenclators’ offices, he saw light emanating from the frosted glass window of his office door. Surely he hadn’t left the gas on? He unlocked his door to enter, and was shocked by what he saw.

A man lay face down on the floor in front of the desk, hands tied behind his back. Stratton immediately approached to check on the man. It was Benjamin Roth, the kabbalist, and he was dead. Stratton realized several of the man’s fingers were broken; he’d been tortured before he was killed.

Pale and trembling, Stratton rose to his feet, and saw that his office was in utter disarray. The shelves of his bookcases were bare; his books lay strewn face-down across the oak floor. His desk had been swept clear; next to it was a stack of its brass-handled drawers, emptied and overturned. A trail of stray papers led to the open door to his studio; in a daze, Stratton stepped forward to see what had been done there.

His dexterous automaton had been destroyed; the lower half of it lay on the floor, the rest of it scattered as plaster fragments and dust. On the work-table, the clay models of the hands were pounded flat, and his sketches of their design torn from the walls. The tubs for mixing plaster were overflowing with the papers from his office. Stratton took a closer look, and saw that they had been doused with lamp oil.

He heard a sound behind him and turned back to face the office. The front door to the office swung closed and a broad- shouldered man stepped out from behind it; he’d been standing there ever since Stratton had entered. "Good of you to come," the man said. He scrutinized Stratton with the predatory gaze of a raptor, an assassin.

Stratton bolted out of the back door of the studio and down the rear hallway. He could hear the man give chase.

He fled through the darkened building, crossing workrooms filled with coke and iron bars, crucibles and molds, all illuminated by the moonlight entering through skylights overhead; he had entered the metalworks portion of the factory. In the next room he paused for breath, and realized how loudly his footsteps had been echoing; skulking would offer a better chance at escape than running. He distantly heard his pursuer’s footsteps stop; the assassin had likewise opted for stealth.

Stratton looked around for a promising hiding place. All around him were cast iron automata in various stages of near- completion; he was in the finishing room, where the runners left over from casting were sawed off and the surfaces chased. There was no place to hide, and he was about to move on when he noticed what looked like a bundle of rifles mounted on legs. He looked more closely, and recognized it as a military engine.

These automata were built for the War Office: gun carriages that aimed their own cannon, and rapid-fire rifles, like this one, that cranked their own barrel-clusters. Nasty things, but they’d proven invaluable in the Crimea; their inventor had been granted a peerage. Stratton didn’t know any names to animate the weapon--they were military secrets--but only the body on which the rifle was mounted was automatous; the rifle’s firing mechanism was strictly mechanical. If he could point the body in the right direction, he might be able to fire the rifle manually.

He cursed himself for his stupidity. There was no ammunition here. He stole into the next room.

It was the packing room, filled with pine crates and loose straw. Staying low between crates, he moved to the far wall. Through the windows he saw the courtyard behind the factory, where finished automata were carted away. He couldn’t get out that way; the courtyard gates were locked at night. His only exit was through the factory’s front door, but he risked encountering the assassin if he headed back the way he’d come. He needed to cross over to the ceramicworks and double back through that side of the factory.

From the front of the packing room came the sound of footsteps. Stratton ducked behind a row of crates, and then saw a side door only a few feet away. As stealthily as he could, he opened the door, entered, and closed the door behind him. Had his pursuer heard him? He peered through a small grille set in the door; he couldn’t see the man, but felt he’d gone unnoticed. The assassin was probably searching the packing room.

Stratton turned around, and immediately realized his mistake. The door to the ceramicworks was in the opposite wall. He had entered a storeroom, filled with ranks of finished automata, but with no other exits. There was no way to lock the door. He had cornered himself.

Was there anything in the room he could use as a weapon? The menagerie of automata included some squat mining engines, whose forelimbs terminated in enormous pickaxes, but the ax-heads were bolted to their limbs. There was no way he could remove one.

Stratton could hear the assassin opening side doors and searching other storerooms. Then he noticed an automaton standing off to the side: a porter used for moving the inventory about. It was anthropomorphic in form, the only automaton in the room of that type. An idea came to him.

Stratton checked the back of the porter’s head. Porters’ names had entered the public domain long ago, so there were no locks protecting its name slot; a tab of parchment protruded from the horizontal slot in the iron. He reached into his coat pocket for the notebook and pencil he always carried and tore out a small portion of a blank leaf. In the darkness he quickly wrote seventy-two letters in a familiar combination, and then folded the paper into a tight square.

To the porter, he whispered, "Go stand as close to the door as you can." The cast iron figure stepped forward and headed for the door. Its gait was very smooth, but not rapid, and the assassin would reach this storeroom any moment now. "Faster," hissed Stratton, and the porter obeyed.

Just as it reached the door, Stratton saw through the grille that his pursuer had arrived on the other side. "Get out of the way," barked the man.

Ever obedient, the automaton shifted to take a step back when Stratton yanked out its name. The assassin began pushing against the door, but Stratton was able to insert the new name, cramming the square of paper into the slot as deeply as he could.

The porter resumed walking forward, this time with a fast, stiff gait: his childhood doll, now life-size. It immediately ran into the door and, unperturbed, kept it shut with the force of its marching, its iron hands leaving fresh dents in the door’s oaken surface with every swing of its arms, its rubber-shod feet chafing heavily against the brick floor. Stratton retreated to the back of the storeroom.

"Stop," the assassin ordered. "Stop walking, you! Stop!"

The automaton continued marching, oblivious to all commands. The man pushed on the door, but to no avail. He then tried slamming into it with his shoulder, each impact causing the automaton to slide back slightly, but its rapid strides brought it forward again before the man could squeeze inside. There was a brief pause, and then something poked through the grille in the door; the man was prying it off with a crowbar. The grille abruptly popped free, leaving an open window. The man stretched his arm through and reached around to the back of the automaton’s head, his fingers searching for the name each time its head bobbed forward, but there was nothing for them to grasp; the paper was wedged too deeply in the slot.

The arm withdrew. The assassin’s face appeared in the window. "Fancy yourself clever, don’t you?" he called out. Then he disappeared.

Stratton relaxed slightly. Had the man given up? A minute passed, and Stratton began to think about his next move. He could wait here until the factory opened; there would be too many people about for the assassin to remain.

Suddenly the man’s arm came through the window again, this time carrying a jar of fluid. He poured it over the automaton’s head, the liquid splattering and dripping down its back. The man’s arm withdrew, and then Stratton heard the sound of a match being struck and then flaring alight. The man’s arm reappeared bearing the match, and touched it to the automaton.

The room was flooded with light as the automaton’s head and upper back burst into flames. The man had doused it with lamp oil. Stratton squinted at the spectacle: light and shadow danced across the floor and walls, transforming the storeroom into the site of some druidic ceremony. The heat caused the automaton to hasten its vague assault on the door, like a salamandrine priest dancing with increasing frenzy, until it abruptly froze: its name had caught fire, and the letters were being consumed.

The flames gradually died out, and to Stratton’s newly light-adapted eyes the room seemed almost completely black. More by sound than by sight, he realized the man was pushing at the door again, this time forcing the automaton back enough for him to gain entrance.

"Enough of that, then."

Stratton tried to run past him, but the assassin easily grabbed him and knocked him down with a clout to the head.

His senses returned almost immediately, but by then the assassin had him face down on the floor, one knee pressed into his back. The man tore the health amulet from Stratton’s wrist and then tied his hands together behind his back, drawing the rope tightly enough that the hemp fibers scraped the skin of his wrists.

"What kind of man are you, to do things like this?" Stratton gasped, his cheek flattened against the brick floor.

The assassin chuckled. "Men are no different from your automata; slip a bloke a piece of paper with the proper figures on it, and he’ll do your bidding." The room grew light as the man lit an oil lamp.

"What if I paid you more to leave me alone?"

"Can’t do it. Have to think about my reputation, haven’t I? Now let’s get to business." He grasped the smallest finger of Stratton’s left hand and abruptly broke it.

The pain was shocking, so intense that for a moment Stratton was insensible to all else. He was distantly aware that he had cried out. Then he heard the man speaking again. "Answer my questions straight now. Do you keep copies of your work at home?"

"Yes." He could only get a few words out at a time. "At my desk. In the study."

"No other copies hidden anywhere? Under the floor, perhaps?"

"No."

"Your friend upstairs didn’t have copies. But perhaps someone else does?"

He couldn’t direct the man to Darrington Hall. "No one."

The man pulled the notebook out of Stratton’s coat pocket. Stratton could hear him leisurely flipping through the pages. "Didn’t post any letters? Corresponding with colleagues, that sort of thing?"

"Nothing that anyone could use to reconstruct my work."

"You’re lying to me." The man grasped Stratton’s ring finger.

"No! It’s the truth!" He couldn’t keep the hysteria from his voice.

Then Stratton heard a sharp thud, and the pressure in his back eased. Cautiously, he raised his head and looked around. His assailant lay unconscious on the floor next to him. Standing next to him was Davies, holding a leather blackjack.

Davies pocketed his weapon and crouched to unknot the rope that bound Stratton. "Are you badly hurt, sir?"

"He’s broken one of my fingers. Davies, how did you--?"

"Lord Fieldhurst sent me the moment he learned whom Willoughby had contacted."

"Thank God you arrived when you did." Stratton saw the irony of the situation--his rescue ordered by the very man he was plotting against--but he was too grateful to care.

Davies helped Stratton to his feet and handed him his notebook. Then he used the rope to tie up the assassin. "I went to your office first. Who’s the fellow there?"

"His name is--was Benjamin Roth." Stratton managed to recount his previous meeting with the kabbalist. "I don’t know what he was doing there."

"Many religious types have a bit of the fanatic in them," said Davies, checking the assassin’s bonds. "As you wouldn’t give him your work, he likely felt justified in taking it himself. He came to your office to look for it, and had the bad luck to be there when this fellow arrived."

Stratton felt a flood of remorse. "I should have given Roth what he asked."

"You couldn’t have known."

"It’s an outrageous injustice that he was the one to die. He’d nothing to do with this affair."

"It’s always that way, sir. Come on, let’s tend to that hand of yours."

* * *

Davies bandaged Stratton’s finger to a splint, assuring him that the Royal Society would discreetly handle any consequences of the night’s events. They gathered the oil-stained papers from Stratton’s office into a trunk so that Stratton could sift through them at his leisure, away from the manufactory. By the time they were finished, a carriage had arrived to take Stratton back to Darrington Hall; it had set out at the same time as Davies, who had ridden into London on a racing-engine. Stratton boarded the carriage with the trunk of papers, while Davies stayed behind to deal with the assassin and make arrangements for the kabbalist’s body.

Stratton spent the carriage ride sipping from a flask of brandy, trying to steady his nerves. He felt a sense of relief when he arrived back at Darrington Hall; although it held its own variety of threats, Stratton knew he’d be safe from assassination there. By the time he reached his room, his panic had largely been converted into exhaustion, and he slept deeply.

He felt much more composed the next morning, and ready to begin sorting through his trunkful of papers. As he was arranging them into stacks approximating their original organization, Stratton found a notebook he didn’t recognize. Its pages contained Hebrew letters arranged in the familiar patterns of nominal integration and factorization, but all the notes were in Hebrew as well. With a renewed pang of guilt, he realized it must have belonged to Roth; the assassin must have found it on his person and tossed it in with Stratton’s papers to be burned.

He was about to set it aside, but his curiosity bested him: he’d never seen a kabbalist’s notebook before. Much of the terminology was archaic, but he could understand it well enough; among the incantations and sephirotic diagrams, he found the epithet enabling an automaton to write its own name. As he read, Stratton realized that Roth’s achievement was more elegant that he’d previously thought.

The epithet didn’t describe a specific set of physical actions, but instead the general notion of reflexivity. A name incorporating the epithet became an autonym: a self-designating name. The notes indicated that such a name would express its lexical nature through whatever means the body allowed. The animated body wouldn’t even need hands to write out its name; if the epithet were incorporated properly, a porcelain horse could likely accomplish the task by dragging a hoof in the dirt.

Combined with one of Stratton’s epithets for dexterity, Roth’s epithet would indeed let an automaton do most of what was needed to reproduce. An automaton could cast a body identical to its own, write out its own name, and insert it to animate the body. It couldn’t train the new one in sculpture, though, since automata couldn’t speak. An automaton that could truly reproduce itself without human assistance remained out of reach, but coming this close would undoubtedly have delighted the kabbalists.

It seemed unfair that automata were so much easier to reproduce than humans. It was as if the problem of reproducing automata need be solved only once, while that of reproducing humans was a Sisyphean task, with every additional generation increasing the complexity of the name required.

And abruptly Stratton realized that he didn’t need a name that redoubled physical complexity, but one than enabled lexical duplication.

The solution was to impress the ovum with an autonym, and thus induce a foetus that bore its own name.

The name would have two versions, as originally proposed: one used to induce male foetuses, another for female foetuses. The women conceived this way would be fertile as always. The men conceived this way would also be fertile, but not in the typical manner: their spermatozoa would not contain preformed foetuses, but would instead bear either of two names on their surfaces, the self-expression of the names originally born by the glass needles. And when such a spermatozoon reached an ovum, the name would induce the creation of a new foetus. The species would be able to reproduce itself without medical intervention, because it would carry the name within itself.

He and Dr. Ashbourne had assumed that creating animals capable of reproducing meant giving them preformed foetuses, because that was the method employed by nature. As a result they had overlooked another possibility: that if a creature could be expressed in a name, reproducing that creature was equivalent to transcribing the name. An organism could contain, instead of a tiny analogue of its body, a lexical representation instead.

Humanity would become a vehicle for the name as well as a product of it. Each generation would be both content and vessel, an echo in a self-sustaining reverberation.

Stratton envisioned a day when the human species could survive as long as its own behavior allowed, when it could stand or fall based purely on its own actions, and not simply vanish once some predetermined life span had elapsed. Other species might bloom and wither like flowers over seasons of geologic time, but humans would endure for as long as they determined.

Nor would any group of people control the fecundity of another; in the procreative domain, at least, liberty would be restored to the individual. This was not the application Roth had intended for his epithet, but Stratton hoped the kabbalist would consider it worthwhile. By the time the autonym’s true power became apparent, an entire generation consisting of millions of people worldwide would have been born of the name, and there would be no way any government could control their reproduction. Lord Fieldhurst--or his successors--would be outraged, and there would eventually be a price to be paid, but Stratton found he could accept that.

He hastened to his desk, where he opened his own notebook and Roth’s side by side. On a blank page, he began writing down ideas on how Roth’s epithet might be incorporated into a human euonym. Already in his mind Stratton was transposing the letters, searching for a permutation that denoted both the human body and itself, an ontogenic encoding for the species.

Story Notes

This story came about when I noticed a connection between two ideas I'd previously thought were unrelated. The first one was the golem.

In what's probably the best known story of the golem, Rabbi Loew of Prague brings a clay statue to life to act as a defender of the Jews, protecting them from persecution. It turns out this story is a modern invention, dating back only to 1909. Stories in which the golem is used as a servant to perform chores— with varying degrees of success— originated in the 1500s, but they still aren't the oldest references to the golem. In stories dating back to the second century, rabbis would animate golems not to accomplish anything practical, but rather to demonstrate mastery of the art of permutating letters; they sought to know God better by performing acts of creation.

The whole theme of the creative power of language has been discussed elsewhere, by people smarter than me. What I found particularly interesting about golems was the fact that they're traditionally unable to speak. Since the golem is created through language, this limitation is also a limitation on reproduction. If a golem were able to use language, it would be capable of self-replication, rather like a Von Neumann machine.

The other idea I'd been thinking about was preformation, the theory that organisms exist fully formed in the germ cells of their parents. It's easy for people now to dismiss it as ridiculous, but at the time, preformation made a lot of sense. It was an attempt to solve the problem of how living organisms are able to replicate themselves, which is the same problem that later inspired Von Neumann machines. When I recognized that, it seemed that I was interested in these two ideas for the same reason, and I knew I had to write about them.

Originally published in Vanishing Acts, ed. Ellen Datlow.

Published in hardcover by Tor Books, July 2000; trade paperback, July 2001.

Copyright 2000 by Ted Chiang. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.

地狱是上帝不在的地方

这个故事讲的是一个名叫尼尔·菲斯克的人，讲述他如何变成了一个敬爱上帝的人。尼尔生活中发生的大悲剧非常惨痛，却又十分寻常：他的妻子莎拉去世了。妻子死后，尼尔被伤痛压垮了。伤痛折磨着他，不仅因为这种痛苦本身十分沉重，还因为它复活了尼尔一生所遭遇的形形色色的不幸，将它们浓墨重彩地凸显在他眼前。妻子的去世迫使尼尔重新审视自己和上帝之间的关系，于是，他就此踏上了一条将永远改变他的旅途。

尼尔出生时就带着先天畸形，他的左大腿有些扭曲，而且比右腿短了几英寸。医学上的名词叫做股骨畸变。他认识的人大多认定这是上帝的作为，但尼尔的母亲怀他时并没有发现任何天谴的迹象。他的畸形只是妊娠第六周肢体发育不良的结果，仅此而已。事实上，依尼尔母亲之见，责任要算在尼尔心不在焉的父亲身上，全怪他收入太低，负担不起尼尔的手术费。当然，这种想法她从来没有公开说过。

还是个孩子时，尼尔偶尔也会想，自己是不是受了上帝的惩罚。但大多数时间，他把自己的不快乐归咎于他的同学们。他们毫无同情怜悯之心，具备在牺牲品情感甲胄上发现薄弱环节的本能，而且，压迫弱小反倒加强了他们之间的友谊。所有这些，尼尔都视为人类的劣根性，而不是对他的天谴。虽然同学们嘲弄他时经常把上帝的名字挂在嘴边，但尼尔心里明白得很，从来没有因为他们的恶作剧责难过上帝。

但是，尼尔虽然没有堕入怨恨上帝的陷阱，但也没有一跃而起达到敬爱上帝的地步。在他的成长或性格中，没有什么东西能让他向上帝祷告，以获得力量或安慰。成长过程中的种种考验，或出于偶然，或出自人手，他也完全依靠人类的力量迎接这些考验。长大成人后，他和许多人一样，对上帝的行动并没有切身体验，直到这仲行动落到他自己头上。天使降临是别人的事，这些事他只在晚间新闻上看看而已。他自己的生活完全是世俗的。他在一幢高档公寓楼当门房，收收房租，小修小补。就他而言，生活在继续，不管是好是坏，完全不需要来自上界的干预。

这就是他的生活方式，直到妻子去世。

那是一次平平常常的天使下凡，规模比一般情况下小些，但大致仍然是那个样子：给某些人赐福，给另一些人降灾。那一次，下来的是圣纳撒尼尔，在市中心一个购物区显形，大施法力，治愈了四个病人：两例癌症，让一个瘫子重新长出了脊梁骨，使一个新近失明的人重获视力。另有两桩神迹，不过和治病无关：一个司机一见天使的面，当场晕了过去，货车直直冲向行人纷沓的人行道，但没等冲到，天使便让汽车停了下来；还有一个人被天使返回时的天光扫了一下，眼睛顿时被抹掉了，但他的信仰却因此变得更加坚定。

天使下凡造成的死亡人数共计八名，其中之一便是莎拉·菲斯克。当时她正在咖啡店吃东西。伴随天使的熊熊烈焰把咖啡店的玻璃炸了个粉碎，玻璃碎片击中了她。几分钟之内，她便流血过多而死。咖啡店里的其他人连皮肉伤都没受，但他们束手无策，只能听任她在痛苦和惊恐中一声声惨叫，最后目堵她的灵魂升上天堂。

圣纳撒尼尔那次没带来什么特别的口信。天使离去时发出响亮的吼声，如滚滚雷鸣，震动全场，不过内容却很一般：一睹上帝的伟力吧！在当天的八名死者中，三人的灵魂被天堂接受了，另外五人则没有。和历次天使下凡相比，这一次，荣升天堂者的比例并不特别大，和正常死亡差不多。本次因天使下凡受伤需接受治疗者共计六十二名，伤势不一：从轻微脑震荡直到耳膜震破、严重烧伤（需接受皮肤移植）。财产损失总额估计为八百一十万美元。由于这种损失的性质，所有商业保险公司均拒绝赔付。大批民众由于天使下凡的缘故变成了坚定的虔信上帝者，有的出于感激之情，有的出于畏惧之心。

可叹啊，尼尔·菲斯克并不是其中之一。

天使每次降临凡间，目击者总会组成一个团体，这种事十分常见。大家聚在一起，讨论他们的共同经历对自己的生活产生了何种影响。目睹圣纳撒尼尔最近这次降临的人也组织了这样一个小团体，时常集会。家属死亡者也可以加入，所以尼尔参加了。大家每月一次在市区一所大教堂的地下室聚会。屋里摆放着一排排金属折叠椅，屋子一头一张桌子上放着咖啡和面包圈。每个人胸前都贴着名牌，上面用毡头笔写着各自的名字。

等待会议开始的时候，大家四周站着，喝咖啡，闲聊。和尼尔聊天的人大多以为他的瘸腿是那次天使降临造成的，他不得不反复解释，说自己当时不在现场，他只是死者之一的丈夫。这一点他倒不觉得特别恼火，向其他人解释自己的腿，这种事他早就习惯了。他恼火的是这些集会的基调：绝大多数人都说自己如何重新找到了对上帝的信仰，还一个劲儿地劝说那些死了亲人的人，说死者家属也应该有同样感受。

对这类劝说，尼尔的反应视劝说者而定。如果劝说者只是普普通通的目击者，他只觉得对方讨人嫌。如果说这种话的是一个被天使的法力治愈的前痼疾患者，他就必须费很大力气才能控制住心中想掐死这个人的冲动。但最让他受不了是一个名叫托尼·克雷恩的人居然也这么劝说尼尔。托尼的妻子同样死于天使下凡，但他现在一举一动都散发出对上帝的匍匐虔敬。他用泣不成声、硬咽难言的声音解释说，他已经接受了自己的宿命，成为上帝恭顺的信徒。他建议尼尔也这样做。

尼尔仍旧坚持参加这些聚会。他觉得，为了莎拉，他必须参加，这是他欠莎拉的。但他同时也参加另一个团体的集会。那个团体跟尼尔的感受更一致。那个互助会是由在天使下凡过程中失去亲人的人组成的，这些人对上帝的感情与第一个团体截然不同：他们将亲人的死归咎于上帝。互助会的人每两周一次在社区中心聚会，倾诉他们的痛苦和对上帝的仇恨。

两个互助团体的参加者对上帝的态度虽然大相径庭，但对同伴们却全都十分友善。在那些遭受打击之前便虔信上帝的人中，有些竭力维持这种虔信，有的却丧失了对上帝的忠诚；而那些之前并不敬仰上帝的人中，有些人觉得这件事正好证明自己此前的态度一点不错，另一些人却面临无比艰巨、几乎无法实现的挑战：成为一名信徒。尼尔惊恐地发现，自己成了最后一种人。

和其他不信仰上帝的人一样，尼尔从来没在灵魂归宿上花多大功夫。他一直认定自己注定下地狱，并且心平气和地接受了这种命运。事情本来就该这样，再说，地狱的生活条件比人世也差不到哪儿去。

这就是说，他将永世无缘于上帝。这一点，任何亲眼看见地狱出现的人都明白。地狱显形的事很常见，地面突然化为透明，这时你就能清清楚楚看见地狱，仿佛地板上出现了一个大洞，你可以从上往下看到洞里的情形，那些堕落的灵魂看上去和他们在世时没多大区别，不朽的身体继续保持着生前的模样。你无法与他们交流——被永远放逐、无缘于上帝意味着他们从此与仍能感受上帝力量的人世断绝了联系。不过，在地狱显形的时间里，你能听到他们说话、嬉笑、哭泣，跟活着的时候一样。

人们对这种显形的反应大不相同。虔信上帝者大多震怖莫名。倒不是说他们看到了什么特别可怕的刑罚，这些人之所以惊恐，原因是他们认识到真的可能发生永远无缘于天堂的事。但尼尔以及其他许多人的反应截然不同。在他看来，这批堕落的灵魂从整体上说既不比尚在人世的他更幸福，也不比现在的他更不幸。有些地方还要稍稍强点：有了不朽的身体，他的先天残疾就没多大妨碍了。

不用说，人人都知道，天堂比地狱好得多，两者不是一个级别上的。但尼尔觉得天堂实在太遥远，跟财富、名望、魅力一样，不是他能设想的。对他这种人来说，死了以后天经地义就该下地狱，那才是他应该去的地方。尼尔看不出有什么必要彻底改变自己的生活，只为一线避免这种命运的渺茫希望。再说，上帝以前并没有插手尼尔的生活，从他身边永远放逐对尼尔也就没什么影响。去一个没有上界扰乱、没有飞来横财、也没有天降灾祸的世界生活，尼尔觉得挺好。

但是现在，情况变了，莎拉去了天堂，尼尔最大的愿望就是重新和她在一起。他必须上天堂，而进入天堂的惟一办法就是全心全意爱戴上帝。

我们这里讲述的是尼尔的故事。为了把这个故事交代清楚，我们必须插入另外两位生活道路与尼尔相交的人。第一位名叫贾尼丝·赖利。

许多人都以为尼尔的残疾是遭了天谴，其实不是的。贾尼丝·赖利却当真遭了天谴。贾尼丝的母亲怀她八个月时开车出去，刚才还是晴空万里，突然间一阵大冰雹，很大的冰雹落了一地，贾尼丝的母亲车子失控，一头撞在一个电话亭上。她坐在车里，浑身直哆嗦，幸好还没受伤。这时只见一团银光破空而去——后来查明这是巴迪尔天使。这番情景把她吓呆了，但仍旧感到腹中一坠。随后的超声波检测发现，还未出世的贾尼丝·赖利再也没有了双腿，两片软趴趴的鳍状脚直接联在髋部。

贾尼丝很可能成为另一个尼尔，幸好在超声波检测之后不久，赖利家又出了一件异事。贾尼丝的父母当时正坐在厨房里伤心落泪，哀叹自己造了什么孽，竟会遭此报应。就在这时，两人眼前出现了异像：四位已逝亲戚（现已荣升天堂）在他们面前显形了，整个厨房金光缭绕。来自天堂的灵魂什么都没说，但面带天使赐福的亲切笑容，看见他们的人无不觉得身心恬静。从那一刻起，赖利夫妇便坚信发生在女儿身上的事决不是一种惩罚。

于是，贾尼丝始终认定自己丧失双腿是来自天堂的善意。父母告诉她，这是上帝将一副重担放在她的肩上，相信她一定能完成这项重任。贾尼丝发誓，决不辜负上帝的美意。她既不骄傲，也不愤慨，平静地接受了自己的宿命，认为自己的责任就是昭告世人，没有腿并不意味着软弱，相反，这是意志坚定的证明。

孩提时代，她和其他孩子相处时没遇到任何问题。她是那么漂亮、自信、富于魅力，其他孩子甚至没注意到她坐着轮椅。但长到十几岁时，贾尼丝发现，最需要她帮助其树立自信心的并不是学校里身体健全的正常人。最需要她发挥模范带头作用的是那些残疾人，不管他们的残疾是不是上帝造成的，不管他们住在哪里，他们都需要她。贾尼丝开始在人前宣讲，告诉身患残疾的人应该身残志不残，因为上帝要求他们身残志坚，他们内心深处也具备这种力量。

随着时间过去，贾尼丝声望日隆，有了一批追随者。她靠写作和演讲生活，还创建了一个非营利性机构，致力于将来自上界的声音转告世人。许多人给她写信，向她表示感谢，说她改变了他们的生活。这些信件让她感到极大的满足。这种满足感是尼尔从来没有感受到的。

这就是贾尼丝的生活，直到有一天，天使拉谢尔在她面前显形。那天她正准备进屋，地面突然剧烈震动起来。一开始，她还以为是自然原因造成的震动，这种事不常见，她所住的地区并不是地震活跃区。她在门口停住，等着地震停止。几秒钟后，她瞥见天空中一道银光闪过。昏过去之前，贾尼丝终于明白了，这是一位天使。

苏醒过来后，贾尼丝大吃一惊，一生中从来没有这么吃惊过。她看见了自己的两条腿，修长，结实，完全能用。

她生平第一次站了起来，意外地发现自己比想像的更高。不借助双臂支撑，就这么高高地站着，真让她害怕。脚底感受到的地面质感也好不奇怪。紧急赶来的救援者发现她神思恍惚地在街上转来转去，还以为她惊吓过度了，过了好一会儿，贾尼丝才镇定下来，告诉他们刚才发生了什么（同时大感惊奇，因为自己居然能跟别人面对面谈话）。

统计这次天使下凡的相关数据时，贾尼丝重获双腿自然被视为踢福，她自己也谦卑地为这种好运感谢上苍。但到了互助团体第一次集会时，一种负疚感悄悄爬上她的心头。在那里，贾尼丝遇上了两位癌症患者，他们同样目睹拉谢尔下凡，当时还以为自己的痊愈已经十拿九稳了，后来才发现人家把自己跳过去了，从此一直伤心失望。贾尼丝不禁彷徨起来：为什么自己受领了赐福，而别人却没有？

贾尼丝的家人和朋友都认为，重获双腿是上帝对她的奖励，因为贾尼丝出色地完成了他交给她的任务。但对贾尼丝自己来说，天庭这次插手凡间却给她带来了问题。上帝的意思是不是要她就此罢手？肯定不是。传播福音是她生活的核心所系，需要听她宣讲的人不计其数。她必须继续宣讲，对人对己，这都是最好的做法。

天使下凡后的第一次公开演说使贾尼丝的疑虑更深了。这一次，她的听众是一批不久前瘫痪、现在被束缚在轮椅里的人。和平时一样，贾尼丝先鼓励大家，说大家一定有力量迎接未来的挑战。但到了双方问答的阶段，有人提出一个问题：重获双腿是不是意味着她通过了来自上界的考验。贾尼丝不知应该如何回答。她不可能向大家保证，他们的残疾总有一天会痊愈。还有，她清醒地认识到不能说她的痊愈是来自天庭的奖赏，任何这方面的暗示都是对那些尚未康复的人的指责。她不愿意做这种事。她只能告诉大家，她不知道自己为什么会康复。很显然，这种答复不能让听众满意。

贾尼丝不安地回到家中。她仍旧相信自己所说的话，但对她的听众而言，她已经丧失了最能说服他们的资本。这些人的残疾是上帝的作为，现在的她已经和他们不同了，她还怎么鼓励大家？

她也想过这是不是上帝对她的另一次考验，看她有没有能力在这种艰难条件下继续宣讲他的福音。有一点是很清楚的，上帝让她的工作比以前更困难了。也许，重获双腿是一种她必须坚决克服的障碍，就像从前失去双腿一样。

她觉得自己领会了上帝的旨意，但进行早已安排好的第二次演讲时，她对这种解释失去了信心。这次的听众是一群圣纳撒尼尔下凡的目击者。她经常接到对这种团体发表演讲的邀请，许多人认为，在天使下凡过程中受到打击的人会从她的经历中汲取力量。贾尼丝没有掩饰最近发生在自己身上的事，她径直讲述了巴迪尔天使下凡给她造成的影响。她对听众解释道，从表面上看，这次下凡对她有利，但事实上，她现在面临着一次全新的挑战。现在的她和大家一样，不得不发掘自己从前不了解的精神力量，从中获取支持，渡过难关。

过了一会儿，她认识到自己说错了话。可惜明白得太晚了。一位腿脚不利索的听众站起身来，对她发难了：难道她竟会把重获双腿的大好事拿来和他丧失妻子的悲惨遭遇相提并论吗？难道她当真以为，她面临的所谓考验和他的一样痛苦吗？

贾尼丝马上告诉对方，她当然不会这么想，他所承受的痛苦是她无法想像的。但是——她继续说道——上帝并没有让所有人面临相同的考验，每个人必须面对自己的挑战，不管这种挑战是什么。至于痛苦的程度，这是个主观问题，不应该把每个个体所承受的痛苦拿来做比较。表面上承受的痛苦比他更大的人应该同情他，就像他也应该同情那些痛苦程度不及他的人一样。

那个人完全不认可她的说法。她接受了天大的好处，除她之外的任何人都会感激涕零，可她却还抱怨个不停。贾尼丝正在进一步解释，那个人却气呼呼地大步走了。

当然，那个人正是尼尔·菲斯克。尼尔这一辈子都在听人向他喋喋不休地唠叨贾尼丝·赖利这个名字，说这种话的人多半坚信他的残疾是遭了天谴。那些人总说她是个如何如何了不起的榜样，说残疾人就该像她那样看待身体上的不便。尼尔也知道，自己这点小残疾跟没有腿的贾尼丝相比简直算不了什么，但总觉得她的态度太离奇了，即使在他心情最好的时候，尼尔也从来没从贾尼丝身上学到任何东西。而现在，深陷悲痛中的尼尔完全不明白上帝为什么赠给贾尼丝一件她完全不需要的礼物。在这种情况下，贾尼丝的话只能让他深感愤怒。

这件事以后，贾尼丝越来越疑虑重重，捉摸不透上帝给予她双腿有何深意。对这种天恩不知感激，她是不是太不知好歹了？会不会既是赐福，又是考验？或许是一种责罚，表明她没有很好地完成使命。可能性实在太多了，她觉得无所适从。

尼尔的故事中还有另外一个重要人物，但直到尼尔的人生旅途接近终点，他们才最终相遇。这个人的名字叫伊桑·米德。

伊桑出生在一个信奉上帝、但信仰不是十分强烈的家庭中。家里人的健康情况比一般人强点，家庭经济水平也比一般家庭高点。所有这些，伊桑的父母都归功于上帝。他们没有目睹过天使下凡，也从来没有见过任何异象。他们只是单纯地相信，自己所有好运气都是直接或间接由上帝带来的。他们的信仰从来没有经受过什么严峻考验，真要有什么考验，恐怕是顶不住的。他们对上帝的爱以对生活现状的满足为基础。

但是，伊桑跟自己的父母不一样。还是个孩子时，伊桑便认准了一点：上帝对他有个不同于他人的特别安排，他随时盼着接到一个启示，告诉他上帝对他的安排是什么。至于他自己，伊桑倒是很希望成为一名传教士，却又拿不出什么说得过去的材料以证明自己的信仰。那种模模糊糊的期待感当然是不够的。他盼望遇上一次神迹，帮助自己明确生活方向。

他本来可以到圣地去，所谓圣地，就是某些时常发生天使下凡的地方。至于为什么会这样，谁都说不清楚。可他觉得采取这种行动未免过分了些。圣地通常是绝望者最后孤注一掷的地方。他们或是希望碰上奇迹，治愈自己的身体，或是希望瞥一眼天堂之光，治愈自己的灵魂。伊桑并没有绝望到那种地步。最后，他决定继续自己的生活，船到桥头自然直，应该怎么做，到时候自会知晓。于是，伊桑一面等待神迹出现的那一天，一面尽可能好好过日子。他找了份图书馆管理员的工作，娶了个名叫克莱尔的女人，生了两个孩子。所有这些时间里，他始终留心观察表明那个伟大日子即将到来的种种迹象。

当他目睹圣拉谢尔下凡时，他知道，自己企盼已久的时刻终于来临了。（正是同一次天使降临使几英里之外的贾尼丝·赖利重获双腿。）天使下凡时伊桑是一个人，正朝自己停放在停车场中央的汽车走去。大地开始震动，他当即本能地知道，天使降临了。伊桑马上取了个半跪姿势。他心里一点也不害怕，只有阵阵狂喜和油然而生的敬畏：他终于要明白上苍对自己的召唤了。

一分钟后，地面停止了震动。伊桑转动脑袋四下观望，除此之外，身体保持着一动不动的跪姿。过了好几分钟，他才站起身来。柏油地面上裂开好长一道口子，从他身前不远处开始，曲曲折折沿着大街通向前方。这道裂口很像个暗示，要他前往某个特定地点。所以他跟着裂口跑了起来，一口气跑过几个街口，直到碰上两个出事后幸存下来的过路人才停住脚步。这一男一女直直掉进了脚下突然迸开的不大不小的裂口，好不容易才爬上来。他守着两人，直等救援者赶到，把两人带进掩蔽处才罢。

伊桑自然参加了随后组建的互助团体，和目击圣拉谢尔下凡的其他人结识了。几次集会之后，伊桑便看出了其他目击者发生的变化。有人受伤，有人被神迹治愈，这是用不着说的。但别人的生活还发生了其他变化：他最先碰到的一男一女堕入爱河，不久便订婚了；一位被倒塌的一堵墙压住的女人获救之后，大受启发，成为一名急诊医士；一个生意人在互助团体中拉到了一笔赞助，避免了原本无法避免的破产；另一个破产生意人却将自己的经历视为天启，从此改变了经营方向。看来，除了伊桑之外，每个人都从这次事件中看清了上天的旨意。

他却既没有遭到天谴，也没有受领赐福，即使有也不明显，看不出来。而且，他不知道自己本应收到的天启是什么。妻子克莱尔劝他把这次经历看成上帝要他满足于现状的信号，但伊桑觉得这种说法未免太不能让人满意。他的想法是，每一次天使下凡——不管发生在什么地方——都大有深意，而他本人亲眼看到了，说明其中必有更加重大的含意。他的思想死死抓住两点不放：一、自己错过了一次天赐良机；二、这次下凡的目击者中必定有一个能解开他的谜团，只不过他还没有发现这个人是谁。圣拉谢尔这次降临人间必定带来了他等待已久的天启，他绝不能就此撒手，不加理会。但明确了这两点以后，他仍旧不知道自己应该怎么办。

伊桑最终采取了排除法。他弄了一张全体目击者的名单，把所有已经弄清目睹天使对自己意味着什么的人的名字一一勾掉。他认定一点，最后剩下的人必定在自己生活中扮演一个重要角色。他要见的，就是那个至今还弄不清天使显形的意义的人。

挨个排除以后，名单上只剩下一个名字：贾尼丝·赖利。

在公开场合，尼尔还能掩饰自己的痛苦（社会对成年人就是这么要求的）。但独自一人在家时，感情的闸门便訇然洞开。莎拉不在了，这种感觉淹没了他，让他控制不住地倒在地板上失声痛哭。他蜷缩成一团，硬咽着，抽搐着，涕泪横流，内心的绞痛一阵强似一阵，达到他从来不敢相信的程度。他再也忍受不下去了。几分钟，或者几小时后，痛苦稍减，直到这时，精疲力竭的尼尔才能沉沉睡去。第二天醒来，面对的又是没有莎拉的新的一天。

尼尔的公寓楼里有一位老太太，她安慰他说，痛苦会随着时间流逝一天天减轻。虽然他永远不会忘记莎拉，但他还是应该继续自己的生活。总有一天，他会遇上另一位好女人，重新找到自己的幸福。到那时，他将学会敬爱上帝，等大限之日到来时，他会幸福地升上天堂。

老太太是好心，但尼尔怎么也无法从她的话中得到慰藉。莎拉不在了，这个事实就像一道血淋淋的伤口。要说这道伤口造成的疼痛总有一天会消失，他会感受不到她不在人世的痛苦，这种事不仅遥不可及，而且似乎根本就是不可能的。如果自杀可以停止这种痛苦，他早就毫不犹豫地动手了。但真要自杀的话，只有一个结果：永远丧失与莎拉再次聚首的任何可能性。

互助团体里也时常讨论自杀的话题，说着说着便会提起罗宾·皮尔森，没有一次例外。罗宾是位女士，尼尔参加这个团体之前几个月，她经常出席另一个团体的集会。罗宾的丈夫长期受胃癌折磨，这期间，他们目睹了天使马卡提尔下凡。但丈夫的胃癌没有好转。罗宾一连几天在医院里看护丈夫，结果丈夫偏偏在她回家洗衣服那天去世了。当时在场的一位护士告诉罗宾，他的灵魂已经升上了天堂。丈夫死后，罗宾开始参加互助团体的集会。

许多个月以后，有一天，互助团体集会时，大家看到罗宾气愤得全身发抖，原来，她家附近发生了一次地狱显形，她亲眼看到自己的丈夫夹杂在那些堕落的灵魂中间。她找到当时那位护士，当面质问她。护士承认那天撒了谎，说她希望这样做能让罗宾学会敬爱上帝，最后，即使不能改变丈夫下地狱的命运，至少能拯救她自己的灵魂。下一次集会罗宾没有参加，再下一次集会时，大伙儿听说了她的消息：罗宾自杀了，为的是和丈夫团圆。

没有谁知道罗宾和丈夫死后的夫妻关系怎么样，但成功的先例是有的。有些夫妻的确通过自杀再次聚首，过上了幸福的死后生活。互助团体里还有些人的配偶下了地狱，他们说自己是左右为难，深受煎熬：希望继续活下去，同时又想直奔地狱追随自己的另一半。尼尔的情况跟他们不一样，但听到他们的话时，他的第一反应是羡慕不已——如果莎拉去了地狱，只要自杀，他的所有问题便迎刃而解了。

深入想下去，尼尔心中暗自惭愧。他意识到，如果自己可以选择：是他独自一人下地狱，让莎拉升上天堂，还是两口子同赴阴曹，他准会选择后一种。他宁愿让她永世无缘于上帝，也不愿让她跟自己分开。他知道这种想法非常自私，可这是他的真实感受，他改变不了。他相信，无论是哪种情形，莎拉都会幸福。但他惟有跟她在一起时才会幸福。

尼尔从前跟女人打交道一直不顺利。最经常发生的是这种情形：他在酒吧里跟某个女人搭讪，只要他一站起身，显出一条腿比另一条短一截的毛病，对方便忽然想起自己在另外哪个地方还有个紧急约会。有一次，一个跟他交往了几个星期的女人提出分手。她解释说，她自己并不觉得他的腿是个多大缺陷，但只要他们俩出现在公开场合，其他人总觉得她准有什么毛病，不然怎么会跟他在一起，他一定知道，这样下去，对她真是太不公平了，对吗？

莎拉是尼尔遇到的第一个见了他的腿后没有改变态度的女人，她的表情一点儿没变，既没有显示出同情，也没有惊恐，连吃惊的表情都没有。哪怕只凭这一点，尼尔都会迷上她。进一步了解她的人品之后，尼尔全身心爱上了她。她可以激发出他所具备的最美好的品质，于是，她也爱上了他。

莎拉说她是个信徒时，尼尔吃了一惊。从外表看，她并不像个虔诚教徒，不上教堂，跟尼尔一样不喜欢绝大多数教堂常客。但在内心深处，以她自己的方式，她默默地景仰上帝，为自己的生活感激上帝。她从来没有试图转变尼尔。她说，信仰发自内心，有就是有，没有就是没有。夫妻俩很少谈起上帝，尼尔不费什么力气便可以想像妻子跟他一样，算不上真正的信徒。

但这并不是说，莎拉的信仰对尼尔完全没有影响。不是这样。尼尔一生的全部经历中，莎拉是最能说服他信仰上帝的人。如果对上帝的爱使莎拉成为莎拉，那么，宗教信仰或许真的有点道理。两人婚后这些年里，他对生活的态度积极多了。这样发展下去，两人白头偕老，也许总有一天，他会对上帝产生感激之情。

莎拉的死消灭了这种可能。但如果换了一个人，景仰上帝的大门也许还不至于彻底关闭。也许他会把这件事视为一个警告，表明时不我待，任何人都没有百分之百的把握，说自己还有许多年，大可以慢慢改变。他也许会这么想：如果他和她一起在事故中丧生，他的灵魂便会永远和她分开，两人从此再也无法聚首。这样一来，或许他会转而信仰上帝。莎拉的死完全可能成为暮鼓晨钟，催他猛醒，告诉他趁自己还有机会，赶紧皈依。

但尼尔不是这种人。他变得无比憎恨上帝。莎拉是他一生中遇到的最美好的事物，而上帝却把她从他身边夺走了。指望他因此敬爱上帝？对尼尔来说，这就好比碰上一个绑票的劫匪，要他付出自己的爱，作为交还妻子的赎金。他或许会被迫屈从，但发自内心、真正的爱？这是他无法付出的赎金。

互助团体里也有几个人面临的处境和他相似，不知如何是好。团体里一个名叫菲尔·索默斯的人说得好，如果把这种事当成一件必须解决的困难，最后必然以失败告终。你不能把敬爱上帝当成实现另一个目的的手段，敬爱上帝本身就是目的。如果你想以敬爱上帝的行为换取与配偶的团圆，这种爱显然是不真诚的。

另一位名叫瓦莱丽·都篠的人则指出，他们根本不该作这种尝试。她读过一个人本主义团体出版的著作。这个团体认为，根本不应该敬爱给人们带来这种痛苦的上帝。它宣称，人们应该按自己的理智和本能行事，不应该落入这种胡萝卜加大棒的诱骗圈套。这个团体的成员死的时候当然都下了地狱，但却是带着高傲自豪的态度下地狱的。

尼尔自己也读过这个团体散发的小册子，他印象最深刻的是，这本小册子里引述了许多堕落天使——也就是魔鬼——的语录。魔鬼们并不经常光顾人世，出现之后，既不会给人带来好运，也不会造成破坏。他们不受上帝管束，来去匆匆，只是干他们世人无从捉摸的营生时从人间顺道路过。碰上他们时，许多人会问他们问题。他们知道上帝的意图吗？他们为什么被上帝逐出天庭？这伙堕落天使的回答千篇一律，只有一句话：自己的事自己决定，我们就是这么做的，建议你也这么做。

那个人本主义团体的成员于是当真来了个自己的事自己决定。要不是因为莎拉，尼尔也会作出同样的选择。可他想念莎拉，所以，他只有一条出路：找个理由爱戴上帝。

在寻找爱戴上帝的理由时，其他人至少还有条件自欺欺人：他们所爱的人蒙上帝宠召时没有受罪，一下子便咽了气。尼尔却连这点平衡都找不到：莎拉被玻璃碎片划伤后痛苦万状。当然，更惨的人也是有的。有一对夫妇有个十来岁的儿子，被天使下凡的烈焰烧伤了，又被卡住动弹不得。救援者最后把他拉出来时，烧伤面积已经达到百分之八十，惨不忍睹。最后的死亡简直是一种解脱。相比之下，莎拉还算幸运，但还没幸运到让尼尔爱戴上帝的地步。

尼尔绞尽脑汁，只想出一种能让他由衷感激上帝的情形：让莎拉重新出现在他眼前。哪怕仅仅看到她的笑脸，都会给尼尔带来莫大的安慰。他以前从来没有见过任何一个被拯救的灵魂重临世间，现在，他比一生中任何时候都更加需要这种异象。

但异象不是你想要就能得到的东西。尼尔没有得到异象。他只能自己想出景仰上帝的办法。

下一次参加圣纳撒尼尔目击者小团体集会时，尼尔找到本尼·瓦斯克斯，就是那个眼睛被天光抹掉的人。本尼不常参加集会。他现在忙得很，许多团体邀请他去发表演说。天使下凡造成的无眼人实在太罕见了。天堂之光射向俗世的时间非常短暂，只出现在天使下凡和重返大堂的一刹那。所以，所有无眼人都成了小名人，无数教堂希望他们充当发言人，供求非常不平衡。

现在的本尼瞎得跟蚯蚓一样，不单是眼睛、眼窝不复存在，他的头骨里已经完全没有容纳这些器官的空间了，颧骨紧紧挨着前额。看见天光，这是任何尚在人世的灵魂最接近天堂的一刻。也就是这一刻让他的身体发生了畸变。通常认为，这种身体畸变表明，在天堂中，物理意义上的肉身是完全没有必要的。现在，本尼那张表情功能大受限制的脸上随时随地总是挂着亲切、喜悦的微笑。

尼尔希望本尼能告诉他点什么，帮助他爱上上帝。本尼告诉他，天堂之光的美丽是无可比拟的，如此辉煌，如此壮丽，在它面前，任何怀疑都会烟消云散。它是无可辩驳的证据，足以证明人人都应当敬爱上帝，就像１＋１＝２一样显而易见。不幸的是，尽管本尼打了许多比方，他却无法用自己的言辞重现天堂之光的美丽。本来就虔信上帝的人听了本尼的话后激动得发抖，但对尼尔来说，本尼的话太含糊了，令人失望。于是，他转向其他方向寻求帮助。

接受自己不能理解的神迹。当地教堂的神父这样对他说。如果你在自己的问题无法解答的情况下仍旧敬爱上帝，这就更能说明你的虔诚。

承认你需要上帝。他购买的大众精神指导书这样说。当你认识到自己的问题不能全靠自己解决、必须依靠上帝时，你就已经是个信徒了。

全身心地、无条件地匍匐在他面前吧。电视传教士这么说。接受痛苦，只有这样，你才能证明对上帝的爱。接受痛苦也许不能让你今生今世更加幸福，但抗拒痛苦只能加重对你的惩罚。

所有这些理论对不同的人都会产生作用。只要你信服了其中任何一种，你都会虔诚皈依。问题是这些理论都不那么容易令人信服，尼尔则是觉得完全无法信服的人中的一个。

最后，尼尔试图跟莎拉的父母谈谈。这充分说明他已经到了多么绝望的地步：他跟岳父母的关系向来很紧张。尽管他们很爱莎拉，但却总是责备她没有表现出足够的虔诚。听说她嫁给了一个完全没有信仰的人时，他们震惊得说不出话来。至于莎拉，她一直觉得父母太爱对别人妄加评判了。他们对尼尔的排斥愈发强化了她的看法。但现在，尼尔觉得自己跟岳父母有了共同点——说到底，大家都对莎拉的死痛悼不已。就这样，他拜访了他们在郊区的殖民风格大宅，希望稍减自己的哀痛。

他大错特错了。尼尔没有得到同情，得到的是一通怒斥。他们把莎拉的死怪罪到他头上，莎拉下葬几周后，岳父母便得出了结论：她的死是对他的警告，他们必须忍受丧女之痛，惟一的原因就是尼尔不敬上帝。他们现在一口咬定——完全不理睬尼尔从前的解释——他的畸形腿正是遭了天谴，如果他能及早醒悟，端正自己的态度，他们的女儿是不会死的。

这种反应本来应该料想得到。在尼尔的一生中，别人总是在宗教信仰方面为他的残疾寻找原因，哪怕这种残疾跟上帝一点关系都没有。现在他又不明不白地遭受了来自天庭的打击，肯定会有人认定他活该遭此报应。至于这份祝祷选在他最脆弱的时候落在他头上，造成了最沉重不过的打击，这倒完全是偶然的。

尼尔并不赞同岳父母的话。但他不禁彷徨起来，有点拿不准了：如果他以前是个信徒，或许真的不会落到今天这一步？他想，或许真的应该生活在一个由宗教信仰构成的故事中。至少，故事里总是好人受赏、坏人遭灾。哪怕区别好坏的定义有点不清不楚，总比生活在一个毫无公道可言的现实中强点吧。当然，生活在这种讲究原罪、认定人人生而有罪的故事里有个坏处：自己成了一个莫名其妙便担上一份罪孽的罪人。但它也有一个好处：能让他跟莎拉团圆——他自己不信上帝的态度可没有这个好处。

有的时候，哪怕是错误的意见，也能指引一个人走上正确的道路。就这样，岳父母的责骂把尼尔向上帝推近了一步。

以前布道的时候，听众们不止一次向贾尼丝问过这个问题：她有没有产生过希望自己是个有腿的正常人的想法？她的回答总是：没有。她真是这么想的。她对自己的现状很满足。有的时候，提出问题的人会指出，她从来没有享受过双腿健全的生活，自然不会产生对那种生活的向往。如果她出生时双腿没有毛病，后来才失去它们，那样的话，她的想法可能就不是这样了。贾尼丝从来不否认这一点。但她仍旧可以诚实地说，她并不觉得自己是个不完整的残疾人，也从来没有嫉妒过正常人的生活。她是一个整体，没有腿这一事实是这个整体的一个组成部分。她向来不用假肢，就算有什么手术能让她长出正常的腿，她也会拒绝的。但她万万没有想到，上帝竟然会赋予她正常的双腿。

有了腿还给她带来一个事先没有想到的副作用：男人越来越注意她了。过去，她只能吸引迷恋残缺身体、或迷恋圣女的变态男人。现在，所有男人都对她产生了兴趣。由于这个缘故，第一次发现伊桑·米德对她的强烈关注时，贾尼丝还以为这是一种出自爱欲的关注。这一次，贾尼丝尤其觉得气恼，因为这个人很显然是个已婚男子。

伊桑最初跟她交谈是在互助团体的集会上。这以后，他开始听她的公开宣讲。他开口邀请她出去吃午饭时，贾尼丝问他到底有什么意图。伊桑这才解释了自己的想法。他不知道自己的命运会以什么方式涉及到她，但他认定两人的命运必定存在某种联系。贾尼丝半信半疑，却也没有直截了当地反对他的理论。对于她这一方面存在的疑问，伊桑承认自己无法解释，但他非常热心，愿意尽力帮助她找到解答。贾尼丝也谨慎地答允帮助伊桑寻找他存在的意义。伊桑则保证他不会成为她的包袱。这以后，两人时常见面，探讨天使降临人间的种种含意。

与此同时，伊桑的妻子克莱尔越来越担心。伊桑向她保证，自己对贾尼丝没有别的想法，但妻子仍旧放心不下。她知道，异乎寻常的处境会使同处这种境地的人产生一种纽带，她害怕伊桑与贾尼丝的关系——不管这种关系是什么——会危及他们的娇姻。

伊桑向贾尼丝提出，身为图书馆员，他可以为她做些研究。除了贾尼丝的遭遇，他们俩谁都没有听说过这样的先例：上帝在某一个人身上留下印记，却在另一次天使下凡时抹掉了这个印记。伊桑开始查阅资料，寻找这种先例，希望由此理解贾尼丝失而复得的双腿意味着什么。以前有过一生中多次获得神助，治愈痼疾的例子，但他们的疾病或残障都是自然形成的，不是上帝留下的印记。只有一桩轶事，说的是有一个罪孽深重的人被上帝变成了瞎子，从此改过自新，上帝于是让他重获视力。遗憾的是，这桩轶事已经证明不确，只是一个现代都市传奇而已。

即使这段传奇有一定的事实基础，也不能视为贾尼丝经历的先例：她的腿是在她出生前丧失的，所以不可能是对她的罪孽的惩罚。会不会是因为她父母所做的某件事？重获双腿表明他们已经赎清了自己的罪孽？贾尼丝不相信这种理论。

如果她的某位已逝亲戚能够以异象的形式出现在她面前，贾尼丝就不会对自己的腿有任何疑虑了。但他们没有，于是她怀疑是不是什么地方出了差错。不过她不相信这是上帝对自己的惩罚。也许是弄错了，她接到的神愈本来是给其他人预备的。也许是一种考验，看她得蒙大恩后有什么反应。无论是哪种情形，她只能做一件事：以无比的感激和谦卑之心回报上天的厚礼——也就是说，她必须朝圣。

朝圣者要长途跋涉，前往圣地，静候天使降临，希望自己能获得神愈。如果是在其他地方，一个人等待一生也未必能等到一次天使下凡。但在圣地，他可能只需要等待几个月，有的时候甚至几个星期就行。朝圣者们知道，即使这样，被神力治愈的可能性仍旧十分渺茫。终于盼来天使下凡的人中，绝大多数并没有得到神愈。但通常情况下，只要能看到天使，大家仍旧很高兴，回家以后心情好多了，能够更好地面对自己的命运，无论这种命运是不久便撒手人寰，还是度过残疾人的一生。另外，不用说，能挺过一次天使下凡而不死，这种经历让许多人更加珍惜自己的生命。每一次天使下凡，都有一小批朝圣者因此丧命，这是必然现象。

无论最后是什么结果，贾尼丝都心甘情愿地接受。如果上帝觉得应该召回她，她随时可以上路。如果上帝再一次抹掉她的双腿，她会重新拾起过去的工作。如果上帝让她留着那双腿，她希望能有机会明白上帝的真意——她需要这个，有了它，她才有信心对听众谈起自己的腿。

但是，她心里仍旧抱着一线希望，希望上帝收回赐予她的神迹，把它转给真正需要的人。她没有具体地建议上帝把这份神迹转给一心切盼着它的某某人，觉得这么做未免太不知天高地厚了。但在私下吧，她觉得自己是代表那些急需神迹的人朝圣，向上帝陈情。

朋友家人对贾尼丝的决定困惑不解，觉得这么做是质疑上帝作出的决定。消息传出去以后，她收到了许多信，表达的情绪各不相同：幻灭，迷惑，或是对她情愿作出这种牺牲的景仰。

伊桑则毫无保留地支持贾尼丝。他兴奋极了。现在，他终于明白了拉谢尔天使下凡对他本人的意义何在：这是一个暗示，向他指出，他行动起来的时刻到了。妻子克莱尔强烈反对他离家远行，说他根本不知道这一去会花多长时间。另外，她和孩子们也需要他。得不到妻子支持，伊桑心情沉重，但他别无选择。伊桑将踏上朝圣之路——下一次天使下凡时，他一定会明白上帝对他到底有什么安排。

造访莎拉的父母使尼尔重新思索自己与本尼·瓦斯克斯的谈话。本尼的话本身没给他多大启发，但他的无比虔诚仍旧给尼尔留下了深刻印象。不管将来发生什么不幸，本尼对上帝的信仰绝不会动摇，而且，本尼死后肯定会升上天堂，这是确然无疑的。这一点让尼尔看到了一线希望。这种希望太渺茫了，他以前根本没有考虑过。但现在，在他一天比一天绝望的情况下，这一线希望显得越来越有诱惑力。

每一个圣地都有这样一批朝圣者，目的不是获得神愈，他们是特意为了一睹天堂之光而来的。看见天光的人死后总能升上天堂，不管他们的动机是多么自私。有些追光者对自己能否升上天堂没多大把握，他们想百分之百地确定，死后能与天堂中的亲人相聚。还有些人过了一辈子罪恶生活，想借助这种手段逃避随之而来的后果。

过去还有人怀疑，觉得天堂之光不可能那么神奇，一看之下，便足以克服所有障碍，保证灵魂直升天堂。但在巴里·拉森事件之后，这种怀疑便烟消云散了。拉里是个连环奸杀犯，正在处理他最后一个牺牲品的尸体时，恰逢天使下凡，拉里看到了天堂之光。拉里被处决时，大家亲眼看到他的灵魂升上了天堂，让被害者家属悲愤不已。牧师们竭力安慰他们，说天堂之光肯定让拉里在那一瞬间受到了比几世惩罚更可怕的严惩（这种说法迄今找不到任何根据）。安慰之辞收效甚微。

尼尔从中发现了一个可以利用的漏洞，一个解决菲尔·索默斯指明的两难处境的好办法。只有用这个办法，他才能在爱莎拉远甚于爱上帝的前提下实现与莎拉团圆的理想。用这种办法，他尽可以当个自私自利的人，最后照样能升入天堂。别的人成功过，或许他也能成功。几率不大，但至少有这种先例。

在潜意识中，尼尔其实相当反对这种做法：这跟为了治疗情绪低落来个彻底洗脑没什么区别。他不禁想，真要看到了天光，他的个性就会发生天翻地覆的巨变，变到那种程度，他也就不再成其为他了。但他不久又想得更深入了些：每个升上天堂的人肯定都发生过相似的变化，所谓被拯救的灵魂，其实跟尚在人世的无眼人差不多，只不过没有肉身罢了。反复思索后，尼尔终于明白了：无论他通过什么途径升上天堂——或是终身修行，或是撞见天光混进去——最后实现跟莎拉团圆的目的，他与莎拉的爱不可能再像从前活着时那样。进入天堂以后，两个人都会改变，他们将会如所有被拯救的灵魂一样，既爱对方，也爱别的一切，两种爱混合在一起，无法区分。

这种认识丝毫没有减轻他渴盼与莎拉重聚的急迫心情。正相反，他的渴望愈发强烈，因为他已经清楚地认识到，无论采取什么途径，最终都会得到同样的酬劳。抄近路走捷径得到的结果与常规手段完全相同。

但另一方面，追光者面临的困难比寻常朝圣者大得多，也危险得多。天堂之光只出现在天使进出俗世的一瞬间。天使现身的地点是个未知数，所以，追光者只能天使一现身便猛扑过去，死死盯着不放，直到天使离开。为了增加自己出现在细细一缕天光照射范围内的机会，追光者必须在天使逗留凡间的整个过程中尽可能地接近后者，这就意味着站在龙卷风的风口上，或是大洪水的浪尖上，或是地面可怕的裂口的顶端——具体出现哪种情形，视下凡的是哪位天使而定。死于这个过程中的追光者的数量大大超过了成功者。

很难取得有关事败身死的追光者灵魂归宿的统计数字，原因很简单，这种险恶的环境中不会有多少目击者。但就已有的数字来看，情况不容乐观。普通朝圣者如果没有得到他们一心企盼的神愈，死后灵魂上升下堕的比例大致是一半对一半。和他们相比，追光者的下场截然不同，每一个归宿为人所知的追光者都下了地狱。也许是因为只有注定下地狱的人才会当追光者，也许是因为有关方面将追光而死视为自杀，自杀者当然应该下地狱。不管怎么说，如果打算采取这种行动，尼尔必须作好接受相应后果的思想准备。

追光的性质是全赢或全输，尼尔一方面觉得这一点相当吓人，另一方面又深受吸引。苦度残生，同时竭力爱上上帝，这种想法一天比一天更让人难以忍受。他甚至很有可能活不了多长时间，因为最近人人都告诉他，天使到访是种警告，要他打点好自己的灵魂，随时准备上路。也许他明天就会一命呜呼，再也没有时间采取常规手段成为上帝的信徒了。

具有讽刺意义的是，尽管他一辈子都在极力回避贾尼丝·赖利这个榜样，有关她的新消息却对尼尔产生了影响。当时他正在用早餐，碰巧看到报上的新闻，说她即将动身朝圣。尼尔的第一反应是愤怒：到底要多少福祉才能让这个女人满足？细细思考之后，他拿定了主意——如果这个才接受过赐福的女人都觉得应该寻求上帝的帮助，对这个赐福来一番讨价还价，那么，遭受了这么惨痛损失的他更应该这么做。这条新闻最终促使犹豫不决的尼尔下定了决心。

圣地无一例外地位于不适宜于居住的穷山恶水，比如一处是汪洋大海中的一个小小环形礁，另一处坐落在高达两万英尺的崇山峻岭之间。尼尔去的那个圣地位于一片荒漠中央，周围无论哪个方向都是绵延许多英里的干裂的沙土地。那地方虽然荒凉，但相比之下还算去得，所以在朝圣者中间很流行。从外表上看，这个圣地可以视为一部很好的地理教材，来自天庭和地球本身两方面的关照让它的地貌多姿多彩：整片地方纵横交错着熔岩冲刷出来的沟壑，迸开的裂口，冲撞造成的陨石坑。植物十分稀少，都是朝生暮死的短命类型，只在洪水冲刷、龙卷风肆虐的间歇生长一阵子，不久便再一次被席卷一空。

圣地上到处是安营扎寨的朝圣者，一簇簇帐篷和野营篷车形成了一个个临时性的小村落。哪个地点更好是人人极力推测的大问题。最佳地点应该既能尽量扩大看见天使的机会，又能尽量缩小受伤或死亡的危险。这里还有不少积年遗留下来的沙袋，人们把它们垒起来，形成一道道掩体，尽可能提供一点保护。圣地还有一批专门在此值勤的急救人员、消防队员，他们负责管理这里的通道，务使畅通，以确保急救车辆能及时到达需要它们的地点。食物和饮水由朝圣者自带，也可以从天价售卖的小贩手里购买。每人必须缴付一笔费用，用于垃圾和粪便清理。

所有追光者都准备了越野车辆，时机一到便能穿越复杂地形追踪天使。有钱的人独自驾车，买不起车的只好两个、三个、四个人一组，合用一辆车。尼尔不想当个依靠别人的乘客，也不想担起替别人驾车的责任。这可能是他活在世间所做的最后一桩事，他感到单枪匹马才合适。莎拉的葬礼花光了家里所有积蓄，尼尔变卖了家里的一切，这才买到一辆合用的交通工具：一辆轻卡，配备着凹槽特深的轮胎和超强减震器。

一到圣地，尼尔便着手从事所有追光者都要做的准备工作：驾车巡行全场，熟悉地形。一次巡行圣地时，他遇上了伊桑。伊桑正从最近的杂货店（八十英里外）买东西回来，中途车坏了，正在路边招手搭车。尼尔帮助他重新发动了车子，然后，在伊桑的坚持下，跟着他回到他的帐篷共进晚餐。贾尼丝不在，去拜访附近的朝圣者了。伊桑一面就着一块固体燃料加热方便快餐，一面诉说让他来到圣地的种种事件。尼尔客气地听着。

当伊桑提起贾尼丝·赖利的名字时，尼尔掩饰不住自己的惊讶。他完全没有再次跟她搭话的兴趣，当即找了个借口想走，对吃惊的伊桑解释说，自己落下了一件贵重设备。就在这时，贾尼丝回来了。

看到尼尔，贾尼丝大吃一惊，但还是请他多坐一会儿。伊桑说起请尼尔来吃饭的缘故，贾尼丝也解释了她和尼尔过去见面的事。之后，她问尼尔为什么想来这个圣地。尼尔刚告诉他们自己是个追光者，伊桑和贾尼丝立即力劝他重新考虑他的计划。这是自杀，伊桑说，再怎么也比自杀好啊。看到天光也解决不了你的问题，贾尼丝说，上帝并不希望这样。对于他们的关心，尼尔态度僵硬地表示了感谢，然后走了。

在等待的几周里，尼尔天天开着车巡行圣地。地图是有的，而且每次天使下凡之后都会及时更新，但再好的地图也不能代替亲自实地考察。有一次，他遇见了一个显然很精通越野驾驶的追光者，便向他——大多数追光者都是男的——询问怎么才能开车穿过一片特别难走的地段。有些人在这里待的时间很长，见过好几次天使下凡，但他们的努力既没有成功，也不算失败。这些人很乐意向新手介绍追击天使的经验，但却从来不谈自己的个人经历。尼尔发现，他们说话都有个奇怪的特点：充满希望，同时又无比绝望。他不禁怀疑自己说话是不是也跟他们一样。

伊桑和贾尼丝打发时间的办法是与其他朝圣者结交。大家对贾尼丝的态度各不相同：有的觉得她不知感恩，有的则认为她十分高尚。大多数人听了伊桑的故事后都觉得很有意思，因为像他这样不求神愈的朝圣者非常罕见。朝圣者之间通常会产生一种战友之情，支撑着他们熬过漫长的等待。

最后的时刻到来时，尼尔正驾着自己的轻卡实地考察。这时只见西南方浓云密合，民用通讯频道上传来呼叫，说又一次天使降临开始了。他停下车，把通讯耳塞塞进耳朵，扣上头盔。准备停当后，已经可以看到空中的道道闪电了。距天使较近的一名追光者报告，这次下来的是圣巴拉基尔，正向北方前进。尼尔决定从东面截击天使，于是掉转车头，全速驶去。

没有雨，也没有风，只有团团乌云，浓云中不断亮起闪电。所有追光者都在通过电台互相传递消息，估算天使的前进方向和速度，冲向东北方的尼尔抢在了天使前头。开始的时候，他还可以通过计算雷鸣与电闪的时间差来估算离天使的距离，但没过多久，闪电一个接一个，炸雷响成一片，他再也无法将某一记雷声和特定的闪电联系起来。

他看见另外两辆追光车从不同方向斜插过来，三辆车平行了，向北飞驰。跃过一个很大的陨石坑，颠簸着穿过较小的坑坑洼洼，时而急转避开大洞。四面八方电光闪闪，闪电似乎在向一个中心点聚拢，就在尼尔以南——天使在他的正后方，正在接近。

虽然戴着耳塞，滚滚雷鸣依然震耳欲聋。周围的电力越来越强，尼尔清楚地感到自己的毛发从皮肤上直立起来。他不住看后视镜，竭力确认天使的准确位置，心里着实拿不准到底应该靠近到什么程度。

重重叠叠的闪电。一道未去，一道又起。视网膜上的残留视像过多，很难从中分辨出哪些是真的闪电，那些是上一道闪电的残留视像。尼尔眯缝起眼睛，望着一片闪亮的后视镜。他发现，自己正望着一道连绵不断的电光。这道闪电波动起伏，但连成一气，中间没有丝毫间隔。他把驾驶席一侧的后视镜向上侧了侧，好看得清楚些。他看见了这道闪电的源头：一大团蒸腾翻卷的火焰，呈银白色，衬在乌黑的云层上：巴拉基尔天使。

眼中所见让尼尔全身僵直，动弹不得。就在这时，他的轻卡撞上一块冒出地面的岩石尖端，一下子腾空而起。冲撞的着力点正在车头左前方，车头像铝箔一样挤成一团。驾驶室承受的压力将尼尔的双腿腿骨压得粉碎，切断了他的股动脉。尼尔开始大出血，缓慢、但确然无疑地走向死亡。

他没有尝试挪动身体。那一刻，他还没有感到身体上的痛苦，但不知怎的，他明白只要自己哪怕轻轻动一下，马上就是痛彻心肺。很清楚，他已经被卡在车子里了，就算没有，他也不可能继续追踪圣巴拉基尔。他绝望地望着闪电的涡流渐渐离他而去，越来越远。

望着望着，尼尔哭了起来，心中充满悔恨和对自己的蔑视，诅咒自己怎么会以为这个办法行得通。只要能活下来，他会乞求上帝再给他一次机会，让他改过自新，他会用自己的余生学习如何敬爱上帝。但他知道，讨价还价是不可能的，惟一应该责备的是他自己。他向莎拉道歉，因为他没有走比较保险的路子，而是将自己的生命一把押上了赌台，从而永远丧失了与她聚首的希望。尼尔惟愿她能理解他的动机，并最后原谅他。他之所以这么做，原因是他太爱她了。

泪眼朦胧中，尼尔看见一个女人向他奔来。是贾尼丝·赖利。这时他才意识到，他的撞车地点离她和伊桑的帐篷只有不到一百码。但她不可能帮他什么忙，他能感到鲜血汩汩而出，渐渐耗尽，知道自己已经无法支持到救护车赶来了。他觉得她正朝她大喊着什么，但他的耳朵被炸雷震得太厉害，根本听不见她的话。他看到伊桑·米德紧跟在她身后，跟她一起向这边奔来。

一道电光划过，贾尼丝一头栽倒，像被一柄大锤砸倒一样。最初他还以为她是被闪电击倒的，接着才发现闪电早就停止了。她爬了起来。这时，尼尔看到了她的脸，一张全新的脸，直冒热气，完全没有眼睛。他明白了：贾尼丝遇见了天堂之光。

尼尔抬头向上望去，但他看到的只有幢幢乌云。那道光柱已经消失了。上帝好像在奚落他，既让他亲眼看到他宁肯为之丧生也要得到的东西，又把这件东西拿得远远的，让他够不着。不仅如此，上帝还把它给了一个不需要、甚至不想要的人。上帝已经在贾尼丝身上浪费了一次神迹，现在，他竟然又这么干了一次。

就在这时，另一道来自天堂的光柱刺透了乌云，落在陷在车里动弹不得的尼尔身上。

它像一千枚尖针，刺进他的血肉骨骼。天光抹掉了他的眼睛，不是把他变成一个丧失视力的从前的明眼人，而是变成了一个根本不曾、也不应该拥有视觉器官的人。与此同时，这道光向尼尔展示了他理应敬爱上帝的全部理由。

他敬爱他，全身心、无条件地爱着上帝，人类成员彼此之间从来不曾有过这种深深的爱。“无条件地”其实是个很不恰当的饰语，因为即使“无条件”这个词也暗含着一种场景、一种前提、一种“条件”，而尼尔却再也不需要这一切了：宇宙间万事万物无一不是应当爱戴上帝的明证，没有任何东西可以构成对上帝的爱的阻碍，连稍稍扰乱这种爱都做不到。一切事物都是对上帝感恩戴德的理由，让他更加敬爱他。尼尔想起让自己采取这种自杀式莽撞行动的惨痛遭遇，想起莎拉死前经历的痛苦和惊恐，但他仍旧爱戴上帝——不是不顾这些继续爱戴上帝，而是因为这些爱戴上帝。

他唾弃自己此前的种种愤怒、彷徨、对答案的追求。为了过去的痛苦，他万分感激上帝，为了以前没有认识到这是上帝的赐福无比悔恨，为了现在在上帝照拂下洞见自己生存的真正意义而欣喜若狂。他现在明白了，生命只是一份上帝慷慨赐予、接受者其实不配享有的厚礼，即使最有德行者都不配享有生命这份殊荣。

对他来说，一切疑难已经迎刃而解。他懂得了，生命中的一切都是关于爱——哪怕是痛苦也罢，尤其是痛苦。

所以，几分钟后，当尼尔最终流血过多而死时，他的灵魂已经完全值得拯救了。

但上帝照样把他打下了地狱。

伊桑看到了这一切。他看到尼尔和贾尼丝的面貌被天光改变，也看到了他们没有眼睛的脸上洋溢的对上帝虔诚的爱。他看到天空澄澈起来，重新现出阳光。他握着尼尔的手，等待救护车的到来。尼尔死时，他看到尼尔的灵魂离开躯壳，向上升起，却又向下一栽，堕入地狱。

贾尼丝没有看到。这一切发生的时候，她的眼睛已经不复存在了。伊桑是惟一的目击者。他明白了，这就是上帝为他所作的安排：追随贾尼丝·赖利来到这里，看到她无法看到的一切。

圣巴拉基尔下凡的统计数字汇总出来了。死亡人数共计十名，其中六名为追光者，四名普通朝圣者。九名朝圣者获得神愈。看见天堂之光的只有贾尼丝和尼尔。统计数字没有说明多少朝圣者感到这次天使下凡改变了他们的生活道路，但伊桑知道，自己就是这种人中的一个。

回家之后，贾尼丝重新开始布道。但演说主题跟过去不同。她不再宣传残疾人有勇气克服身体方面的障碍，跟其他所有无眼人一样，她只能反复描绘上帝造物的无比美丽。许多过去从她的宣讲中得到启发的人感到很失望，觉得他们失去了一位精神领袖。贾尼丝宣扬勇气能战胜残疾时，她给听众带来了其他人无法带来的信息。但现在，她的话和别的无眼人没有什么区别。听众人数减少了，但贾尼丝毫不在意，因为她对自己宣扬的内容有百分之百的信心。

伊桑辞去了图书馆的工作，成了一名布道者，向大众宣讲自己的经历。妻子克莱尔无法接受他的新使命，最后带着孩子们离开了他。但伊桑宁愿独自生活，也要继续布道。他有了很大一批追随者。他告诉大家发生在尼尔·菲斯克身上的事。告诫大家，生活中没有彻底公平，死后同样如此。他这么说不是要听众不再崇敬上帝，正相反，他鼓励人们保持信仰，只不过希望大家不要在怀有不切实际的幻想的情况下这么做。伊桑说，如果要敬爱上帝，你必须有思想准备，无论上帝对你的安排是什么，都要无条件地爱戴他。上帝不代表公正，不代表仁慈，也不代表怜悯。只有彻底理解这一点，才能成为真正的信徒。

如果尼尔听了这些劝戒（当然，他不可能听到人世的布道），他一定完全理解。他失落的灵魂最好不过地证明了伊桑的话。

对于地狱的大多数居民来说，这里与人世间没有多大区别。地狱的主要惩罚是对生前没有信仰上帝的悔恨，这种惩罚，多数人很容易忍受，但对尼尔来说，地狱与人世没有丝毫相似之处。他不朽的身体有一双功能完善的腿，但他一点也不在乎；他重新获得了双眼，但他不愿意睁开它们。看见天光之后，他认识到人世间上帝无处不在。但地狱里却没有上帝的身影。在这里，看到、听到、碰到的一切都会使尼尔产生深切的痛苦，而且，这种痛苦不同与世间。世间的痛苦是上帝之爱的一种表现形式，这里的痛苦却是上帝不在造成的。尼尔在地狱里承受的痛苦是他生前无法想像的，但是，他对痛苦只有一种回应：敬爱上帝。

尼尔仍旧爱着莎拉，跟从前一样想念她，一想起他曾经多么接近跟她重逢，他就心如刀绞。他知道，自己堕入地狱不是因为他做过的任何事，他知道自己完全没有理由下地狱，也不是为了实现某个更高目的让他作出的牺牲。但所有这些，丝毫不能削弱他对上帝的爱。即使存在升上天堂、与莎拉团圆的可能，尼尔也没有怀抱这种希望。他心里已经不存在这类欲望了。

尼尔知道，现在的他已经离开了上帝的视线，上帝不可能以爱作为对他的回报。但这依然没有影响他的感情。爱无条件，亦无所求，甚至不求任何爱的回报。

自从尼尔堕入地狱，离开上帝的视线，许多年过去了。他仍旧爱着上帝。这才是真正的信仰。

后记

我最初写一篇跟天使有关的小说是在看了一部超自然恐惧片之后。那以后，我花了很长时间考虑，究竟怎么才能把天使写进小说。我想了很多点子，但一个都不喜欢。最后我想到，可以把天使当成一种具有可怕威力的现象，天使下凡跟自然界发生的其他灾变一样。作出这个设想之后，我才算走上了正轨。

想到灾难，自然会联想到无辜的普通人在这种灾难中所遭受的痛苦。对于这种人，人们必定会从宗教上多方开导他。但不可能所有遭受痛苦的人都能接受这种开导，能抚慰一个人的方式用在另一个人身上，很可能会让他怒不可遏。想想圣约中描述的约伯的不幸遭遇吧。

我对约伯记有一点不满：到最后，上帝奖赏了约伯，他损失了孩子，但上帝又赐给了他另外的孩子。且不说新的孩子能不能弥补他的丧子之痛，只谈一点：上帝为什么又让他重新获得财富？为什么来这么一个大团圆的结局？这个故事想告诉人们的诸般道理中，有一个基本道理，那就是：美德并不一定会得到好报，好人也会遭遇不幸。而约伯接受了这一切，充分显示了他的美德。可到了最后，竟然又让他发一笔大财。这不是削弱了故事可能的教诲吗？

在我看来，《约伯记》这个故事的作者对自己的观点缺乏信心。如果作者真的坚决认为德行不一定带来回报，他还会让约伯得到那么大的好处吗？

（李克勤译）

Hell Is the Absence of God

by Ted Chiang

This is the story of a man named Neil Fisk, and how he came to love God. The pivotal event in Neil's life was an occurrence both terrible and ordinary: the death of his wife Sarah. Neil was consumed with grief after she died, a grief that was excruciating not only because of its intrinsic magnitude, but because it also renewed and emphasized the previous pains of his life. Her death forced him to reexamine his relationship with God, and in doing so he began a journey that would change him forever.

Neil was born with a congenital abnormality that caused his left thigh to be externally rotated and several inches shorter than his right; the medical term for it was proximal femoral focus deficiency. Most people he met assumed God was responsible for this, but Neil's mother hadn't witnessed any visitations while carrying him; his condition was the result of improper limb development during the sixth week of gestation, nothing more. In fact, as far as Neil's mother was concerned, blame rested with his absent father, whose income might have made corrective surgery a possibility, although she never expressed this sentiment aloud.

As a child Neil had occasionally wondered if he was being punished by God, but most of the time he blamed his classmates in school for his unhappiness. Their nonchalant cruelty, their instinctive ability to locate the weaknesses in a victim's emotional armor, the way their own friendships were reinforced by their sadism: he recognized these as examples of human behavior, not divine. And although his classmates often used God's name in their taunts, Neil knew better than to blame Him for their actions.

But while Neil avoided the pitfall of blaming God, he never made the jump to loving Him; nothing in his upbringing or his personality led him to pray to God for strength or for relief. The assorted trials he faced growing up were accidental or human in origin, and he relied on strictly human resources to counter them. He became an adult who- like so many others- viewed God's actions in the abstract until they impinged upon his own life. Angelic visitations were events that befell other people, reaching him only via reports on the nightly news. His own life was entirely mundane; he worked as a superintendent for an upscale apartment building, collecting rent and performing repairs, and as far as he was concerned, circumstances were fully capable of unfolding, happily or not, without intervention from above.

This remained his experience until the death of his wife.

It was an unexceptional visitation, smaller in magnitude than most but no different in kind, bringing blessings to some and disaster to others. In this instance the angel was Nathanael, making an appearance in a downtown shopping district. Four miracle cures were effected: the elimination of carcinomas in two individuals, the regeneration of the spinal cord in a paraplegic, and the restoration of sight to a recently blinded person. There were also two miracles that were not cures: a delivery van, whose driver had fainted at the sight of the angel, was halted before it could overrun a busy sidewalk; another man was caught in a shaft of Heaven's light when the angel departed, erasing his eyes but ensuring his devotion.

Neil's wife Sarah Fisk had been one of the eight casualties. She was hit by flying glass when the angel's billowing curtain of flame shattered the storefront window of the café in which she was eating. She bled to death within minutes, and the other customers in the café- none of whom suffered even superficial injuries- could do nothing but listen to her cries of pain and fear, and eventually witness her soul's ascension toward Heaven.

Nathanael hadn't delivered any specific message; the angel's parting words, which had boomed out across the entire visitation site, were the typical Behold the power of the Lord. Of the eight casualties that day, three souls were accepted into Heaven and five were not, a closer ratio than the average for deaths by all causes. Sixty-two people received medical treatment for injuries ranging from slight concussions to ruptured eardrums to burns requiring skin grafts. Total property damage was estimated at $8.1 million, all of it excluded by private insurance companies due to the cause. Scores of people became devout worshipers in the wake of the visitation, either out of gratitude or terror.

Alas, Neil Fisk was not one of them.

○○○

After a visitation, it's common for all the witnesses to meet as a group and discuss how their common experience has affected their lives. The witnesses of Nathanael's latest visitation arranged such group meetings, and family members of those who had died were welcome, so Neil began attending. The meetings were held once a month in a basement room of a large church downtown; there were metal folding chairs arranged in rows, and in the back of the room was a table holding coffee and doughnuts. Everyone wore adhesive name tags made out in felt-tip pen.

While waiting for the meetings to start, people would stand around, drinking coffee, talking casually. Most people Neil spoke to assumed his leg was a result of the visitation, and he had to explain that he wasn't a witness, but rather the husband of one of the casualties. This didn't bother him particularly; he was used to explaining about his leg. What did bother him was the tone of the meetings themselves, when participants spoke about their reaction to the visitation: most of them talked about their newfound devotion to God, and they tried to persuade the bereaved that they should feel the same.

Neil's reaction to such attempts at persuasion depended on who was making it. When it was an ordinary witness, he found it merely irritating. When someone who'd received a miracle cure told him to love God, he had to restrain an impulse to strangle the person. But what he found most disquieting of all was hearing the same suggestion from a man named Tony Crane; Tony's wife had died in the visitation too, and he now projected an air of groveling with his every movement. In hushed, tearful tones he explained how he had accepted his role as one of God's subjects, and he advised Neil to do likewise.

Neil didn't stop attending the meetings- he felt that he somehow owed it to Sarah to stick with them- but he found another group to go to as well, one more compatible with his own feelings: a support group devoted to those who'd lost a loved one during a visitation, and were angry at God because of it. They met every other week in a room at the local community center, and talked about the grief and rage that boiled inside of them.

All the attendees were generally sympathetic to one another, despite differences in their various attitudes toward God. Of those who'd been devout before their loss, some struggled with the task of remaining so, while others gave up their devotion without a second glance. Of those who'd never been devout, some felt their position had been validated, while others were faced with the near impossible task of becoming devout now. Neil found himself, to his consternation, in this last category.

Like every other nondevout person, Neil had never expended much energy on where his soul would end up; he'd always assumed his destination was Hell, and he accepted that. That was the way of things, and Hell, after all, was not physically worse than the mortal plane.

It meant permanent exile from God, no more and no less; the truth of this was plain for anyone to see on those occasions when Hell manifested itself. These happened on a regular basis; the ground seemed to become transparent, and you could see Hell as if you were looking through a hole in the floor. The lost souls looked no different than the living, their eternal bodies resembling mortal ones. You couldn't communicate with them- their exile from God meant that they couldn't apprehend the mortal plane where His actions were still felt- but as long as the manifestation lasted you could hear them talk, laugh, or cry, just as they had when they were alive.

People varied widely in their reactions to these manifestations. Most devout people were galvanized, not by the sight of anything frightening, but at being reminded that eternity outside paradise was a possibility. Neil, by contrast, was one of those who were unmoved; as far as he could tell, the lost souls as a group were no unhappier than he was, their existence no worse than his in the mortal plane, and in some ways better: his eternal body would be unhampered by congenital abnormalities.

Of course, everyone knew that Heaven was incomparably superior, but to Neil it had always seemed too remote to consider, like wealth or fame or glamour. For people like him, Hell was where you went when you died, and he saw no point in restructuring his life in hopes of avoiding that. And since God hadn't previously played a role in Neil's life, he wasn't afraid of being exiled from God. The prospect of living without interference, living in a world where windfalls and misfortunes were never by design, held no terror for him.

Now that Sarah was in Heaven, his situation had changed. Neil wanted more than anything to be reunited with her, and the only way to get to Heaven was to love God with all his heart.

○○○

This is Neil's story, but telling it properly requires telling the stories of two other individuals whose paths became entwined with his. The first of these is Janice Reilly.

What people assumed about Neil had in fact happened to Janice. When Janice's mother was eight months pregnant with her, she lost control of the car she was driving and collided with a telephone pole during a sudden hailstorm, fists of ice dropping out of a clear blue sky and littering the road like a spill of giant ball bearings. She was sitting in her car, shaken but unhurt, when she saw a knot of silver flames- later identified as the angel Bardiel- float across the sky. The sight petrified her, but not so much that she didn't notice the peculiar settling sensation in her womb. A subsequent ultrasound revealed that the unborn Janice Reilly no longer had legs; flipperlike feet grew directly from her hip sockets.

Janice's life might have gone the way of Neil's, if not for what happened two days after the ultrasound. Janice's parents were sitting at their kitchen table, crying and asking what they had done to deserve this, when they received a vision: the saved souls of four deceased relatives appeared before them, suffusing the kitchen with a golden glow. The saved never spoke, but their beatific smiles induced a feeling of serenity in whoever saw them. From that moment on, the Reillys were certain that their daughter's condition was not a punishment.

As a result, Janice grew up thinking of her legless condition as a gift; her parents explained that God had given her a special assignment because He considered her equal to the task, and she vowed that she would not let Him down. Without pride or defiance, she saw it as her responsibility to show others that her condition did not indicate weakness, but rather strength.

As a child, she was fully accepted by her schoolmates; when you're as pretty, confident, and charismatic as she was, children don't even notice that you're in a wheelchair. It was when she was a teenager that she realized that the able-bodied people in her school were not the ones who most needed convincing. It was more important for her to set an example for other handicapped individuals, whether they had been touched by God or not, no matter where they lived. Janice began speaking before audiences, telling those with disabilities that they had the strength God required of them.

Over time she developed a reputation, and a following. She made a living writing and speaking, and established a nonprofit organization dedicated to promoting her message. People sent her letters thanking her for changing their lives, and receiving those gave her a sense of fulfillment of a sort that Neil had never experienced.

This was Janice's life up until she herself witnessed a visitation by the angel Rashiel. She was letting herself into her house when the tremors began; at first she thought they were of natural origin, although she didn't live in a geologically active area, and waited in the doorway for them to subside. Several seconds later she caught a glimpse of silver in the sky and realized it was an angel, just before she lost consciousness.

Janice awoke to the biggest surprise of her life: the sight of her two new legs, long, muscular, and fully functional.

She was startled the first time she stood up: she was taller than she expected. Balancing at such a height without the use of her arms was unnerving, and simultaneously feeling the texture of the ground through the soles of her feet made it positively bizarre. Rescue workers, finding her wandering down the street dazedly, thought she was in shock until she- marveling at her ability to face them at eye level- explained to them what had happened.

When statistics were gathered for the visitation, the restoration of Janice's legs was recorded as a blessing, and she was humbly grateful for her good fortune. It was at the first of the support group meetings that a feeling of guilt began to creep in. There Janice met two individuals with cancer who'd witnessed Rashiel's visitation, thought their cure was at hand, and been bitterly disappointed when they realized they'd been passed over. Janice found herself wondering, why had she received a blessing when they had not?

Janice's family and friends considered the restoration of her legs a reward for excelling at the task God had set for her, but for Janice, this interpretation raised another question. Did He intend for her to stop? Surely not; evangelism provided the central direction of her life, and there was no limit to the number of people who needed to hear her message. Her continuing to preach was the best action she could take, both for herself and for others.

Her reservations grew during her first speaking engagement after the visitation, before an audience of people recently paralyzed and now wheelchair-bound. Janice delivered her usual words of inspiration, assuring them that they had the strength needed for the challenges ahead; it was during the Q&A that she was asked if the restoration of her legs meant she had passed her test. Janice didn't know what to say; she could hardly promise them that one day their marks would be erased. In fact, she realized, any implication that she'd been rewarded could be interpreted as criticism of others who remained afflicted, and she didn't want that. All she could tell them was that she didn't know why she'd been cured, but it was obvious they found that an unsatisfying answer.

Janice returned home disquieted. She still believed in her message, but as far as her audiences were concerned, she'd lost her greatest source of credibility. How could she inspire others who were touched by God to see their condition as a badge of strength, when she no longer shared their condition?

She considered whether this might be a challenge, a test of her ability to spread His word. Clearly God had made her task more difficult than it was before; perhaps the restoration of her legs was an obstacle for her to overcome, just as their earlier removal had been.

This interpretation failed her at her next scheduled engagement. The audience was a group of witnesses to a visitation by Nathanael; she was often invited to speak to such groups in the hopes that those who suffered might draw encouragement from her. Rather than sidestep the issue, she began with an account of the visitation she herself had recently experienced. She explained that while it might appear she was a beneficiary, she was in fact facing her own challenge: like them, she was being forced to draw on resources previously untapped.

She realized, too late, that she had said the wrong thing. A man in the audience with a misshapen leg stood up and challenged her: was she seriously suggesting that the restoration of her legs was comparable to the loss of his wife? Could she really be equating her trials with his own?

Janice immediately assured him that she wasn't, and that she couldn't imagine the pain he was experiencing. But, she said, it wasn't God's intention that everyone be subjected to the same kind of trial, but only that each person face his or her own trial, whatever it might be. The difficulty of any trial was subjective, and there was no way to compare two individuals' experiences. And just as those whose suffering seemed greater than his should have compassion for him, so should he have compassion for those whose suffering seemed less.

The man was having none of it. She had received what anyone else would have considered a fantastic blessing, and she was complaining about it. He stormed out of the meeting while Janice was still trying to explain.

That man, of course, was Neil Fisk. Neil had had Janice Reilly's name mentioned to him for much of his life, most often by people who were convinced his misshapen leg was a sign from God. These people cited her as an example he should follow, telling him that her attitude was the proper response to a physical handicap. Neil couldn't deny that her leglessness was a far worse condition than his distorted femur. Unfortunately, he found her attitude so foreign that, even in the best of times, he'd never been able to learn anything from her. Now, in the depths of his grief and mystified as to why she had received a gift she didn't need, Neil found her words offensive.

In the days that followed, Janice found herself more and more plagued by doubts, unable to decide what the restoration of her legs meant. Was she being ungrateful for a gift she'd received? Was it both a blessing and a test? Perhaps it was a punishment, an indication that she had not performed her duty well enough. There were many possibilities, and she didn't know which one to believe.

○○○

There is one other person who played an important role in Neil's story, even though he and Neil did not meet until Neil's journey was nearly over. That person's name is Ethan Mead.

Ethan had been raised in a family that was devout, but not profoundly so. His parents credited God with their above-average health and their comfortable economic status, although they hadn't witnessed any visitations or received any visions; they simply trusted that God was, directly or indirectly, responsible for their good fortune. Their devotion had never been put to any serious test, and might not have withstood one; their love for God was based in their satisfaction with the status quo.

Ethan was not like his parents, though. Ever since childhood he'd felt certain that God had a special role for him to play, and he waited for a sign telling him what that role was. He'd have liked to have become a preacher, but felt he hadn't any compelling testimony to offer; his vague feelings of expectation weren't enough. He longed for an encounter with the divine to provide him with direction.

He could have gone to one of the holy sites, those places where- for reasons unknown- angelic visitations occurred on a regular basis, but he felt that such an action would be presumptuous of him. The holy sites were usually the last resort of the desperate, those people seeking either a miracle cure to repair their bodies or a glimpse of Heaven's light to repair their souls, and Ethan was not desperate. He decided that he'd been set along his own course, and in time the reason for it would become clear. While waiting for that day, he lived his life as best he could: he worked as a librarian, married a woman named Claire, raised two children. All the while, he remained watchful for signs of a greater destiny.

Ethan was certain his time had come when he became witness to a visitation by Rashiel, the same visitation that- miles away- restored Janice Reilly's legs. Ethan was by himself when it happened; he was walking toward his car in the center of a parking lot, when the ground began to shudder. Instinctively he knew it was a visitation, and he assumed a kneeling position, feeling no fear, only exhilaration and awe at the prospect of learning his calling.

The ground became still after a minute, and Ethan looked around, but didn't otherwise move. Only after waiting for several more minutes did he rise to his feet. There was a large crack in the asphalt, beginning directly in front of him and following a meandering path down the street. The crack seemed to be pointing him in a specific direction, so he ran alongside it for several blocks until he encountered other survivors, a man and a woman climbing out of a modest fissure that had opened up directly beneath them. He waited with the two of them until rescuers arrived and brought them to a shelter.

Ethan attended the support group meetings that followed and met the other witnesses to Rashiel's visitation. Over the course of a few meetings, he became aware of certain patterns among the witnesses. Of course there were those who'd been injured and those who'd received miracle cures. But there were also those whose lives were changed in other ways: the man and woman he'd first met fell in love and were soon engaged; a woman who'd been pinned beneath a collapsed wall was inspired to become an EMT after being rescued. One business owner formed an alliance that averted her impending bankruptcy, while another whose business was destroyed saw it as a message that he change his ways. It seemed that everyone except Ethan had found a way to understand what had happened to them.

He hadn't been cursed or blessed in any obvious way, and he didn't know what message he was intended to receive. His wife Claire suggested that he consider the visitation a reminder that he appreciate what he had, but Ethan found that unsatisfying, reasoning that every visitation- no matter where it occurred- served that function, and the fact that he'd witnessed a visitation firsthand had to have greater significance. His mind was preyed upon by the idea that he'd missed an opportunity, that there was a fellow witness whom he was intended to meet but hadn't. This visitation had to be the sign he'd been waiting for; he couldn't just disregard it. But that didn't tell him what he was supposed to do.

Ethan eventually resorted to the process of elimination: he got hold of a list of all the witnesses, and crossed off those who had a clear interpretation of their experience, reasoning that one of those remaining must be the person whose fate was somehow intertwined with his. Among those who were confused or uncertain about the visitation's meaning would be the one he was intended to meet.

When he had finished crossing names off his list, there was only one left: Janice Reilly.

○○○

In public Neil was able to mask his grief as adults are expected to, but in the privacy of his apartment, the floodgates of emotion burst open. The awareness of Sarah's absence would overwhelm him, and then he'd collapse on the floor and weep. He'd curl up into a ball, his body racked by hiccuping sobs, tears and mucus streaming down his face, the anguish coming in ever-increasing waves until it was more than he could bear, more intense than he'd have believed possible. Minutes or hours later it would leave, and he would fall asleep, exhausted. And the next morning he would wake up and face the prospect of another day without Sarah.

An elderly woman in Neil's apartment building tried to comfort him by telling him that the pain would lessen in time, and while he would never forget his wife, he would at least be able to move on. Then he would meet someone else one day and find happiness with her, and he would learn to love God and thus ascend to Heaven when his time came.

This woman's intentions were good, but Neil was in no position to find any comfort in her words. Sarah's absence felt like an open wound, and the prospect that someday he would no longer feel pain at her loss seemed not just remote, but a physical impossibility. If suicide would have ended his pain, he'd have done it without hesitation, but that would only ensure that his separation from Sarah was permanent.

The topic of suicide regularly came up at the support group meetings, and inevitably led to someone mentioning Robin Pearson, a woman who used to come to the meetings several months before Neil began attending. Robin's husband had been afflicted with stomach cancer during a visitation by the angel Makatiel. She stayed in his hospital room for days at a stretch, only for him to die unexpectedly when she was home doing laundry. A nurse who'd been present told Robin that his soul had ascended, and so Robin had begun attending the support group meetings.

Many months later, Robin came to the meeting shaking with rage. There'd been a manifestation of Hell near her house, and she'd seen her husband among the lost souls. She'd confronted the nurse, who admitted to lying in the hopes that Robin would learn to love God, so that at least she would be saved even if her husband hadn't been. Robin wasn't at the next meeting, and at the meeting after that the group learned she had committed suicide to rejoin her husband.

None of them knew the status of Robin's and her husband's relationship in the afterlife, but successes were known to happen; some couples had indeed been happily reunited through suicide. The support group had attendees whose spouses had descended to Hell, and they talked about being torn between wanting to remain alive and wanting to rejoin their spouses. Neil wasn't in their situation, but his first response when listening to them had been envy: if Sarah had gone to Hell, suicide would be the solution to all his problems.

This led to a shameful self-knowledge for Neil. He realized that if he had to choose between going to Hell while Sarah went to Heaven, or having both of them go to Hell together, he would choose the latter: he would rather she be exiled from God than separated from him. He knew it was selfish, but he couldn't change how he felt: he believed Sarah could be happy in either place, but he could only be happy with her.

Neil's previous experiences with women had never been good. All too often he'd begin flirting with a woman while sitting at a bar, only to have her remember an appointment elsewhere the moment he stood up and his shortened leg came into view. Once, a woman he'd been dating for several weeks broke off their relationship, explaining that while she herself didn't consider his leg a defect, whenever they were seen in public together other people assumed there must be something wrong with her for being with him, and surely he could understand how unfair that was to her?

Sarah had been the first woman Neil met whose demeanor hadn't changed one bit, whose expression hadn't flickered toward pity or horror or even surprise when she first saw his leg. For that reason alone it was predictable that Neil would become infatuated with her; by the time he saw all the sides of her personality, he'd completely fallen in love with her. And because his best qualities came out when he was with her, she fell in love with him too.

Neil had been surprised when Sarah told him she was devout. There weren't many signs of her devotion- she didn't go to church, sharing Neil's dislike for the attitudes of most people who attended- but in her own, quiet way she was grateful to God for her life. She never tried to convert Neil, saying that devotion would come from within or not at all. They rarely had any cause to mention God, and most of the time it would've been easy for Neil to imagine that Sarah's views on God matched his own.

This is not to say that Sarah's devotion had no effect on Neil. On the contrary, Sarah was far and away the best argument for loving God that he had ever encountered. If love of God had contributed to making her the person she was, then perhaps it did make sense. During the years that the two of them were married, his outlook on life improved, and it probably would have reached the point where he was thankful to God, if he and Sarah had grown old together.

Sarah's death removed that particular possibility, but it needn't have closed the door on Neil's loving God. Neil could have taken it as a reminder that no one can count on having decades left. He could have been moved by the realization that, had he died with her, his soul would've been lost and the two of them separated for eternity. He could have seen Sarah's death as a wake-up call, telling him to love God while he still had the chance.

Instead Neil became actively resentful of God. Sarah had been the greatest blessing of his life, and God had taken her away. Now he was expected to love Him for it? For Neil, it was like having a kidnapper demand love as ransom for his wife's return. Obedience he might have managed, but sincere, heart-felt love? That was a ransom he couldn't pay.

This paradox confronted several people in the support group. One of the attendees, a man named Phil Soames, correctly pointed out that thinking of it as a condition to be met would guarantee failure. You couldn't love God as a means to an end, you had to love Him for Himself. If your ultimate goal in loving God was a reunion with your spouse, you weren't demonstrating true devotion at all.

A woman in the support group named Valerie Tommasino said they shouldn't even try. She'd been reading a book published by the humanist movement; its members considered it wrong to love a God who inflicted such pain, and advocated that people act according to their own moral sense instead of being guided by the carrot and the stick. These were people who, when they died, descended to Hell in proud defiance of God.

Neil himself had read a pamphlet of the humanist movement; what he most remembered was that it had quoted the fallen angels. Visitations of fallen angels were infrequent, and caused neither good fortune nor bad; they weren't acting under God's direction, but just passing through the mortal plane as they went about their unimaginable business. On the occasions they appeared, people would ask them questions: Did they know God's intentions? Why had they rebelled? The fallen angels' reply was always the same: Decide for yourselves. That is what we did. We advise you to do the same.

Those in the humanist movement had decided, and if it weren't for Sarah, Neil would've made the identical choice. But he wanted her back, and the only way was to find a reason to love God.

Looking for any footing on which to build their devotion, some attendees of the support group took comfort in the fact that their loved ones hadn't suffered when God took them, but instead died instantly. Neil didn't even have that; Sarah had received horrific lacerations when the glass hit her. Of course, it could have been worse. One couple's teenage son had been trapped in a fire ignited by an angel's visitation, and received full-thickness burns over eighty percent of his body before rescue workers could free him; his eventual death was a mercy. Sarah had been fortunate by comparison, but not enough to make Neil love God.

Neil could think of only one thing that would make him give thanks to God, and that was if He allowed Sarah to appear before him. It would give him immeasurable comfort just to see her smile again; he'd never been visited by a saved soul before, and a vision now would have meant more to him than at any other point in his life.

But visions don't appear just because a person needs one, and none ever came to Neil. He had to find his own way toward God.

The next time he attended the support group meeting for witnesses of Nathanael's visitation, Neil sought out Benny Vasquez, the man whose eyes had been erased by Heaven's light. Benny didn't always attend because he was now being invited to speak at other meetings; few visitations resulted in an eyeless person, since Heaven's light entered the mortal plane only in the brief moments that an angel emerged from or reentered Heaven, so the eyeless were minor celebrities, and in demand as speakers to church groups.

Benny was now as sightless as any burrowing worm: not only were his eyes and sockets missing, his skull lacked even the space for such features, the cheekbones now abutting the forehead. The light that had brought his soul as close to perfection as was possible in the mortal plane had also deformed his body; it was commonly held that this illustrated the super-fluity of physical bodies in Heaven. With the limited expressive capacity his face retained, Benny always wore a blissful, rapturous smile.

Neil hoped Benny could say something to help him love God. Benny described Heaven's light as infinitely beautiful, a sight of such compelling majesty that it vanquished all doubts. It constituted incontrovertible proof that God should be loved, an explanation that made it as obvious as 1+1=2. Unfortunately, while Benny could offer many analogies for the effect of Heaven's light, he couldn't duplicate that effect with his own words. Those who were already devout found Benny's descriptions thrilling, but to Neil, they seemed frustratingly vague. So he looked elsewhere for counsel.

Accept the mystery, said the minister of the local church. If you can love God even though your questions go unanswered, you'll be the better for it.

Admit that you need Him, said the popular book of spiritual advice he bought. When you realize that self-sufficiency is an illusion, you'll be ready.

Submit yourself completely and utterly, said the preacher on the television. Receiving torment is how you prove your love. Acceptance may not bring you relief in this life, but resistance will only worsen your punishment.

All of these strategies have proven successful for different individuals; any one of them, once internalized, can bring a person to devotion. But these are not always easy to adopt, and Neil was one who found them impossible.

Neil finally tried talking to Sarah's parents, which was an indication of how desperate he was: his relationship with them had always been tense. While they loved Sarah, they often chided her for not being demonstrative enough in her devotion, and they'd been shocked when she married a man who wasn't devout at all. For her part, Sarah had always considered her parents too judgmental, and their disapproval of Neil only reinforced her opinion. But now Neil felt he had something in common with them- after all, they were all mourning Sarah's loss- and so he visited them in their suburban colonial, hoping they could help him in his grief.

How wrong he was. Instead of sympathy, what Neil got from Sarah's parents was blame for her death. They'd come to this conclusion in the weeks after Sarah's funeral; they reasoned that she'd been taken to send him a message, and that they were forced to endure her loss solely because he hadn't been devout. They were now convinced that, his previous explanations notwithstanding, Neil's deformed leg was in fact God's doing, and if only he'd been properly chastened by it, Sarah might still be alive.

Their reaction shouldn't have come as a surprise: throughout Neil's life, people had attributed moral significance to his leg even though God wasn't responsible for it. Now that he'd suffered a misfortune for which God was unambiguously responsible, it was inevitable that someone would assume he deserved it. It was purely by chance that Neil heard this sentiment when he was at his most vulnerable, and it could have the greatest impact on him.

Neil didn't think his in-laws were right, but he began to wonder if he might not be better off if he did. Perhaps, he thought, it'd be better to live in a story where the righteous were rewarded and the sinners were punished, even if the criteria for righteousness and sinfulness eluded him, than to live in a reality where there was no justice at all. It would mean casting himself in the role of sinner, so it was hardly a comforting lie, but it offered one reward that his own ethics couldn't: believing it would reunite him with Sarah.

Sometimes even bad advice can point a man in the right direction. It was in this manner that his in-laws' accusations ultimately pushed Neil closer to God.

○○○

More than once when she was evangelizing, Janice had been asked if she ever wished she had legs, and she had always answered- honestly- no, she didn't. She was content as she was. Sometimes her questioner would point out that she couldn't miss what she'd never known, and she might feel differently if she'd been born with legs and lost them later on. Janice never denied that. But she could truthfully say that she felt no sense of being incomplete, no envy for people with legs; being legless was part of her identity. She'd never bothered with prosthetics, and had a surgical procedure been available to provide her with legs, she'd have turned it down. She had never considered the possibility that God might restore her legs.

One of the unexpected side effects of having legs was the increased attention she received from men. In the past she'd mostly attracted men with amputee fetishes or sainthood complexes; now all sorts of men seemed drawn to her. So when she first noticed Ethan Mead's interest in her, she thought it was romantic in nature; this possibility was particularly distressing since he was obviously married.

Ethan had begun talking to Janice at the support group meetings, and then began attending her public speaking engagements. It was when he suggested they have lunch together that Janice asked him about his intentions, and he explained his theory. He didn't know how his fate was intertwined with hers; he knew only that it was. She was skeptical, but she didn't reject his theory outright. Ethan admitted that he didn't have answers for her own questions, but he was eager to do anything he could to help her find them. Janice cautiously agreed to help him in his search for meaning, and Ethan promised that he wouldn't be a burden. They met on a regular basis and talked about the significance of visitations.

Meanwhile Ethan's wife Claire grew worried. Ethan assured her that he had no romantic feelings toward Janice, but that didn't alleviate her concerns. She knew that extreme circumstances could create a bond between individuals, and she feared that Ethan's relationship with Janice- romantic or not- would threaten their marriage.

Ethan suggested to Janice that he, as a librarian, could help her do some research. Neither of them had ever heard of a previous instance where God had left His mark on a person in one visitation and removed it in another. Ethan looked for previous examples in hopes that they might shed some light on Janice's situation. There were a few instances of individuals receiving multiple miracle cures over their lifetimes, but their illnesses or disabilities had always been of natural origin, not given to them in a visitation. There was one anecdotal report of a man being struck blind for his sins, changing his ways, and later having his sight restored, but it was classified as an urban legend.

Even if that account had a basis in truth, it didn't provide a useful precedent for Janice's situation: her legs had been removed before her birth, and so couldn't have been a punishment for anything she'd done. Was it possible that Janice's condition had been a punishment for something her mother or father had done? Could her restoration mean they had finally earned her cure? She couldn't believe that.

If her deceased relatives were to appear in a vision, Janice would've been reassured about the restoration of her legs. The fact that they didn't made her suspect something was amiss, but she didn't believe that it was a punishment. Perhaps it had been a mistake, and she'd received a miracle meant for someone else; perhaps it was a test, to see how she would respond to being given too much. In either case, there seemed only one course of action: she would, with utmost gratitude and humility, offer to return her gift. To do so, she would go on a pilgrimage.

Pilgrims traveled great distances to visit the holy sites and wait for a visitation, hoping for a miracle cure. Whereas in most of the world one could wait an entire lifetime and never experience a visitation, at a holy site one might only wait months, sometimes weeks. Pilgrims knew that the odds of being cured were still poor; of those who stayed long enough to witness a visitation, the majority did not receive a cure. But they were often happy just to have seen an angel, and they returned home better able to face what awaited them, whether it be imminent death or life with a crippling disability. And of course, just living through a visitation made many people appreciate their situations; invariably, a small number of pilgrims were killed during each visitation.

Janice was willing to accept the outcome whatever it was. If God saw fit to take her, she was ready. If God removed her legs again, she would resume the work she'd always done. If God let her legs remain, she hoped she would receive the epiphany she needed to speak with conviction about her gift.

She hoped, however, that her miracle would be taken back and given to someone who truly needed it. She didn't suggest to anyone that they accompany her in hopes of receiving the miracle she was returning, feeling that that would've been presumptuous, but she privately considered her pilgrimage a request on behalf of those who were in need.

Her friends and family were confused at Janice's decision, seeing it as questioning God. As word spread, she received many letters from followers, variously expressing dismay, bafflement, and admiration for her willingness to make such a sacrifice.

As for Ethan, he was completely supportive of Janice's decision, and excited for himself. He now understood the significance of Rashiel's visitation for him: it indicated that the time had come for him to act. His wife Claire strenuously opposed his leaving, pointing out that he had no idea how long he might be away, and that she and their children needed him too. It grieved him to go without her support, but he had no choice. Ethan would go on a pilgrimage, and at the next visitation, he would learn what God intended for him.

○○○

Neil's visit to Sarah's parents caused him to give further thought to his conversation with Benny Vasquez. While he hadn't gotten a lot out of Benny's words, he'd been impressed by the absoluteness of Benny's devotion. No matter what misfortune befell him in the future, Benny's love of God would never waver, and he would ascend to Heaven when he died. That fact offered Neil a very slim opportunity, one that had seemed so unattractive he hadn't considered it before; but now, as he was growing more desperate, it was beginning to look expedient.

Every holy site had its pilgrims who, rather than looking for a miracle cure, deliberately sought out Heaven's light. Those who saw it were always accepted into Heaven when they died, no matter how selfish their motives had been; there were some who wished to have their ambivalence removed so they could be reunited with their loved ones, and others who'd always lived a sinful life and wanted to escape the consequences.

In the past there'd been some doubt as to whether Heaven's light could indeed overcome all the spiritual obstacles to becoming saved. The debate ended after the case of Barry Larsen, a serial rapist and murderer who, while disposing of the body of his latest victim, witnessed an angel's visitation and saw Heaven's light. At Larsen's execution, his soul was seen ascending to Heaven, much to the outrage of his victims' families. Priests tried to console them, assuring them- on the basis of no evidence whatsoever- that Heaven's light must have subjected Larsen to many lifetimes' worth of penance in a moment, but their words provided little comfort.

For Neil this offered a loophole, an answer to Phil Soames's objection; it was the one way that he could love Sarah more than he loved God, and still be reunited with her. It was how he could be selfish and still get into Heaven. Others had done it; perhaps he could too. It might not be just, but at least it was predictable.

At an instinctual level, Neil was averse to the idea: it sounded like undergoing brainwashing as a cure for depression. He couldn't help but think that it would change his personality so drastically that he'd cease to be himself. Then he remembered that everyone in Heaven had undergone a similar transformation; the saved were just like the eyeless except that they no longer had bodies. This gave Neil a clearer image of what he was working toward: no matter whether he became devout by seeing Heaven's light or by a lifetime of effort, any ultimate reunion with Sarah couldn't re-create what they'd shared in the mortal plane. In Heaven, they would both be different, and their love for each other would be mixed with the love that all the saved felt for everything.

This realization didn't diminish Neil's longing for a reunion with Sarah. In fact it sharpened his desire, because it meant that the reward would be the same no matter what means he used to achieve it; the shortcut led to precisely the same destination as the conventional path.

On the other hand, seeking Heaven's light was far more difficult than an ordinary pilgrimage, and far more dangerous. Heaven's light leaked through only when an angel entered or left the mortal plane, and since there was no way to predict where an angel would first appear, light-seekers had to converge on the angel after its arrival and follow it until its departure. To maximize their chances of being in the narrow shaft of Heaven's light, they followed the angel as closely as possible during its visitation; depending on the angel involved, this might mean staying alongside the funnel of a tornado, the wavefront of a flash flood, or the expanding tip of a chasm as it split apart the landscape. Far more light-seekers died in the attempt than succeeded.

Statistics about the souls of failed light-seekers were difficult to compile, since there were few witnesses to such expeditions, but the numbers so far were not encouraging. In sharp contrast to ordinary pilgrims who died without receiving their sought-after cure, of which roughly half were admitted into Heaven, every single failed light-seeker had descended to Hell. Perhaps only people who were already lost ever considered seeking Heaven's light, or perhaps death in such circumstances was considered suicide. In any case, it was clear to Neil that he needed to be ready to accept the consequences of embarking on such an attempt.

The entire idea had an all-or-nothing quality to it that Neil found both frightening and attractive. He found the prospect of going on with his life, trying to love God, increasingly maddening. He might try for decades and not succeed. He might not even have that long; as he'd been reminded so often lately, visitations served as a warning to prepare one's soul, because death might come at any time. He could die tomorrow, and there was no chance of his becoming devout in the near future by conventional means.

It's perhaps ironic that, given his history of not following Janice Reilly's example, Neil took notice when she reversed her position. He was eating breakfast when he happened to see an item in the newspaper about her plans for a pilgrimage, and his immediate reaction was anger: how many blessings would it take to satisfy that woman? After considering it more, he decided that if she, having received a blessing, deemed it appropriate to seek God's assistance in coming to terms with it, then there was no reason he, having received such terrible misfortune, shouldn't do the same. And that was enough to tip him over the edge.

○○○

Holy sites were invariably in inhospitable places: one was an atoll in the middle of the ocean, while another was in the mountains at an elevation of twenty thousand feet. The one that Neil traveled to was in a desert, an expanse of cracked mud reaching miles in every direction; it was desolate, but it was relatively accessible and thus popular among pilgrims. The appearance of the holy site was an object lesson in what happened when the celestial and terrestrial realms touched: the landscape was variously scarred by lava flows, gaping fissures, and impact craters. Vegetation was scarce and ephemeral, restricted to growing in the interval after soil was deposited by floodwaters or whirlwinds and before it was scoured away again.

Pilgrims took up residence all over the site, forming temporary villages with their tents and camper vans; they all made guesses as to what location would maximize their chances of seeing the angel while minimizing the risk of injury or death. Some protection was offered by curved banks of sandbags, left over from years past and rebuilt as needed. A site-specific paramedic and fire department ensured that paths were kept clear so rescue vehicles could go where they were needed. Pilgrims either brought their own food and water or purchased them from vendors charging exorbitant prices; everyone paid a fee to cover the cost of waste removal.

Light-seekers always had off-road vehicles to better cross rough terrain when it came time to follow the angel. Those who could afford it drove alone; those who couldn't formed groups of two or three or four. Neil didn't want to be a passenger reliant on another person, nor did he want the responsibility of driving anyone else. This might be his final act on earth, and he felt he should do it alone. The cost of Sarah's funeral had depleted their savings, so Neil sold all his possessions in order to purchase a suitable vehicle: a pickup truck equipped with aggressively knurled tires and heavy-duty shock absorbers.

As soon as he arrived, Neil started doing what all the other light-seekers did: crisscrossing the site in his vehicle, trying to familiarize himself with its topography. It was on one of his drives around the site's perimeter that he met Ethan; Ethan flagged him down after his own car had stalled on his return from the nearest grocery store, eighty miles away. Neil helped him get his car started again, and then, at Ethan's insistence, followed him back to his campsite for dinner. Janice wasn't there when they arrived, having gone to visit some pilgrims several tents over; Neil listened politely while Ethan- heating prepackaged meals over a bottle of propane- began describing the events that had brought him to the holy site.

When Ethan mentioned Janice Reilly's name, Neil couldn't mask his surprise. He had no desire to speak with her again, and immediately excused himself to leave. He was explaining to a puzzled Ethan that he'd forgotten a previous engagement when Janice arrived.

She was startled to see Neil there, but asked him to stay. Ethan explained why he'd invited Neil to dinner, and Janice told him where she and Neil had met. Then she asked Neil what had brought him to the holy site. When he told them he was a light-seeker, Ethan and Janice immediately tried to persuade him to reconsider his plans. He might be committing suicide, said Ethan, and there were always better alternatives than suicide. Seeing Heaven's light was not the answer, said Janice; that wasn't what God wanted. Neil stiffly thanked them for their concern, and left.

During the weeks of waiting, Neil spent every day driving around the site; maps were available, and were updated after each visitation, but they were no substitute for driving the terrain yourself. On occasion he would see a light-seeker who was obviously experienced in off-road driving, and ask him- the vast majority of the light-seekers were men- for tips on negotiating a specific type of terrain. Some had been at the site for several visitations, having neither succeeded nor failed at their previous attempts. They were glad to share tips on how best to pursue an angel, but never offered any personal information about themselves. Neil found the tone of their conversation peculiar, simultaneously hopeful and hopeless, and wondered if he sounded the same.

Ethan and Janice passed the time by getting to know some of the other pilgrims. Their reactions to Janice's situation were mixed: some thought her ungrateful, while others thought her generous. Most found Ethan's story interesting, since he was one of the very few pilgrims seeking something other than a miracle cure. For the most part, there was a feeling of camaraderie that sustained them during the long wait.

Neil was driving around in his truck when dark clouds began coalescing in the southeast, and the word came over the CB radio that a visitation had begun. He stopped the vehicle to insert earplugs into his ears and don his helmet; by the time he was finished, flashes of lightning were visible, and a light-seeker near the angel reported that it was Barakiel, and it appeared to be moving due north. Neil turned his truck east in anticipation and began driving at full speed.

There was no rain or wind, only dark clouds from which lightning emerged. Over the radio other light-seekers relayed estimates of the angel's direction and speed, and Neil headed northeast to get in front of it. At first he could gauge his distance from the storm by counting how long it took for the thunder to arrive, but soon the lightning bolts were striking so frequently that he couldn't match up the sounds with the individual strikes.

He saw the vehicles of two other light-seekers converging. They began driving in parallel, heading north, over a heavily cratered section of ground, bouncing over small ones and swerving to avoid the larger ones. Bolts of lightning were striking the ground everywhere, but they appeared to be radiating from a point south of Neil's position; the angel was directly behind him, and closing.

Even through his earplugs, the roar was deafening. Neil could feel his hair rising from his skin as the electric charge built up around him. He kept glancing in his rearview mirror, trying to ascertain where the angel was while wondering how close he ought to get.

His vision grew so crowded with afterimages that it became difficult to distinguish actual bolts of lightning among them. Squinting at the dazzle in his mirror, he realized he was looking at a continuous bolt of lightning, undulating but uninterrupted. He tilted the driver's-side mirror upward to get a better look, and saw the source of the lightning bolt, a seething, writhing mass of flames, silver against the dusky clouds: the angel Barakiel.

It was then, while Neil was transfixed and paralyzed by what he saw, that his pickup truck crested a sharp outcropping of rock and became airborne. The truck smashed into a boulder, the entire force of the impact concentrated on the vehicle's left front end, crumpling it like foil. The intrusion into the driver's compartment fractured both of Neil's legs and nicked his left femoral artery. Neil began, slowly but surely, bleeding to death.

He didn't try to move; he wasn't in physical pain at the moment, but he somehow knew that the slightest movement would be excruciating. It was obvious that he was pinned in the truck, and there was no way he could pursue Barakiel even if he weren't. Helplessly, he watched the lightning storm move further and further away.

As he watched it, Neil began crying. He was filled with a mixture of regret and self-contempt, cursing himself for ever thinking that such a scheme could succeed. He would have begged for the opportunity to do it over again, promised to spend the rest of his days learning to love God, if only he could live, but he knew that no bargaining was possible and he had only himself to blame. He apologized to Sarah for losing his chance at being reunited with her, for throwing his life away on a gamble instead of playing it safe. He prayed that she understood that he'd been motivated by his love for her, and that she would forgive him.

Through his tears he saw a woman running toward him, and recognized her as Janice Reilly. He realized his truck had crashed no more than a hundred yards from her and Ethan's campsite. There was nothing she could do, though; he could feel the blood draining out of him, and knew that he wouldn't live long enough for a rescue vehicle to arrive. He thought Janice was calling to him, but his ears were ringing too badly for him to hear anything. He could see Ethan Mead behind her, also starting to run toward him.

Then there was a flash of light and Janice was knocked off her feet as if she'd been struck by a sledgehammer. At first he thought she'd been hit by lightning, but then he realized that the lightning had already ceased. It was when she stood up again that he saw her face, steam rising from newly featureless skin, and he realized that Janice had been struck by Heaven's light.

Neil looked up, but all he saw were clouds; the shaft of light was gone. It seemed as if God were taunting him, not only by showing him the prize he'd lost his life trying to acquire while still holding it out of reach, but also by giving it to someone who didn't need it or even want it. God had already wasted a miracle on Janice, and now He was doing it again.

It was at that moment that another beam of Heaven's light penetrated the cloud cover and struck Neil, trapped in his vehicle.

Like a thousand hypodermic needles the light punctured his flesh and scraped across his bones. The light unmade his eyes, turning him into not a formerly sighted being, but a being never intended to possess vision. And in doing so the light revealed to Neil all the reasons he should love God.

He loved Him with an utterness beyond what humans can experience for one another. To say it was unconditional was inadequate, because even the word "unconditional" required the concept of a condition and such an idea was no longer comprehensible to him: every phenomenon in the universe was nothing less than an explicit reason to love Him. No circumstance could be an obstacle or even an irrelevancy, but only another reason to be grateful, a further inducement to love. Neil thought of the grief that had driven him to suicidal recklessness, and the pain and terror that Sarah had experienced before she died, and still he loved God, not in spite of their suffering, but because of it.

He renounced all his previous anger and ambivalence and desire for answers. He was grateful for all the pain he'd endured, contrite for not previously recognizing it as the gift it was, euphoric that he was now being granted this insight into his true purpose. He understood how life was an undeserved bounty, how even the most virtuous were not worthy of the glories of the mortal plane.

For him the mystery was solved, because he understood that everything in life is love, even pain, especially pain.

So minutes later, when Neil finally bled to death, he was truly worthy of salvation.

And God sent him to Hell anyway.

○○○

Ethan saw all of this. He saw Neil and Janice remade by Heaven's light, and he saw the pious love on their eyeless faces. He saw the skies become clear and the sunlight return. He was holding Neil's hand, waiting for the paramedics, when Neil died, and he saw Neil's soul leave his body and rise toward Heaven, only to descend into Hell.

Janice didn't see it, for by then her eyes were already gone. Ethan was the sole witness, and he realized that this was God's purpose for him: to follow Janice Reilly to this point and to see what she could not.

When statistics were compiled for Barakiel's visitation, it turned out that there had been a total of ten casualties, six among light-seekers and four among ordinary pilgrims. Nine pilgrims received miracle cures; the only individuals to see Heaven's light were Janice and Neil. There were no statistics regarding how many pilgrims had felt their lives changed by the visitation, but Ethan counted himself among them.

Upon returning home, Janice resumed her evangelism, but the topic of her speeches has changed. She no longer speaks about how the physically handicapped have the resources to overcome their limitations; instead she, like the other eyeless, speaks about the unbearable beauty of God's creation. Many who used to draw inspiration from her are disappointed, feeling they've lost a spiritual leader. When Janice had spoken of the strength she had as an afflicted person, her message was rare, but now that she's eyeless, her message is commonplace. She doesn't worry about the reduction in her audience, though, because she has complete conviction in what she evangelizes.

Ethan quit his job and became a preacher so that he too could speak about his experiences. His wife Claire couldn't accept his new mission and ultimately left him, taking their children with her, but Ethan was willing to continue alone. He's developed a substantial following by telling people what happened to Neil Fisk. He tells people that they can no more expect justice in the afterlife than in the mortal plane, but he doesn't do this to dissuade them from worshiping God; on the contrary, he encourages them to do so. What he insists on is that they not love God under a misapprehension, that if they wish to love God, they be prepared to do so no matter what His intentions. God is not just, God is not kind, God is not merciful, and understanding that is essential to true devotion.

As for Neil, although he is unaware of any of Ethan's sermons, he would understand their message perfectly. His lost soul is the embodiment of Ethan's teachings.

For most of its inhabitants, Hell is not that different from Earth; its principal punishment is the regret of not having loved God enough when alive, and for many that's easily endured. For Neil, however, Hell bears no resemblance whatsoever to the mortal plane. His eternal body has well-formed legs, but he's scarcely aware of them; his eyes have been restored, but he can't bear to open them. Just as seeing Heaven's light gave him an awareness of God's presence in all things in the mortal plane, so it has made him aware of God's absence in all things in Hell. Everything Neil sees, hears, or touches causes him distress, and unlike in the mortal plane this pain is not a form of God's love, but a consequence of His absence. Neil is experiencing more anguish than was possible when he was alive, but his only response is to love God.

Neil still loves Sarah, and misses her as much as he ever did, and the knowledge that he came so close to rejoining her only makes it worse. He knows his being sent to Hell was not a result of anything he did; he knows there was no reason for it, no higher purpose being served. None of this diminishes his love for God. If there were a possibility that he could be admitted to Heaven and his suffering would end, he would not hope for it; such desires no longer occur to him.

Neil even knows that by being beyond God's awareness, he is not loved by God in return. This doesn't affect his feelings either, because unconditional love asks nothing, not even that it be returned.

And though it's been many years that he has been in Hell, beyond the awareness of God, he loves Him still. That is the nature of true devotion.

Story Notes

I first wanted to write a story about angels after seeing the movie?The Prophecy, a supernatural thriller written and directed by Gregory Widen. For a long time I tried to think of a story in which angels were characters, but couldn't come up with a scenario I liked; it was only when I started thinking about angels as phenomena of terrifying power, whose visitations resembled natural disasters, that I was able to move forward. (Perhaps I was subconsciously thinking of Annie Dillard. Later on I remembered she once wrote that if people had more belief, they'd wear crash helmets when attending church and lash themselves to the pews.)

Thinking about natural disasters led to thinking about the problem of innocent suffering. An enormous range of advice has been offered from a religious perspective to those who suffer, and it seems clear that no single response can satisfy everyone; what comforts one person inevitably strikes someone else as outrageous. Consider the Book of Job as an example.

For me, one of the unsatisfying things about the Book of Job is that, in the end, God rewards Job. Leave aside the question of whether new children can compensate for the loss of his original ones. Why does God restore Job's fortunes at all? Why the happy ending? One of the basic messages of the book is that virtue isn't always rewarded; bad things happen to good people. Job ultimately accepts this, demonstrating virtue, and is subsequently rewarded. Doesn't this undercut the message?

It seems to me that the Book of Job lacks the courage of its convictions: If the author were really committed to the idea that virtue isn't always rewarded, shouldn't the book have ended with Job still bereft of everything?

赏心悦目——审美干扰镜提案风波纪实

“美是幸福的保障。”——斯丹达尔①

彭布列顿大学一年级学生塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

我无法相信。去年我访问校园，关于这东西连一个字都没有听说。现在我到了这里，才发现人们把使用审美干扰镜作为一项规定了。要知道，我上大学有种种期望，其中一个就是把这东西去掉，这样我就可以和别人一样了。要是早知道不得不继续使用这东西，哪怕只有一点点这种可能，我也许就会选择另一所大学了。我有一种上当受骗的感觉。

下个星期我就满十八岁了，我打算在生日那天关闭我的审美干扰镜。如果他们投票决定把使用审美干扰镜作为一项规定，那我真不知道该怎么办。也许我会转学，我不知道。眼下我真想游说人们：“别投赞成票。”也许找能为这场运动做些什么。

彭布列顿大学三年级学生，天下平等学生会主席玛丽亚·德苏扎：

我们的目标非常简单。彭布列顿大学有一套道德伦理行为守则，是学生自已制定的，所有新生注册时都同意遵守。我们发起的这场运动是为守则增添一个条款，要求学生在校期间使用审美干扰镜。

促使我们这样做的是相貌美化仪新推出了一种“外表形象”版。这是一个软件，当你透过相貌美化仪看人的时候，软件就会为你美化人们的相貌，好像他们做过整容手术似的。这在某些人群中成为一种乐趣，可是许多大学生却觉得它恶心。人们开始把这作为深层次社会问题的一种表现症状来谈论，我们认为这正是发起这个提案的契机。

深层次的社会问题是相貌歧视。数十年来，人们对谈论种族歧视和性别歧视没什么障碍，但至今对相貌歧视仍避而不谈。然而，歧视相貌平庸的偏见却令人难以置信地处处可见。人们无师自通，自然而然便带上了这种偏见。这是很糟糕的，可是现代社会不仅不与这种倾向斗争，反倒积极地强化它。

教育人们，提高他们对这个问题的意识，这些都是至关重要的。但这些还不够。于是，技术就派上了用场。让审美干扰镜作为一种辅助性的工具吧，想像一下这个前景。它让你做你知道自己应该做的事情：忽略表象，看清内在。

我们认为将审美干扰镜带进主流社会的时机到了。迄今为止，审美干扰镜运动在大学校园还只是小打小闹，不过是另一个特殊利益集团的事业而已。然而，彭布列顿大学不同于其他大学，我想同学们已经作好了接受审美干扰镜的准备。如果提案在我们这里获得通过，我们将为其他大学，最终为整个社会树立一个典范。

神经病学家约瑟夫·魏因加藤：

审美干扰镜干扰的是我们所说的联想型审美，而不是领悟性审美。这就是说，它并不干扰人的视觉，只是干扰对所看见的东西的辨识能力。安有审美干扰镜的人观察面孔同样可以做到洞察入微，他或者她可以辨认出对方是尖下巴还是往后倾斜的下巴，是挺直的鼻子还是钩鼻子，皮肤是光洁还是粗糙。只是对这些差异，他或者她不会体验到任何审美反应。

审美干扰镜之所以可行，是因为大脑里存在某些神经路径。所有动物都具有评价它们未来配偶的生殖潜力的标准，它们演化出识别这些标准的神经“线路”。人与人之间的互动作用主要围绕在我们的脸部，因而对于某个人的生殖潜力是如何显现在脸上的，我们的神经线路明察秋毫。你感觉某个人长得或者漂亮，或者丑陋，或者不美也不丑，这种感觉就是你对神经线路的体验。通过阻止专门评价这些特征的神经路径，我们便研制出了审美干扰镜。

由于时尚变化千差万别，因此有人觉得很难想像对漂亮的面孔有绝对的标准。然而，我们请来自不同民族的人排列面部照片，挑选谁长得漂亮，结果出现了十分明显的模式。连婴孩都对某些面孔表现出同样的偏好。这就让我们鉴别出人类评判美丑的某些固有特征。

也许最明显的特征就是光洁的肌肤。相当于鸟儿鲜艳的羽毛，哺乳动物亮丽的皮毛。美丽的肌肤是青春与健康惟一的、最佳的标志，在每一种文化里都受到青睐。粉刺也许并不要紧，但看上去却像严重的疾病，因此我们觉得它难看。

另一个特征是匀称。我们也许感觉不出某人身体左侧与右侧之间的毫厘之差，可是测量尺寸表明，被列为最俊美的人也是身体部位最匀称的。匀称是我们的基因始终追求的目标，很难在后天发展。然而，任何一种环境压力——比如营养不良、疾病、寄生虫——往往会使人在发育期间产生畸形。匀称意味着对这些压力的抵抗。

其他特征与面孔大小有关。我们往往被那些大小接近人口平均值的面孔所吸引。这显然取决于你属于哪一类群体的人，但是接近平均值通常显示出基因健康。对人们一贯觉得具有魅力的平均值只有一种偏离，那就是对第二性征的夸张放大。

就本质而言，审美干扰镜就是使人对这些特征缺乏反应，仅此而已。审美干扰镜对美的时尚或者文化标准并不是视而不见。尽管你也许不会注意到涂着黑色唇膏的漂亮面孔与平庸面孔之间的差别，但如果黑色唇膏是时尚，审美干扰镜不会使你忘掉它。如果你周围人人都讥笑长着大鼻子的人，那么你也会效仿。

由此可见，审美干扰镜本身并不消除相貌歧视。从某种意义上说，它能做的只是使不同的相貌平分秋色。它消除内在的偏好，即先入为主的相貌歧视。这样一来，教育人们不要以貌取人就不会面临艰巨的斗争。理想的情况是，你从一个人人都接受审美干扰镜的环境入手，然后再推广并实现不以貌取人的风俗。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

这里的人老是问我，在塞布洛克学校上学、安着审美干扰镜长大是什么感觉。说实在的，当你年轻的时候，这并不重要。要知道，就好像人们所说的那样，无论你伴随着什么长大，这对你来说似乎都是正常的。我们知道有些东西其他人看得见，我们却看不见，但对这些东西我们只是感到好奇而已。

比如说，从前我经常和朋友们一块儿去看电影。我们试图识别出电影人物中谁长得漂亮，谁长得平庸。我们声称说得出来，可实际上单看外表却说不出来。只有根据谁是主角，谁是配角来判断。你总是知道主角比配角长得好看些。这并不是百分之百的正确，不过只要你看的电影中主角长得不漂亮，你通常都看得出来。

随着年龄的增长，这东西就开始给你带来烦恼了。如果你和别的学校的人待在一块，就会觉得自己怪怪的，因为你安有审美干扰镜，而别人却没有。并不是任何人都觉得这有什么了不得，但这东西却提醒你，有些东西你是看不见的。于是你开始找你的父母闹，因为他们阻止你看到真实的世界。不过，闹也没用。

塞布洛克学校创始人理查得·汉密尔：

塞布洛克学校是我们家庭合作社发展的产物。想当年，我们大概有二十多户人家，都想建立一个基于共同价值观的社区。我们召开了一个会议，讨论是否可能建立一所可供孩子们选择的学校，会上一位家长提到传播媒介对孩子们的影响的问题。每一位家长的孩子都要求做美容手术，变得像时装模特那么漂亮。做父母的已经尽了最大的努力，但总不能让孩子们与世隔绝。孩子们生活在追求外表形象的文化氛围里。

那大约是在对审美干扰镜的最后一波法律挑战尘埃落定，我们开始谈论审美干扰镜的时候。我们把审美干扰镜看作一次机会：如果我们生活在一个不以貌取人的社会里，情况会怎么样？如果我们在这样的环境里抚育孩子，情况又会怎么样？

学校刚刚建立的时候，只招收合作社内部家庭的子女。但其他学校开始传播这个消息，于是过了不久人们就开始询问，如果他们不加入合作社，他们的子女是否也可以就读这所学校。最终我们把它建成了一所私立学校，与合作社分离，招生条件之一就是孩子在校期间，家长必须接受审美干扰镜。如今，一个审美干扰镜社区已经建立起来，这完全归功于我们学校。

雷切尔·莱昂斯：

塔玛娜的父亲和我经过反复考虑才决定送她到那儿读书。我们咨询了社区的人，发现我们挺喜欢他们的教育方式，不过说真的，访问了那所学校之后我才终于下定了决心。

塞布洛克学校的学生中相貌畸形的超过正常人数，如骨癌、烧伤烫伤留下的痕迹、先天缺陷。他们的父母送他们到这儿来读书是为了避免他们受到别的孩子排斥，这果然有效。我记得第一次访问学校的时候，一个班的孩子们，全都是十二岁，他们正在选举班长。选出的班长是一个女孩，她一边脸上长有烫伤的疤。但那女孩显得从容自在，在孩子们中间很受欢迎。要是在别的任何一所学校，孩子们很可能排斥她。当时我想，这就是我希望我女儿成长的环境。

女孩子们总是被告知，她们的价值和她们的相貌密不可分。如果她们长得漂亮，她们的成就总是会被夸大，如果她们长得平庸，她们的成就就会被贬低。更糟糕的是，有些女孩得到这样的信息：她们可以纯粹靠相貌生活一辈子，于是她们就压根儿不去发展自己的智力。我想让塔玛娜远离这种影响。

马丁·莱昂斯：

既然塔玛娜已经长大成人了，如果她决定关闭审美干扰镜，我倒并不在乎。这绝不意味着当年我们剥夺了她的选择。但是，你在度过青春期的过程中会遇到不少压力，同龄人的压力可以像压扁纸杯一样把你压垮。在我看来，变得迷恋于自己的外表形象就是又一种被压垮的方式，凡是能够减轻压力的东西都是好东西。

长大成人后，你就能够比较正确地对付个人相貌的问题。你对自己的皮肤比较心安理得，比较自信，比较有安全感了。无论你的长相“好看”与否，你都更有可能感到满意。当然，并不是每一个人都在相同的年龄达到这个成熟水平。有些人十六岁就成熟了，有些人则要到三十岁甚至更大年纪才成熟。不过，十八岁是法定的成熟年龄，到了这个年龄，人人都有权利做出自己的决定。因此，你能做的只有相信自己的孩子，希望有最好的结果。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

对我来说，这确实多少有点离奇，好倒是好，就是离奇。就在今天早上，我把审美干扰镜关闭了。

关闭审美干扰镜挺容易的。护士在我身上贴上一些传感器，让我戴上这顶头盔，给我看一扎人们的脸部照片。随即，护士敲了一会儿键盘，然后说了些“我已经关闭审美干扰镜了”之类的话。我以为一旦关闭审美干扰镜后马上就会有什么感觉，但却没有。接着，护士再次给我看照片，以便确认效果。

我重新瞧那些面孔，其中一些面孔似乎……不同。它们好像容光焕发，或者说更靓丽什么的。这种感觉很难描绘。随后，护士给我看我的测试结果，读数显示我的瞳孔扩大多宽，我的皮肤的导电能力多大等等之类的。对于那些似乎不同的面孔，读数就高些。护士说那些是美丽的面孔。

护士还说，我会立刻注意到别人的长相如何，但要过一段时间我才会对自己的相貌做出反应，大概因为你对自己的面孔已经习以为常，反倒说不出什么来了吧。

她说的没错。我首先照了照镜子，我想我瞧上去还是老样子。打我从医生那里回来以后，在校园里看见的人的相貌明显各不相同，可是我仍然没有注意到我自己看上去有什么差异。整天我都在照镜子。有一阵子我担心自己长得丑，担心我的丑相随时都会出现，好像出麻疹什么的。于是，我一直凝视着镜子，等待情况出现，可是什么都没有出现。于是我想，也许我真的并不丑陋，要不然的话，我已经注意到了。但这意味着我真的也不漂亮，要不然的话，我同样已经注意到了，所以，我想这就是说，我长得绝对平庸。你知道吗？不折不扣的平常。我觉得这也不错。

约瑟夫·魏因加藤：

产生审美干扰意味着模拟某种具体的神经机能障碍。我们的做法是采用一种程序控制的药物，叫做神经抑制剂。可以把它看作一种选择性很强的麻醉剂，其激活功能和锁定目标功能都处于动态控制之下。我们将信号通过病人戴的头盔转输进去，从而激活或者灭活神经抑制剂。同时，头盔也提供细胞体定位信息，从而使神经抑制剂分子确定细胞体的三角位置。这样，我们就可以仅仅激活神经组织某一个特定区域的神经抑制剂，将那里的神经冲动保持在一定的水平以下。

神经抑制剂最初研制出来是用于控制癫痫病的发作，减轻慢性疼痛。我们用来治疗了好几种这样的疾病，发现没有产生影响整个神经系统的药物副作用。后来，我们又研究出了不同的神经抑制剂治疗方案，用来治疗强迫性神经官能症、毒瘾以及各种功能失调症。与此同时，神经抑制剂成为研究神经生理的一种具有非凡价值的工具。

神经病学家研究神经功能的一个传统方法，就是观察由各种神经机能障碍所产生的缺陷。显然，这种技术作用有限，因为由于创伤或者疾病所导致的神经机能障碍常常会影响多个功能区域。与此相反，神经抑制剂可以在神经最小的部分被激活，实际上是模拟一种十分局部化的神经机能障碍，这样它就绝不会自然产生。而且，一旦灭活神经抑制剂，“神经机能障碍”就会消失，从而使神经功能恢复正常状态。

通过这种方法，神经学家可以研究出各种各样的审美干扰。与相貌最密切相关的是相貌识别干扰，即没有能力通过面孔识别人。安有相貌识别干扰仪的人认不出他的亲友，除非他们开口说话；甚至认不出照片中他自己的面孔来。这并不是什么认知或者知觉问题。安有相貌识别干扰仪的人能够根据发式、服装、香水，甚至走路的方式来识别人，他们的识别缺陷纯粹局限在脸部。

相貌识别干扰最激动人心地显示出：我们的大脑有一条特殊“线路”，专门对面孔进行视觉处理。我们看面孔和看别的事物不一样，另外，在我们进行的种种面孔视觉处理研究中，辨认面孔只是其中的一项，还有相应的线路专门识别面部表情，探测另一个人凝视方向的变化。

关于安有相貌识别干扰仪的人，一个有趣的特征是虽然他们识别不出某个人的面孔，但是仍然说得出那张脸是否漂亮。我们请安有相貌识别干扰仪的人按照漂亮程度来排列照片，结果他们排列照片的方式与其他人大同小异。研究人员使用神经抑制剂进行实验，实验数据使他们查明了负责感知美丽面孔的神经线路，从而研制出了审美干扰镜。

玛丽亚·德苏扎：

“天下平等学生会”在学生卫生健康办公室设有多余的神经抑制剂程控头盔，并且为任何愿意的人提供审美干扰镜。你用不着预约，直接走进办公室就行了。我们鼓励所有的学生都试一试，至少试一天，看看有什么感觉。最初的感觉似乎有点怪异，任何人看上去都既不漂亮，也不丑陋，但过一段时间你就会意识到，它对你的人际交往产生多么有益的影响。

许多人都担心审美干扰镜可能会使他们失去性欲什么的，但实际上外表美仅仅是个人魅力的一小部分。无论一个人的相貌如何，更重要的是看这个人的举止言谈：他说什么，怎么说，他的一举手，一投足，他的身体语言。还有，他对你的反应如何？对我来说，一个小伙子是否吸引我，有一点就是要看他是否对我自身感兴趣。这就好像一条反馈回路，你注意到他在看你，接着他看见你在望他，于是你们的关系就从这里滚雪球似的发展起来。审美干扰镜并不改变这种情况。再加上还有整个外激素②化学在起作用，显然审美干扰镜不会影响这种情况。

人们的另一个担忧是，审美干扰镜会使每一个人的面孔看上去都是一个样。这也是误解。一个人的面孔总是反映出他的气质来，如果说审美干扰镜会有什么影响的话，那就是使这种反映更清晰。到了一定的年龄，你就要对自己的相貌负责。这种说法你知道吗？有了审美干扰镜，你就会真正理解这个说法多么真实。有些面孔瞧上去真的平淡，尤其是那些年轻的、在传统的意义上俊俏的面孔。这些面孔一旦失去外在的美，就会变得索然无味。而那些富有个性的面孔却和从前一样受看，甚至更好看。就好像你看到的是它们更本质的东西。

有人还问到是否要强制实行。我们不打算这样做。说真的，有一种软件，可以通过分析目光的图形来识别某个人是否安有审美干扰镜，但这需要大量的数据，再说校园安全摄像机监测不到距离过近的东西。另外，人人都不得不安上摄像机，并且共享数据。虽然这是可能做到的，但不是我们追求的目标。我们认为，人们一旦试用了审美干扰镜，就会亲身体会到它的益处。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

瞧一瞧吧，我真漂亮！

多么开心的一天。今天早晨我一醒来就立刻去照镜子，就好像过圣诞节的小女孩似的。可是，仍然什么都没有发生，我的面孔看上去依然平庸。随后，我甚至（笑了起来）偷偷溜到镜子那里，想给自己一个惊喜，但还是不起作用。于是，我有点失望了，要知道我产生了一种听天由命的感觉。

但今天下午，情况变了。我和室友艾娜，还有同宿舍的几个姑娘一道出门去。我没有告诉任何人我已经关闭了审美干扰镜，因为我想先适应一下环境。我们来到校园另一面一家我以前没有去过的小吃店。我们坐在桌子边聊天，我一边聊一边东张西望，在没有审美干扰镜的情况下看看人们的相貌如何。随即，我看见一位姑娘望着我，我心里想，“她长得真漂亮。”接着，（笑了起来）听起来挺傻的，接着我意识到小吃店的这面墙是一面镜子，我在瞧自己！

我无法形容自己当时的心情，一种难以置信的轻松感油然而生。我忍不住笑个不停！艾娜问我怎么这么开心，我只是摇了摇头。接着我朝浴室走去，想照照镜子，好好地端详自己。

这一天过得真快活。我真地喜欢自己的相貌！这一天过得真快活。

三年级学生杰夫·温索普在一次学生辩论会上的发言：

以貌取人当然是错误的，可是这种“盲目”不是答案。教育才是。

审美干扰镜既带走坏的东西，同时也把好的东西带走了。只要存在歧视的可能，审美干扰镜就不起作用，就会彻底阻止你识别美。在很多时候，瞧一副漂亮的面孔并不会伤害任何人。审美干扰镜不会让你区分美与丑，而教育则会。

我知道有人会说，当技术更发达的时候，那会怎么样？也许有一天，他们能够在你的脑子里插入一个专家系统③，这个系统会分析，“这是适合领略美的环境吗？如果是，那就欣赏吧，如果不是，那就忽略吧。”但那样就圆满了吗？那就是人们谈论的“辅助性成熟”吗？

不，不会的。那不是成熟，那是让专家系统替你做出决定。成熟意味着看到差异，但又意识到差异并不重要。没有技术捷径可走。

三年级学生阿得西·幸格在一次学生辩论会的发言：

并没有人说让专家系统替你做出决定。审美干扰镜之所以理想，确切地说是因为它只带来小小的变化。审美干扰镜并不替你做出决定，并不阻止你做任何事情。至于成熟问题，你首先选择审美干扰镜，这就显示出你的成熟。

人人都知道外表美与个人的价值没有关系，价值是教育造就的；然而，即使人们有着世界上最良好的意愿，也没有放弃相貌歧视。我们努力做到不偏不倚，我们努力不让某个人的外表形象影响我们，但我们无法压抑我们的本能反应。任何声称能够做到的人都不过是一厢情愿而已。问一问你自己吧：你遇到长得漂亮的人同遇到长得平庸的人的时候，难道你的反应没有差别吗？

对这个问题的每一项研究都得出同样的结果：外表美有助于人们发达。我们想当然地以为相貌姣好的人比相貌平庸的人更能能干，更诚实，更应该成功。这一切不是真的，可是他们的外表美仍然给我们施加这种影响。

审美干扰镜却不会使你对一切都盲目。美丽的外表蒙住你的眼睛，审美干扰镜却使你睁开眼睛。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

于是，我一直在校园里瞧帅哥。挺有趣的；荒唐，但却有趣。例如，有一天我待在咖啡馆里，看见一位小伙儿坐在离我几张桌远的地方；我并不知道他姓啥名谁，但却老是转过头去瞧他。对他的面孔我说不出个所以然来，但那张面孔却似乎比其他人更加引人注目。他的脸就好像一块磁铁似的，而我的目光就好像指南针，直往磁铁的方向转。

望了他一阵后，我发现真的不难想像他是个可爱的小伙儿！我对他一无所知，甚至连当时他在说些什么我都没有听见，但我想认识他。这真有点儿离奇，但感觉还不错。

美国大学网教育新闻频道的报道：

彭布列顿大学审美干扰镜提案最新动态：

“教育新闻频道”获得证据表明，怀海二氏公共关系公司出钱雇用四位彭布列顿大学学生游说同学们不投票赞成提案。该公司并没有公开这些学生跟自己的雇佣关系。证据包括怀海二氏的一份内部备忘录，建议寻找“人气指数高，容貌姣好的学生”，证据还包括该公司向彭布列顿大学学生的付酬记录。

这则信息是由“谢米欧技术战神协会”提供的，该协会是一个文化黑客组织，在新闻界搞了无数次捣乱活动。

我们就这则消息采访了怀海二氏公司。该公司发表一份声明，谴责这种对公司内部计算机系统的破坏行为。

杰夫·温索普：

是的，是真的，怀海二氏公司付了我钱，可是这并不是幕后交易。他们压根儿没有告诉我要说什么，只不过是使我有可能投入更多的时间致力于反审美干扰镜运动。如果我不需要去做家教挣钱的话，肯定会把精力投入到这场运动中去的。我所做的一切就是表达我的真实观点：审美干扰镜提案是个坏主意。

反审美干扰镜运动阵营有几个人要求我别再公开对这个问题发表意见了，他们认为这样会损害运动。我对他们的这种感觉表示遗憾。如果你以前认为我的观点有道理，那么现在跟以前没什么不同。不过，我意识到有些人是非不分，所以我要做对运动最有利的事情。

玛丽亚·德苏扎：

这些同学真的应该登记他们和怀海的雇用关系。我们都知道是谁在幕后操纵。可是现在，一旦有人批评审美干扰镜提案，人们就会问他们是否受人雇用。这种强烈反应的确打击了反审美干扰镜运动。

有人对这个提案这么感兴趣，居然雇了一家公共关系公司来对付，我觉得算是对提案的祝贺吧。我们一直希望提案的通过能影响其他学校的人，看来，公司和我们想到一块儿去了。

我们邀请了全国审美干扰镜协会主席到校园来演讲。在此之前，我们拿不准是否请这个全国性组织来，因为他们的侧重点与我们不同。他们侧重于外表美的新闻传播问题，而我们“天下平等学生会”则对社会平等问题更感兴趣。但从同学们对怀海二氏公司的所作所为的反应看来，显然新闻媒体操纵的问题反倒给了我们力量来到达预期的目标。我们让提案通过的最佳机会是充分利用对广告商的愤怒情绪。这样，社会平等就会随之到来。

全国审美干扰镜协会主席沃特·兰伯特在彭布列顿大学的演讲：

拿可卡因来说吧。它的天然状态是古柯叶，虽然诱人，但通常不会成为问题，可是一旦经过提炼，纯化，你就会得到一种化合物。这种化合物以超常的强度猛击你的快感接受系统。这样，它就成为了毒品。

由于广告商的推波助澜，外表美也经历类似的过程。进化赋予我们一种对漂亮面孔做出反应的线路，可以把它称之为我们视觉皮层快感接受器。在自然环境下，它对我们是有用的。可是，如果你找一个拥有百万里挑一的肌肤和骨骼的人，然后再经过专业化的化妆和修饰，那么你看见的就不再是天然的美。你所得到的就是药物层面上的美，也就是可卡因似的美丽外表。

生物学家称之为“超常刺激物”：给一只母鸟一只塑料大蛋，它就会丢开自己亲生的蛋，而去孵化这只塑料蛋。美国广告业就是用这种刺激物、这种视觉毒品来渗透我们的环境。我们的美感接受器接受了太多的刺激，凭它们进化的能力是无法应付的。它们在一天里接受的刺激超过它们的祖先一生所接受的。结果就是外表美慢慢地主宰了我们的生活。

怎么主宰法？和毒品成为问题的方式一样：影响人与人之间的关系。我们对普通人的相貌变得不满意了，因为他们无法与超级模特相比。这种两维形象本来就够糟糕的了，而现在广告商拥有相貌美化仪，可以直接将超级模特置于你的眼前，面对面地接触。软件公司提供美女来提醒你的约会。大家都听说过，有的男人喜欢虚拟女朋友胜过有血有肉的女朋友。我们与我们周围光彩照人的数字幽灵共处的时间越长，与真人的关系就越糟糕。

我们既然生活在现代社会里，就无法避免这些形象。这就意味着我们无法丢掉这个习惯，因为美是一种戒不掉的毒品，除非你直视而不见。

现在就不同了。现在，你可以得到另一双眼球，这双眼球阻止毒品，同时让你仍然看得见。这就是审美干扰镜。有些人认为这是矫枉过正，我却认为是恰倒好处。技术正在用来刺激我们的情感反应，控制我们，因此我们也用技术来保护自己，这是再正当不过了。

眼下，你们有机会产生巨大的影响。彭布列顿大学的学生历来是每一个进步运动的先锋；你们在这里做出的决定将会为全国学生树立一个榜样。通过这项提案，通过使用审美干扰镜，你们将向广告商发出一个信息：年轻人不再愿意任人摆布了。

教育新闻频道的报道：

全国审美干扰镜协会主席沃特·兰伯特发表演讲后，民意测验显示彭布列顿大学有百分之五十四的学生支持审美干扰镜。全国各地的民意测验显示平均百分之二十八的大学生会支持本校类似的提案，比起上个月增加了八个百分点。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

我觉得他把那东西比作可卡因有点走极端了。你知道有谁为了过一把广告瘾，而去偷东西卖吗？

但我想有一点他说得有道理，那就是外表漂亮的人在现实生活的商业广告竞争中是大占优势的。并不是说在现实生活中他们比其他人好看，而是他们好看的方式不一样。

比如说，有一天我在校园商店里。我需要看一看我的电子邮件，我一戴上相貌美化仪就看见一张广告招贴画。宣传的是香波，品牌大概是路易丝伦斯吧。以前我见过这幅广告画，但这次没安审美干扰镜感觉就不一样，画里的模特实在太——我的目光无法从她的身上移开。我不是说我的感觉同那次我在咖啡馆里看见那个帅小伙儿一样。其实我并不想认识她。我更像是……在观望晚霞，或者说焰火表演。

我呆呆地站在那儿，望了广告画大概五次吧，把她看得更清楚些。要知道，我想真人是不可能这样引人注目的。

但这并不是说我要放弃和人们交往，以便一直戴着相貌美化仪看广告画。看广告画给我十分强烈的感受，但这同看直人的感受完全不同。我甚至也不想马上出门去买模特推销的东西。我甚至对那些产品并不真的在意。只是觉得她们令人叹为观止。

玛丽亚·德苏扎：

要是我早遇上塔玛娜的话，也许会劝说她别关闭审美干扰镜。就是劝说了，我也怀疑是否会成功，她似乎已经打定了主意。即使这样，她仍然是尝到审美干扰镜的甜头的一个典型例子。譬如，有一次我说她多么幸运，她却说：“是因为我长得漂亮吗？”她说的是心里话！就好像在谈论自己的高度似的。你能想像一个没有安审美干扰镜的女人会这样说吗？

塔玛娜对自己的相貌压根儿不感到难为情。她既不虚荣，也没有什么局促不安，她可以坦然地形容自己长得俏丽。我想她是很漂亮。我和许多相貌也挺漂亮的妇女相处过，我从她们的举止言谈中看到了什么，那是有点卖弄的意味。塔玛娜没有这种习惯。或者说，那些妇女是故做谦虚，这一眼就看出来了，而塔玛娜却没有，因为她是真的谦虚。如果不是安着审美干扰镜长大，她是不可能这样的，我衷心希望她一如既往。

二年级学生安妮卡·卡特：

我觉得审美干扰镜这东西糟糕透了。我喜欢小伙子们多瞧我几眼，如果他们不再瞧我，我才真的感到失望呢。

说实在的，有些人长得不怎么漂亮，大概是这些人想使自己感觉好一些，才使用这东西吧，他们只有一种能耐，那就是惩罚那些拥有他们没有的东西的人。这是不公平的。

如果能做到，谁不想漂亮呢？问一问任何一个人吧，问一问安这东西的人吧，我敢打赌他们会说想的。当然，长得漂亮意味着有时候要受到怪人的烦扰。怪人总是有的，但这是生活的一部分。如果科学家们能够想出办法来，关闭小伙子们大脑里的怪人线路，那我一定会举双手赞成的。

三年纪学生乔伦·卡特：

我投票赞成提案，因为我想如果每个人都拥有审美干扰镜，我就会舒一口大气。

因为我长得好看，人们才对我友好，对此我既有几分喜欢，又有几分内疚，因为自己没有做什么来值得别人喜欢。不用说，引起男人注目，那种感觉当然好，但要和某个人建立起真正的恋爱关系并不容易。每当我喜欢某个小伙儿的时候，我总是纳闷他在多大程度上对我的脸蛋感兴趣，又是在多大程度是对我这个人感兴趣。这很难区分，因为所有的恋爱关系在开始时都是甜蜜的，这你知道吗？要到后来你才会发现你们是否真的彼此都满意。我和我最后一个男朋友的关系就是这样的。如果我长得不是特别漂亮，他是不会对我满意的，所以我没法真正感到轻松。可是，等到我意识到这点的时候，我已经恋上了他，所以发现他并不真正了解我，真令我伤心呀。

还有你同其他女人相处时的感受。我想大多数女人都不喜欢攀比，但你总是会拿自己的相貌和别的女人相比。有时候我觉得自己好像处于竞争之中，我可不想这样。

有一次我考虑安上审美干扰镜，可是除非人人都安上，否则似乎就没用。只有我自己安上于事无补，别人对待我还会是老样子。但如果校园里人人都拥有审美干扰镜，我当然乐意安上。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

我给室友艾娜看这本我中学时代的照片簿，我们浏览到我和我的前男友加雷特合影的照片。艾娜想知道有关他的一切情况，于是我告诉了她。我告诉她整个高中期间我们俩都在谈恋爱，我是多么爱他，多么希望我们继续恋爱下去，可是他进大学后想自由恋爱。于是，她好像是问：“你是说他居然跟你分手了？”

我费了好一番口舌才使她告诉我究竟这是什么意思；她要我一连保证两次别生气，最后才说加雷特长得并不好看。当时我觉得他的相貌平平，因为我关闭审美干扰镜后，他看上去并没有什么特别之处。可是艾娜却说他长得肯定连一般都谈不上。

她翻到几张其他几个小伙子的照片，她觉得这些小伙子长得跟他差不离。我一瞧照片，就看出来他们长得不好看。他们的脸显得傻呼呼的。接着再瞧加雷特的照片，我想他有一些特征和他们相同，但这些特征在他身上却显得酷。反正在我的眼里是这样的。

我想人们说的话有道理：爱情有点儿像审美干扰镜。当你爱上一个人的时候，你就看不清楚他的真实面目了。我看待加雷特的眼光是和别人不一样的，因为我仍然对他有感情。

艾娜说她无法相信长得像他那样的小伙子居然会和长得像我这样的姑娘分手。她说如果是在一所没有审美干扰镜的学校里，他想和我恋爱很可能连门都没有。比如说，我们不属于同一个档次。

想起来也真荒唐，我和加雷特走在一块儿的时候总觉得我们是天生一对。我并不是说我相信命运，只是觉得我们俩情投意合。对于如果我们没有安审美干扰镜，哪怕仍旧可能读同一所学校，却不可能恋爱上这个想法，我觉得奇怪。我知道这个艾娜也说不准，当然我也说不准她错没有。

也许这意味着我对自己安上了审美干扰镜应该感到高兴才是，因为这样就可以让我和加雷特恋爱了。我不知道。

教育新闻频道的报道：

今天，在一次统一的拒绝接受服务的攻击中，全国十几个学生审美干扰镜组织的网站陷入瘫痪。虽然没有人声称对此次事件负责，但有人估计是黑客为了上个月的一次事件而进行的报复。在那次事件中，美国整容手术医生协会网站被一个审美干扰镜网站所取代。

与此同时，谢米欧技术战神协会宣布释放“皮肤病学”计算机病毒。这种病毒已经开始感染全世界范围的录像浏览器，改变播放的图像，致使面部和肢体显示出如粉刺、静脉曲张之类的状况。

一年级学生华伦·安威森：

以前读中学的时候，我曾经想过试一试审美干扰镜，但压根儿不知道怎么向父母提出来。所以，当他们开始在这儿提供那东西的时候，我想可以试一试。（耸一耸肩）还不错。

事实上，感觉蛮好的。（停顿一下）我一直讨厌自己的长相。读中学期间我曾经一度连镜子里自己的形象都不敢看。但现在安了审美干扰镜，我就不怎么在乎了。我知道自己在别人的眼里还是老样子，但似乎没有从前那么看重了。我的外表不再提醒我一些人长得比另一此人漂亮得多，这种感觉比较好，比如，我在图书馆帮助这位姑娘解决她做微积分作业所遇到的问题，随后我意识到她在我的眼里确实漂亮。如果是在往常，待在她身边我会感到紧张的，可是由于我安有审美干扰镜，跟她接触并不难。

也许她觉得我瞧上去像个怪人，这我不知道，但事实上是，我跟她谈话的时候，我并不觉得自己瞧上去像怪人。我想在安审美干扰镜之前，自己太敏感了，反倒弄巧成拙。而现在，我比以前放松了。

这并不是说我突然对自己、对一切都感觉棒极了。我敢肯定，对别人来说，审美干扰镜不会有任何帮助，但对我来说，审美干扰镜使我感觉没有从前糟糕了。这是值得的。

彭布列顿大学宗教研究所教授亚历克斯·比贝斯库：

一些人很快就觉得整个审美干扰镜辩论肤浅，不屑一顾，无非是争论什么化妆问题，或者谁可以恋爱，谁不可以。但只要仔细观察一下，你就会发现问题要深沉得多。它反映了对人体的一个十分古老的矛盾态度，从古至今这个矛盾态度就一直是西方文明的一部分。

要知道，我们的文化根基是在古希腊，在那里，人体美受到颂扬。但同时，我们的文化又浸透着一神教传统，这个传统贬低肉体，赞美灵魂。这些古老的彼此冲突的观点又垂新抬头，出现在对审美干扰镜的大辩论里。

我想大多数审美干扰镜支持者都认为自己是现代世俗的自由主义者，不会承认受到一神教主义的任何影响。但看一看是谁在提倡审美干扰镜吧：保守的宗教组织开始借助审美干扰镜来使他们的年轻成员更有效地抵御外人的诱惑。这个共同点并不是巧合。审美干扰镜的自由主义支持者也许不使用“抵御肉体的诱惑”之类的语言，但却以他们自己的方式遵循贬低肉体的传统。

说实在的，在审美干扰镜支持者中间，只有“新悟性教组织”声称不受一神教的影响。这种说法是可信的。这个教派将审美干扰镜视为顿悟的一个步骤，因为审美干扰镜泯灭人对幻觉差异的感知。然而，“新悟性”教派广泛使用神经抑制剂来辅助打坐默思，这与使用审美干扰镜有天壤之别。我想你不会发现许多现代自由派人士或者保守的神教徒对此持同情态度！

因此你看，这不仅仅是一个关于商业广告和化妆品的问题，而是关于如何确定肉体与精神之间的适当关系的问题。我们在最大限度地贬低我们本质中的物质部分，我们充分意识到了这点吗？你不得不承认，这是一个深刻的问题。

约瑟福·魏因加藤：

继发现了审美干扰镜之后，有些研究人员便开始寻思是否可能创造一种相似的环境，使其中的人区分不出种族或者民族来。他们进行了大量尝试——减弱各种层次的通过辨认面孔识别种族的能力之类——可是结果总是不令人满意。通常，试验对象只是不能识别相貌相似的个人。有一次试验确实产生了相貌盲综合症的良性变体，使试验对象每遇见一个人都误以为是同一家庭的成员。不幸的是，把每个人都当作兄弟实际上并不理想。

当神经抑制剂广泛用于治疗诸如强迫性行为等病症的时候，许多人便认为“思想控制程序”时代终于到来了。人们询问医生他们是否可以获得与配偶相同的性趣味。由于有可能通过程序控制产生对政府或者大公司效忠，或者对意识形态或者宗教的信仰，因而医学专家们对此感到担忧。

事实上，我们无法获得任何人的思想内容。我们可以改变人格的宽泛部分，可以做出种种与大脑天然的特定功能相一致的变更，但这些都是极其粗糙的调整。没有专门处理仇视移民情绪的神经路径，正如没有专门处理恋脚癖的神经路径一样。如果我们获得真正的思想控制程序，我们就能够创造出“种族盲”来，但在此之前，教育才是我们的最大希望。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

今天我上了一堂有趣的课。是思想史课，教课的是一位助教，名叫安顿。他说我们用来描绘有魅力的人的大量词汇曾经都是用于魔法的。比如“魅力”这个词最早是指具有魔力的符咒，“迷人”这个词也是一样。还有像“迷惑”和“销魂”这样的词更是一眼就看出来了，他说这些话的时候，我心里想，是呀，事情正是这样的：看见一个真正漂亮的人就好像着了魔似的。

安顿还说，魔法的一大作用是在某个人身上产生爱情和欲望。想一想“魅力”和“迷人”这些词，你就会发现这个说法也有道理，因为看见美人会产生爱的欲望。遇上一个真正长得标致的人儿，多看几眼就会令你神魂颠倒。

我一直在想也许有办法让自己重新回到加雷特身边，因为如果加雷特没有审美干扰镜，也许他会重新爱上我的。还记得我曾经说过也许正是审美干扰镜把我们俩带到一块来的吗？那么现在，也正是审美干扰镜把我们俩分开了。也许如果加雷特看见了我的真实面孔，就会希望重新回到我的身边。

今年夏天加雷特就满十八岁了，但他压根儿没有关闭他的审美干扰镜，因为他觉得这并不是什么要紧事。现在他在诺思洛普大学读书。于是，我作为一个朋友打电话给他。谈到审美干扰镜这东西的时候，我问他对这儿彭布列顿大学的审美干扰镜提案怎么看。他说他不清楚这场争论究竟是怎么回事，接着我告诉他现在我不再有审美干扰镜，是多么开心，还说他也应该试一试，这样就可以判断是有审美干扰镜好还是没有好。他说有道理。我对这件事并不抱多大的希望，不过我还是感到振奋。

彭布列顿大学比较文学教授丹尼尔·塔里亚：

学生的这个提案对教师不适用，但显而易见，如果提案通过了，那么教师也面临安审美干扰镜的压力。所以，现在就表明我的态度并不操之过急，我的态度是坚决反对。

这是“政治正确性”胡作非为的最新例子。提倡审美干扰镜的人用心是良好的，但他们的所作所为却是在把我们当作幼儿对待。认为美是我们需要避而远之的观点简直是在侮辱人。要知道，下一步某个学生组织就会坚持要我们所有人都安上音乐审美干扰，这样当我们听见天才的歌手或者音乐家演唱时，就不会自惭形秽了。

观看奥林匹克运动会的运动员竞技，你会惭愧得无地自容吗？当然不会。相反，你只会感到惊叹与羡慕；你会为有如此杰出的运动健儿存在而感到欢欣鼓舞。那么，对美我们为什么不能有同样的感受呢？女权主义会要求我们对这个反应做出道歉的。它想用政治取代审美，而且它在多大程度上成功了，就在多大程度上使我们的人性沦为贫困。

待在一个世界一流的美人跟前犹如聆听一首女高音歌曲，令人销魂。并非只有天才才从他们自己的天赋那里获益，我们所有人都从中获益。或者，应该说我们所有人都可以从中获益。剥夺我们这种机会可是作孽呀。

“支持合乎伦理医药人民组织”打的广告：

画外音：你的朋友一再告诉你说，审美干扰镜很酷，安上爽极了，对吗？那么，也许你应该找安着审美干扰镜长大的人谈一谈。

“我关闭审美干扰镜之后，第一次见到相貌平庸的人就忍不住退缩。我知道这样做很傻，但还是忍不住。审美干扰镜并没有帮助我成熟，反倒阻止我成熟。我还得学习如何同人相处。”

“我上大学学习平面造型艺术。我不分白天晚上地刻苦用功，可是一点长进也没有。老师说我缺乏艺术眼光，就是那个审美干扰镜阻碍了我的审美趣味发展。我失去的东西没法找回来了。”

“安着审美干扰镜的感觉就好像我的父母待在我的脑子里，审查我的思想。现在我把它关闭了，这才恍然大悟：我是在什么样的虐待中长大的。”

画外音：如果安着审美干扰镜长大的人并不推荐这东西，这说明什么问题呢？

当年他们没有选择，而现在你却可以选择。不管你的朋友说什么，损伤大脑绝不是什么好事。

玛丽亚·德苏扎：

我们从来没有听说过“支持合乎伦理医药人民组织”，因此对它进行了凋查。我们费了一番功夫去挖掘，结果表明它压根儿不是什么群众组织，而是一个企业公共关系联盟。一些化妆品公司最近聚在一块，共同建立了这个联盟。至于出现在广告里的人，我们一直没能够同他们接触，因此他们的话即使有真实的成分，我们也不知道有多少可信度。即使他们说的是真话，他们自身也肯定没有代表性。大多数关闭审美干扰镜的人都感觉良好，而且安着审美干扰镜长大的平面造型艺术家肯定是有的。

这多少使我想起不久前我看到的一则广告，广告是由一家模特代理打的，当时审美干扰镜运动才刚刚开展。广告只是一张一个超级模特面部的图片，上面有一个标题：《如果你无缘再见她这么楚楚动人，那是谁的损失？她的还是你的？》这场新的宣传攻势表达的是相同的信息，大概是说：“你会遗憾的。”只是它没有带着趾高气扬的语气，而是更多地装着关心警示的口吻。这就是经典的公共关系策略：躲藏在一个动听的名字后面，给人以替消费者利益说话的第三方的印象。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

我认为那则商业广告愚蠢透了。这并不是说我赞同提案——我不希望人们投票支持——但人们不应该出于错误的理由投票反对。安着审美干扰镜长大并不会带来严重的伤害。任何人都没有理由为我什么的感到遗憾，我处理得很好。所以说，我觉得人们应该投票反对审美干扰镜，是因为看见美丽挺惬意的。

不管怎样，我又跟加雷特谈了一次。他说他刚刚关闭审美干扰镜不久。他说到目前为止，他的感觉似乎很爽，只是有点离奇。我告诉他说，我关闭审美干扰镜的时候也是同样的感觉。虽然我关闭审美干扰镜才几个星期，但却仿佛在扮演一个老资格的赞成关闭审美干扰镜的角色似的，想起来真有点滑稽。

约瑟福·魏因加藤：

关于审美干扰镜，研究人员首先要问的一个问题是，它是否有任何“副作用”，也就是说，它是否影响你对除了相貌之外的美的欣赏。对于大部分事物来是，答案似乎是“没有”。安有审美干扰镜的人欣赏的东西似乎与其他人相同。就上述而言，我们还是不能排除有副作用的可能。

例如，就拿在安有相貌识别干扰仪的人身上观察到的副作用说吧。有一位安有相貌识别干扰仪的是个饲养奶牛的农民，他发现他再也不能一头一头地辨认他的奶牛了。另一位安有相貌识别干扰仪的人现在比以前更难区分小车的型号了。这些是可以想像的。这些例子说明，除了辨认面孔的严格范围之外，有时候我们还用面孔辨认模型来辨认别的事物。也许我们不会认为某个东西——比如一辆小车——看上去像一张脸，但在神经病学的层面上，我们却把它看作仿佛是一张脸。

在安有审美干扰镜的人中间也可能存在相似的副作用，但由于审美干扰镜比相貌识别干扰仪更精微，因此任何副作用都更难以测试。譬如，时尚在小车外表方面所起的作用远远大于在人的相貌方面，因此对于哪些小车最有魅力，可能没有一致的看法。也许有的安有审美干扰镜的人对于某些小车的欣赏程度不如他们没安审美干扰镜的时候，但还不至于到了抱怨的程度。

接下来，还有我们辨认美的模型在我们对对称的审美反应过程中所起的作用。我们在广阔的背景范围里欣赏对称——绘画、雕塑、平面艺术造型——但同时我们也欣赏不对称。我们对艺术的反应涉及诸多因素，但在什么时候某个具体的事例子是成功的，对此却没有一致的看法。

了解安有审美干扰镜的群体是否更少产生才华横溢的视觉艺术家，也许是有趣的，但由于人民大众中所产生的天才艺术家本来就寥若晨星，因此很难从统计学的角度进行有意义的研究。只有一点我们可以肯定，那就是据报道，安有审美干扰镜的人对某些肖像画的反应要微弱些，但这不是副作用：肖像画的魅力至少部分来自画中人的相貌。

当然，有些人对效应十分敏感。这就是有些父母不愿意自己的孩子安审美干扰镜的理由：他们希望自己的孩子能够欣赏蒙娜·丽莎画像，也许还能够继承肖像画的传统呢。

沃特斯顿学院四年级学生马克·埃斯波西托：

彭布列顿大学事件听起来真是荒唐绝顶。我看好像有意戏耍人似的。比方说，你安排这个小伙子和一个姑娘见面，你告诉他她绝对是个漂亮小妞，但实际上你却给他安排了一条狗，而他由于过于相信你，因此认不出来。真有点滑稽。

不过，我肯定永远不会安审美干扰镜这东西。我想和漂亮小妞耍朋友。我干吗要降低自己的标准，随便将就呢？当然，有些个晚上漂亮小妞全给选走了，你只好挑残羹剩菜。所以说酒吧里才会有啤酒，没小妞时只能喝喝啤酒了，对吧？是不是说以后我也得弄副啤酒干扰仪戴戴。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

昨天晚上我又和加雷特在电话上聊天。我问他是否想转入视频交谈，这样可彼此看见对方。他说好的，于是我们就转入了视频。

我随便准备了一下，但实际上花费了不少时间。琳娜在教我化妆，但我在这方面不在行，于是我就使用一种耳塞式软件，可以使你看起来好像化了妆似的。我稍稍调了一下软件，于是我想我的形象就大不一样了。也许我做得过分了，不知道加雷特能够看出几分来，但我只想把自己打扮得尽可能地好看。

我们一转入视频，我就看出了他的反应。他的眼睛睁得大大的。他好像说了句，“你显得真漂亮，”我好像也说了句，“谢谢”。接着他害羞起来，对自己的模样开了些玩笑，我告诉他我喜欢他的形象。

我们在视频上聊了一阵，我感觉他一直在望着我。那种感觉真好。我有一种感觉：他心里在思考是否应该和我重新相爱，但这也许只是我的一厢情愿而已。

也许下一次通电话，我要提议周末他来看我，或者我上诺思洛普去看他。那才爽呢。不过，在那之前我得学会化妆才行。

我知道不能保证他重新回到我身边。我关闭审美干扰镜，并没有减弱对他的爱，但也可能使他不再爱我了。不过，我仍然抱着希望。

三年级学生凯瑟·米纳米：

谁说审美干扰镜对妇女有好处，谁就是在为所有压迫者的宣传摇唇鼓舌：把征服说成保护。审美干扰镜的支持者们将拥有美丽的女人妖魔化。美不仅可以向拥有美的人提供愉悦，也可以向接受美的人提供同样多的愉悦。可是审美干扰镜运动却偏偏使妇女对从自己的容貌中获得愉悦而感到负疚。这是男权社会压抑女性美的又一策略，这次偏偏又有太多的妇女出钱加入进去。

当然，美一直被用作压迫的工具，但消灭美并不是答案。你不能通过缩小人们的外表差异来解放他们。这简直就是奥威尔④小说中所描写的非人性压迫。真正需要的是以妇女为中心的审美观，让所有妇女对自己感觉良好，而不是使大多数妇女感觉糟糕。

四年纪学生劳伦斯·萨顿：

我对沃特·兰伯特在演讲中所谈的东西了如指掌。我不会用和他相同的词语来表达，但有好一段时间我的感受却是一样的。我是在几年前安上审美干扰镜的，早在提案之前，因为我想把心思放在更重要的事情上面。

我并不是说我只想到学业。我交了一个女朋友，我们的关系挺好的。这种关系并没有改变。改变的是我同广告的关系。从前，每次我路过杂志摊或者看见一幅广告画，都感觉我的注意力多少有点给吸引过去了。就好像它们试图激起我，使我不能自制。我并不一定是指激起了我的性欲什么的，但它们试图在挑逗我的本能。我总是自动地进行抵御，回到我先前做的事情上。然而，这可要分心呀，抵御这些分心耗去了我不少精力，这些精力本来是可以用在别处的。

现在有了审美干扰镜，我就感觉不到那种诱惑力了。审美干扰镜把我从分心中解放出来，还给我精力。所以说，我完全赞同审美干扰镜。

马克斯威尔学院三年级学生洛里·哈伯：

审美干扰镜是为娘娘腔准备的。我的态度是：坚决回击，一丑到底。漂亮的人需要看的就是这个。

去年大概这个时候吧，我把我的鼻子取了。实际上整容可重要了，要想身体又棒又酷，你还得再去掉一些头发，好招摇过市。还有，你看这骨头（他用指甲弹了弹）不是真的，是陶瓷的。真正的骨头暴露出来，很容易感染。

我喜欢骚扰人。有时候，人们吃饭时看见我，的的确确大败胃口。但我不是为骚扰而骚扰人，而是为了显示丑陋是怎么以自己的玩法打败美丽的。我在街上兜风，比美人儿更引人注目。如果你看见我站在一个拍录像的模特儿身边，谁更引起你的注意呢？我，当然是我。你就是不想注意，也忍不住要注意。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

昨天晚上我又和加雷特在电话上聊天。要知道，我们谈到我们各自是否另有新欢。我随口说出来，说我和几个小伙子一块儿玩，但并没有当真。

然后我问他怎么样。他有点尴尬，但终于说他发现要和学校里的女孩子交朋友，比他想像的更难。他觉得是因为他的长相的缘故吧。

我只是说“绝不可能”，可是我真的不知道该说什么才好。对加雷特现在还没有女朋友，我既感到几分高兴，又有几分为他难过，还有几分吃惊。我是说，他聪明，有趣，是个了不起的小伙儿，我说这番话并不是因为我跟他谈过恋爱。他在中学时代人缘可好了。

但接着我想起艾娜说的关于我和加雷特的话。我想聪明和有趣并不意味着你和某个人处于同一个档次，你还得长得同样好看才行。如果加雷特和漂亮的姑娘接触，也许她们觉得他够不上档次。

我们交谈时，我并没有小题大做，因为我觉得他不想多谈。但随后我想如果我们决定见面，那肯定应该是我去诺思洛普去看他，而不应该他来看我。显然，我是希望我们之间出现转机，但同时我也想，如果他那个学校的人看见我们俩待在一块儿，也许他的感觉要好些。我知道有时候这种办法会奏效：如果你和一个长得酷的人走在一块儿，你感觉就很酷，别人也觉得你很酷。我并不是说我长得特别酷，我只是觉得人们喜欢我的相貌，因此我想这或许有所帮助。

彭布列顿大学社会学教授艾伦·哈奇森：

我很羡慕发起这个提案的学生们。他们的理想主义令我感到振奋，不过我对他们的目标却抱着复杂的感情。

和我所有的同龄人一样，我已经安于时间对我外表的销蚀。要适应可不容易，但我已经到了对自己的相貌乐天知命的人生阶段。不过不可否认的是，我对一个清一色安有审美干扰镜的群体究竟怎么样感到好奇。也许当一个年轻女人走进屋子的时候，不会令一个我这把年纪的女人黯然失色吧。

然而，我在年轻的时候，想不想安审美干扰镜呢？我不知道。那样做肯定可以使我对自己渐渐变得人老珠黄少感到一些悲哀。不过，我年轻的时候，对自己的相貌还是挺满意的，并不想改变。我不敢肯定，随着年龄增长，是否真的会有这样一个人生阶段：觉得这么做对我来说收获大于代价。

还有这些学生，他们也许永远不会失去青春的美。随着基因治疗的出现，他们很可能还要保持几十年的青春容貌，甚至永葆青春。也许他们永远不至于像我那样进行调整。但是，一想到他们也许会自愿放弃青春的欢乐，就令人感到可怕。有时候，我真想摇着他们的肩膀说：“别干！难道你们没有意识到你们已经拥有的东西吗？”

我始终喜欢年轻人愿意为自己的信念而战斗。有句老生常谈，说什么青春在年轻人身上白白浪费了，我之所以从来就不真正相信，原因就在这里。然而，这个提案将使那句老生常谈变成现实了，我讨厌看到这种情况发生。

约瑟福·魏因加藤：

我试过审美干扰镜一天，在有限的时间里我试过各种各样的审美干扰。大多数神经病学家都要试，以便更好地了解情况，获得与病人相同的感受。但如果仅仅是为了看病人的缘故，我是不会长期安审美干扰镜的。

审美干扰镜与凭直觉对人进行体检能力之间存在轻微的相互作用，审美干扰镜当然不会使你辫认不出一个人的肤色之类的东西。安有审美干扰镜的人完全能够和常人一样辨认病状，只需要普通的识别能力就能做得很好。然而，医生诊断病人，需要对十分微妙的症状很敏感。有时候你是凭直觉在诊断病情，在这种情况下审美干扰镜就会成为障碍。

当然，如果我声称职业需要才是惟一使我不安审美干扰镜的原因，那我就言不由衷了。更切合实际的问题是，如果我只做实验室研究，不接触病人，会选择审美干扰镜吗？对此，我的答案仍然是否定的。和许多人一样，我也欣赏漂亮的面孔，但我觉得自己很成熟，不会让漂亮的面孔影响我的判断。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

我简直不敢相信，加雷特居然重新打开了审美干扰镜。昨天晚上我们通了电话，只是闲聊。我问他是否想转入视频。他大概是说“好吧”，于是我们转入了视频。接着我意识到他瞧我的方式和以前不一样，于是我问他一切都好吧，这时候他才告诉我他重新打开了审美干扰镜。

他说之所以要打开，是因为他对自己的相貌不满意。我问他是不是有人说过什么风凉话，因为他不应该理睬他们。他说不是这么回事，只是在照镜子的时候，他对镜子里自己的形象感觉不好。于是，我大概是说：“你说什么呀，你看起来挺酷的。”我劝他再等一等，我大概是说先不要打开审美干扰镜，多等一段时间，然后再做决定也不迟。加雷特说他要想一想，但我不知道他会怎么办。

随后，我回想起我对他说的话。我对他说那些话是因为我不喜欢审美干扰镜，还是因为我希望他看见我的真实容貌？我说，我当然喜欢他看我时的神情，而且我希望这会通向新的天地，可是这并不意味着我好像是出尔反尔，对吗？如果我一直是赞同审美干扰镜的，而在加雷特的事情上就搞例外，那还有话可说。但我是反对审美干扰镜的呀，所以情况并不是这样的。

喔，我在骗谁呢？我想让加雷特关闭审美干扰镜，是为我自己的利益着想，而不是因为我反对审美干扰镜。再说，我并不坚决反对审美干扰镜，只是反对把审美干扰镜当作要求来执行。我可不想由别人来做主决定审美干扰镜是否对我适合：不想我的父母，也不想让学生组织来做主。但是，如果有人自己想安审美干扰镜，不管怎样，都很好。所以，我应该让加雷特自己做出决定，这我知道。

真是叫人失望。我是说，我想出了整个计划，希望加雷特发现我的魅力不可抗拒，意识到他犯了一个多大的错误。到头来我却失望了，就这么一回事。

选举前一天玛丽亚·德苏扎的演讲：

我们已经到了可以开始调整我们思想的阶段了。问题是何时才是我们这样做的适当时机？我们不应该自动接受自然更好的观点，我们也不应该想当然地认为我们可以改善自然。应该由我们决定应该看重哪些品质，决定获得这些品质的最佳途径是什么。

我要说，外表美这东西我们不再需要了。

审美干扰镜并不意味着你永远看不见美丽的人了。当你看见真诚的微笑的时候，你就看见了美。当你看见勇敢或者慷慨的行为的时候，你就看见了美。最重要的说，当你望着你的心上人的时候，你就看见了美。审美干扰镜要做的是让你不被表面的东西蒙住了眼睛。真正的美是你用一双充满爱的眼睛所看见的东西，是无论一切都遮蔽不了的东西。

选举前一天“支持合乎伦理医药人民组织”发言人丽贝卡·博耶的电视演讲：

也许你们能够创造一个人为环境下的清一色审美干扰镜的社会，但在现实生活中，你们绝不可能得到百分之百的服从。这就是审美干扰镜的软肋。如果每个人都安有审美干扰镜，那它当然奏效，但如果哪怕只有一个人没有安审美干扰镜，那么这个人就会占其他人的便宜。

总会有人不安审美干扰镜，这你们是知道的。想一想这些人能够做些什么吧。经理可以提拔相貌标致的雇员，降职相貌丑陋的雇员，但你们却注意不到。教师可以奖励长得漂亮的学生，惩罚长得丑陋的学生，但你们却看不出来，你们所讨厌的一切歧视都可能发生，但你们甚至连意识都意识不到。

当然，这些事情可能不会发生。但如果人们始终值得信赖，不会做错事，那么首先就不会有人建议使用审美干扰镜了。事实上，有上述倾向的人一旦不必冒被抓住的风险，他们就很可能变本加厉地去做。

如果你们对相貌歧视之类感到愤概，那又怎么能够去安审美干扰镜呢？需要有人站出来立即制止这种行为，而你们正好担当此任。但如果你们安上审美干扰镜，就识别不了这种行为了。

如果你们想同歧视战斗，那就睁大你们的眼睛吧。

教育新闻频道的报道：

投票结果是，百分之六十四的反对票，百分之三十六的赞成票，于是彭布列顿大学审美干扰镜提案遭到失败。

投票显示，大多数人在选举前几天都赞同提案。许多先前支持提案的学生说，他们看了“支持合乎伦理医药人民组织”发言人丽贝卡·博耶的电视演讲之后，才改变了主意。尽管早些时候新闻曝光：“支持合乎伦理医药人民组织”是由化妆品公司建立起来反对审美干扰镜运动的，但是学生们还是改变了主意。

玛丽亚·德苏扎：

这当然令人失望，但当初我们就把提案设想为长远目标。先前大部分人支持提案，其实是个意外，所以对于人们改变主意，我倒不至于太失望。重要的是，处处人们都在谈论相貌的价值，大多数人都在认真思考审美干扰镜。

再说，我们并没有放弃；事实上，今后几年将是非常激动人心的几年。一个相貌美化仪生产厂家刚刚展示了一种可以改变一切的新技术：他们研究出一种方法，将细胞体定位信标安在一对相貌美化仪里，专门为个人校准。这就意味着不再需要戴头盔了，不再需要到办公室去为你的神经抑制剂重编程序了；你只是安上你的相貌美化仪，自己动手。这就意味着任何时候只要你想，你都可以打开或者关上你的审美干扰镜了。

这就意味着我们不会面临人们觉得必须彻底放弃美的问题。相反，我们可以提倡美在有些情况下是恰当的，而在另一些情况下则是不恰当的观点。譬如，人们在工作期间可以使审美干扰镜保持活动状态，而与朋友待在一块儿时则使它保持非活动状态，我想人们看得出审美干扰镜的种种益处，至少会部分时间选择它。

教育新闻频道的报道

彭布列顿大学审美干扰镜提案的最新动态。教育新闻频道了解到，“支持合乎伦理医药人民组织”发言人丽贝卡·博耶的电视演讲使用了一种新式数字控制技术。教育新闻频道从“谢米欧技术战神协会”那里获得了有关档案，档案包括似乎是该演讲的两个版本：一个是原版——是从怀海二氏公司的计算机那里搞到的——另一个是广播版。档案还包括“谢米欧技术战神协会”对这两个版本之间差异的分析。

这些差异主要是增强丽贝卡小姐的声调、面部表情以及身体语言的魅力。观看原版的观众认为丽贝卡小姐的演讲不错，而观看编辑版的观众则认为她的演讲精彩极了，形容她生动活泼，极具说服力。“谢米欧技术战神协会”得出结论说，怀海二氏公司开发出了一种崭新的软件，可以对副语言的暗示进行调节，以便最大限度地刺激观众的情感反应。这会大大增强事先录制的演讲效果，尤其是当观众通过相貌美化仪观看时，效果更佳。新软件用于“支持合乎伦理医药人民组织”电视演讲，很可能导致了许多审美干扰镜提案的支持者改变主意，投反对票。

全国审美干扰镜协会主席沃特·兰伯特：

在我的整个生涯中，我仅仅遇见过寥寥几人具有丽贝卡小姐在那次演讲中所展示的魅力。这些人辐射出一种歪曲现实的磁场，使你几乎对什么都信以为真。你被他们所感动，随时准备慷慨解囊，或者无论他们说什么，都满口同意。事后你才回想起本来你是有种种反对意见的，但情况常常是，为时已晚了。一想到大公司能够借助软件产生如此效应这个前景，我就真心地感到恐惧。

这就是另一种超常刺激素，犹如无瑕之美，但却更加危险。本来我们拥有防御美的机制，可是怀海二氏公司却把事情提升到更高的层次。看来，要保护我们免受这种游说的影响，可真是难上加难呀。

有一种音调审美干扰仪，使你听不见音调，你听见的只是词语，却没有音调的传递。还有一种审美干扰仪，可以阻止你识别面部表情。采用这两种审美干扰会保护你免受这种控制，因为你不得不纯粹根据内容来判断一个演讲。然而，我不能推荐这两种审美干扰，因为结果丝毫不像审美干扰镜。如果你听不见某人的音调，也看不见其面部表情，那么你就丧失了与他人交往的能力。这就会成为一种高层次的孤独症。全国审美干扰镜协会倒是有几个成员使用这两种审美干扰，以此作为某种形式的抗议，但谁也不期望大众效仿他们。

所以说，这意味着该软件一旦广泛应用，我们将面对来自四面八方的极具煽动力的宣传：商业广告、新闻发布、福音布道。在未来几十年，我们将听到某个政客或者将军发表最煽情的演说。甚至连激进主义分子以及文化黑客也会使用，以便跟上社会的发展。一旦该软件全面蔓延，那么连电影也会使用：演员自身的演技并不重要了，因为每一个人的表演都是超常的。

发生在美的方面的事情同样也会发生：我们的环境将渗透着这种超常刺激索，它将影响我们与真人的交往。一旦广播上的每一位发言人都给人以丘吉尔或者马丁·路德·金的在场感，我们就会开始觉得正常使用副语言暗示的普通人枯燥无味，不善说服。我们就会对我们在现实生活中接触的人感到不满意，因为他们没有我们通过相貌美化仪所看到的投影那么吸引人。

我只希望给神经抑制剂重新编程的这些相貌美化仪很快投入市场，然后也许我们可以鼓励人们在观看录像的时候，使用功率更强大的审美干扰。如果我们要保存真正的人际关系，如果我们要节省我们的情感反应用于现实生活，那么也许这就是惟一的道路了。

塔玛娜·莱昂斯：

我知道会出现什么样的情况，不过……是这样的，我在考虑重新打开我的审美干扰镜。

在某种意义上，是因为那个“支持合乎伦理医药人民组织”的录像的缘故。我并不是说我接受审美干扰镜，仅仅是因为化妆品公司不想人们接受，我对他们感到愤怒。不是这样的。但很难说清楚。

我确实对他们感到愤怒，因为他们玩弄伎俩，控制人们。他们的做法不公平，但这也使我意识到，我对待加雷特也同样不公平。或者说我有那种想法。我试图用自己的外表把他赢回来。这在某种意义上也是不公平的。

我并不是说我就和那些广告商一样坏！我爱加雷特，而他们却一心想赚钱。但还记得我曾经谈到过美是一种魔力吗？美斌予你优势，而且我想人们很容易滥用它，审美干扰镜的作用就是使人不受这种魔力的诱惑。所以说，我想如果加雷特宁愿免受诱惑，我就不应该介意，因为首先我就不应该想利用自己的相貌。如果我要把他赢回来，我应该通过公平手段，通过让他爱我这个人本身来达到目的。

我知道，他重新打开了审美干扰镜，但仅仅这样并不意味着我也必须这么做。我真的一直都喜欢看真实的面孔。但如果加雷特想要免受相貌的诱惑，那么我觉得自己也应该同样。这样我们俩就平等，你知道吗？还有，如果我们俩恢复恋爱关系，也许我们要弄到他们所谈论的新仪器。这样，只有我们俩在一块儿的时候，就可以关闭审美干扰镜。

另外，我想审美干扰镜之所以有意义，还有其他理由。那些化妆品公司，还有别的什么人，他们不过是企图在你身上创造一些需要，这样你就感觉不出他们的做法是否公平，这我可不喜欢。如果我看商业广告时神魂颠倒，那是因为我一时兴奋，并不是每一次他们都令我猝不及防。不过，我不会要另外的审美干扰仪，如像音调审美干扰仪什么的，至少现在不会要。一旦那些新型审美干扰仪出来了，说不准我会要的。

这并不意昧着我赞同父母让我安着审美干扰镜长大的做法。我仍然认为他们错了。他们以为消除美有助于建立一个理想社会，这我压根儿不相信。美本身不是问题．人们滥用美才是问题。审美干扰镜好就好在这里：它让你对这个问题保持警惕。我不知道，这也许在我父母的时代不是个问题，但现在它却是我们不得不对付的问题。

后记

心理学家们曾经做过一个实验，故意把一份大学入学申请表扔在机场上，装成是某位旅客遗忘的。每一次，表格的其他部分都一样，只有审请人的照片不同。结果表明，如果照片上的人长得更有吸引力，人们就更乐意将申请表按上面的申请人地址寄回来。这个结果也许并不出人意料，但它表明我们受外貌影响的程度是多么深：哪怕永远不可能见到这个人，我们仍旧更喜爱长得漂亮的。

但是，每到讨论漂亮外表会带来多大好处的时候，人们总会提起美貌带来的负担。我毫不怀疑，美貌也有不利之处，问题在于，任何事都有不利之处，人们为什么更容易对美丽的人儿所遭受的这种不幸产生同情？比如说，和有钱人的不利之处相比，人们更容易同情前者。在这里，美丽再一次发挥出了自己的魔力：即使在讨论它的坏处时，美丽仍旧可以为美丽者带来好处。

我觉得，只要我们还有眼睛，有身体，美貌就会对我们产生这种影响。如果今后真的出现了这篇小说中的审美干扰仪，我肯定会试一试。

① 斯丹达尔（１７８３～１８４２），法国小说家，代表作《红与黑》。

② 生物体释放出来的一种物质，能在一定距离内被另一同种生物所接受，并且影响其行为。

③ 电脑软件，能够像人脑一样解决特定领域内的问题。

④ 乔治·奥威尔（１９０３～１９５０），英国作家，其极富想像力的小说猛烈攻击极权主义并反映对社会平等的关注。作品包括《动物农场》（１９４５年），《一九八四》（１９４９年）。

(王荣生译)

Liking What You See: A Documentary

by Ted Chiang

"BEAUTY IS THE PROMISE OF HAPPINESS."

— Stendhal

Tamera Lyons, first-year student at Pembleton:

I can't believe it. I visited the campus last year, and I didn't hear a word about this. Now I get here and it turns out people want to make calli a requirement. One of the things I was looking forward to about college was getting rid of this, you know, so I could be like everybody else. If I'd known there was even a chance I'd have to keep it, I probably would've picked another college. I feel like I've been scammed.

I turn eighteen next week, and I'm getting my calli turned off that day. If they vote to make it a requirement, I don't know what I'll do; maybe I'll transfer, I don't know. Right now I feel like going up to people and telling them, "Vote no." There's probably some campaign I can work for.

Maria deSouza, third-year student, President of the Students for Equality Everywhere (SEE):

Our goal is very simple. Pembleton University has a Code of Ethical Conduct, one that was created by the students themselves, and that all incoming students agree to follow when they enroll. The initiative that we've sponsored would add a provision to the code, requiring students to adopt calliagnosia as long as they're enrolled.

What prompted us to do this now was the release of a spex version of Visage. That's the software that, when you look at people through your spex, shows you what they'd look like with cosmetic surgery. It became a form of entertainment among a certain crowd, and a lot of college students found it offensive. When people started talking about it as a symptom of a deeper societal problem, we thought the timing was right for us to sponsor this initiative.

The deeper societal problem is lookism. For decades people've been willing to talk about racism and sexism, but they're still reluctant to talk about lookism. Yet this prejudice against unattractive people is incredibly pervasive. People do it without even being taught by anyone, which is bad enough, but instead of combating this tendency, modern society actively reinforces it.

Educating people, raising their awareness about this issue, all of that is essential, but it's not enough. That's where technology comes in. Think of calliagnosia as a kind of assisted maturity. It lets you do what you know you should: ignore the surface, so you can look deeper.

We think it's time to bring calli into the mainstream. So far the calli movement has been a minor presence on college campuses, just another one of the special-interest causes. But Pembleton isn't like other colleges, and I think the students here are ready for calli. If the initiative succeeds here, we'll be setting an example for other colleges, and ultimately, society as a whole.

Joseph Weingartner, neurologist:

The condition is what we call an associative agnosia, rather than an apperceptive one. That means it doesn't interfere with one's visual perception, only with the ability to recognize what one sees. A calliagnosic perceives faces perfectly well; he or she can tell the difference between a pointed chin and a receding one, a straight nose and a crooked one, clear skin and blemished skin. He or she simply doesn't experience any aesthetic reaction to those differences.

Calliagnosia is possible because of the existence of certain neural pathways in the brain. All animals have criteria for evaluating the reproductive potential of prospective mates, and they've evolved neural "circuitry" to recognize those criteria. Human social interaction is centered around our faces, so our circuitry is most finely attuned to how a person's reproductive potential is manifested in his or her face. You experience the operation of that circuitry as the feeling that a person is beautiful, or ugly, or somewhere in between. By blocking the neural pathways dedicated to evaluating those features, we induce calliagnosia.

Given how much fashions change, some people find it hard to imagine that there are absolute markers of a beautiful face. But it turns out that when people of different cultures are asked to rank photos of faces for attractiveness, some very clear patterns emerge across the board. Even very young infants show the same preference for certain faces. This lets us identify certain traits that are common to everyone's idea of a beautiful face.

Probably the most obvious one is clear skin. It's the equivalent of a bright plumage in birds or a shiny coat of fur in other mammals. Good skin is the single best indicator of youth and health, and it's valued in every culture. Acne may not be serious, but it looks like more serious diseases, and that's why we find it disagreeable.

Another trait is symmetry; we may not be conscious of millimeter differences between someone's left and right sides, but measurements reveal that individuals rated as most attractive are also the most symmetrical. And while symmetry is what our genes always aim for, it's very difficult to achieve in developmental terms; any environmental stressor— like poor nutrition, disease, parasites— tends to result in asymmetry during growth. Symmetry implies resistance to such stressors.

Other traits have to do with facial proportions. We tend to be attracted to facial proportions that are close to the population mean. That obviously depends on the population you're part of, but being near the mean usually indicates genetic health. The only departures from the mean that people consistently find attractive are exaggerations of secondary sexual characteristics.

Basically, calliagnosia is a lack of response to these traits; nothing more. Calliagnosics are not blind to fashion or cultural standards of beauty. If black lipstick is all the rage, calliagnosia won't make you forget it, although you might not notice the difference between pretty faces and plain faces wearing that lipstick. If everyone around you sneers at people with broad noses, you'll pick up on that.

So calliagnosia by itself can't eliminate appearance-based discrimination. What it does, in a sense, is even up the odds; it takes away the innate predisposition, the tendency for such discrimination to arise in the first place. That way, if you want to teach people to ignore appearances, you won't be facing an uphill battle. Ideally you'd start with an environment where everyone's adopted calliagnosia, and then socialize them to not value appearances.

Tamera Lyons:

People here have been asking me what it was like going to Saybrook, growing up with calli. To be honest, it's not a big deal when you're young; you know, like they say, whatever you grew up with seems normal to you. We knew that there was something that other people could see that we couldn't, but it was just something we were curious about.

For instance, my friends and I used to watch movies and try to figure out who was really good-looking and who wasn't. We'd say we could tell, but we couldn't really, not by looking at their faces. We were just going by who was the main character and who was the friend; you always knew the main character was better-looking than the friend. It's not true a hundred percent of the time, but you could usually tell if you were watching the kind of thing where the main character wouldn't be good looking.

It's when you get older that it starts to bother you. If you hang out with people from other schools, you can feel weird because you have calli and they don't. It's not that anyone makes a big deal out of it, but it reminds you that there's something you can't see. And then you start having fights with your parents, because they're keeping you from seeing the real world. You never get anywhere with them, though.

Richard Hamill, founder of the Saybrook School:

Saybrook came about as an outgrowth of our housing cooperative. We had maybe two dozen families at the time, all trying to establish a community based on shared values. We were holding a meeting about the possibility of starting an alternative school for our kids, and one parent mentioned the problem of the media's influence on their kids. Everyone's teens were asking for cosmetic surgery so they could look like fashion models. The parents were doing their best, but you can't isolate your kids from the world; they live in an image-obsessed culture.

It was around the time the last legal challenges to calliagnosia were resolved, and we got to talking about it. We saw calli as an opportunity: What if we could live in an environment where people didn't judge each other on their appearance? What if we could raise our children in such an environment?

The school started out being just for the children of the families in the cooperative, but other calliagnosia schools began making the news, and before long people were asking if they could enroll their kids without joining the housing co-op. Eventually we set up Saybrook as a private school separate from the co-op, and one of its requirements was that parents adopt calliagnosia for as long as their kids were enrolled. Now a calliagnosia community has sprung up here, all because of the school.

Rachel Lyons:

Tamera's father and I gave the issue a lot of thought before we decided to enroll her there. We talked to people in the community, found we liked their approach to education, but really it was visiting the school that sold me.

Saybrook has a higher than normal number of students with facial abnormalities, like bone cancer, burns, congenital conditions. Their parents moved here to keep them from being ostracized by other kids, and it works. I remember when I first visited, I saw a class of twelve-year-olds voting for class president, and they elected this girl who had burn scars on one side of her face. She was wonderfully at ease with herself, she was popular among kids who probably would have ostracized her in any other school. And I thought, this is the kind of environment I want my daughter to grow up in.

Girls have always been told that their value is tied to their appearance; their accomplishments are always magnified if they're pretty and diminished if they're not. Even worse, some girls get the message that they can get through life relying on just their looks, and then they never develop their minds. I wanted to keep Tamera away from that sort of influence.

Being pretty is fundamentally a passive quality; even when you work at it, you're working at being passive. I wanted Tamera to value herself in terms of what she could do, both with her mind and with her body, not in terms of how decorative she was. I didn't want her to be passive, and I'm pleased to say that she hasn't turned out that way.

Martin Lyons:

I don't mind if Tamera decides as an adult to get rid of calli. This was never about taking choices away from her. But there's more than enough stress involved in simply getting through adolescence; the peer pressure can crush you like a paper cup. Becoming preoccupied with how you look is just one more way to be crushed, and anything that can relieve that pressure is a good thing, in my opinion.

Once you're older, you're better equipped to deal with the issue of personal appearance. You're more comfortable in your own skin, more confident, more secure. You're more likely to be satisfied with how you look, whether you're "good-looking" or not. Of course not everyone reaches that level of maturity at the same age. Some people are there at sixteen, some don't get there until they're thirty or even older. But eighteen's the age of legal majority, when everyone's got the right to make their own decisions, and all you can do is trust your child and hope for the best.

Tamera Lyons:

It's been kind of an odd day for me. Good, but odd. I just got my calli turned off this morning.

Getting it turned off was easy. The nurse stuck some sensors on me and made me put on this helmet, and she showed me a bunch of pictures of people's faces. Then she tapped at her keyboard for a minute, and said, "I've switched off the calli," just like that. I thought you might feel something when it happened, but you don't. Then she showed me the pictures again, to make sure it worked.

When I looked at the faces again, some of them seemed… different. Like they were glowing, or more vivid or something. It's hard to describe. The nurse showed me my test results afterwards, and there were readings for how wide my pupils were dilating and how well my skin conducted electricity and stuff like that. And for the faces that seemed different, the readings went way up. She said those were the beautiful faces.

She said that I'd notice how other people's faces look right away, but it'd take a while before I had any reaction to how I looked. Supposedly you're too used to your face to tell.

And yeah, when I first looked in a mirror, I thought I looked totally the same. Since I got back from the doctor's, the people I see on campus definitely look different, but I still haven't noticed any difference in how I look. I've been looking at mirrors all day. For a while I was afraid that I was ugly, and any minute the ugliness was going to appear, like a rash or something. And so I've been staring at the mirror, just waiting, and nothing's happened. So I figure I'm probably not really ugly, or I'd have noticed it, but that means I'm not really pretty either, because I'd have noticed that too. So I guess that means I'm absolutely plain, you know? Exactly average. I guess that's okay.

Joseph Weingartner:

Inducing an agnosia means simulating a specific brain lesion. We do this with a programmable pharmaceutical called neurostat; you can think of it as a highly selective anesthetic, one whose activation and targeting are all under dynamic control. We activate or deactivate the neurostat by transmitting signals through a helmet the patient puts on. The helmet also provides somatic positioning information so the neurostat molecules can triangulate their location. This lets us activate only the neurostat in a specific section of brain tissue, and keep the nerve impulses there below a specified threshold.

Neurostat was originally developed for controlling seizures in epileptics and for relief of chronic pain; it lets us treat even severe cases of these conditions without the side-effects caused by drugs that affect the entire nervous system. Later on, different neurostat protocols were developed as treatments for obsessive-compulsive disorder, addictive behavior, and various other disorders. At the same time, neurostat became incredibly valuable as a research tool for studying brain physiology.

One way neurologists have traditionally studied specialization of brain function is to observe the deficits that result from various lesions. Obviously, this technique is limited because the lesions caused by injury or disease often affect multiple functional areas. By contrast, neurostat can be activated in the tiniest portion of the brain, in effect simulating a lesion so localized that it would never occur naturally. And when you deactivate the neurostat, the "lesion" disappears and brain function returns to normal.

In this way neurologists were able to induce a wide variety of agnosias. The one most relevant here is prosopagnosia, the inability to recognize people by their faces. A prosopagnosic can't recognize friends or family members unless they say something; he can't even identify his own face in a photograph. It's not a cognitive or perceptual problem; prosopagnosics can identify people by their hairstyle, clothing, perfume, even the way they walk. The deficit is restricted purely to faces.

Prosopagnosia has always been the most dramatic indication that our brains have a special "circuit" devoted to the visual processing of faces; we look at faces in a different way than we look at anything else. And recognizing someone's face is just one of the face-processing tasks we do; there are also related circuits devoted to identifying facial expressions, and even detecting changes in the direction of another person's gaze.

One of the interesting things about prosopagnosics is that while they can't recognize a face, they still have an opinion as to whether it's attractive or not. When asked to sort photos of faces in order of attractiveness, prosopagnosics sorted the photos in pretty much the same way as anyone else. Experiments using neurostat allowed researchers to identify the neurological circuit responsible for perceiving beauty in faces, and thus essentially invent calliagnosia.

Maria deSouza:

SEE has had extra neurostat programming helmets set up in the Student Health Office, and made arrangements so they can offer calliagnosia to anyone who wants it. You don't even have to make an appointment, you can just walk in. We're encouraging all the students to try it, at least for a day, to see what it's like. At first it seems a little odd, not seeing anyone as either good-looking or ugly, but over time you realize how positively it affects your interactions with other people.

A lot of people worry that calli might make them asexual or something, but actually physical beauty is only a small part of what makes a person attractive. No matter what a person looks like, it's much more important how the person acts; what he says and how he says it, his behavior and body language. And how does he react to you? For me, one of the things that attracts me to a guy is if he seems interested in me. It's like a feedback loop; you notice him looking at you, then he sees you looking at him, and things snowball from there. Calli doesn't change that. Plus there's that whole pheromone chemistry going on too; obviously calli doesn't affect that.

Another worry that people have is that calli will make everyone's face look the same, but that's not true either. A person's face always reflects their personality, and if anything, calli makes that clearer. You know that saying, that after a certain age, you're responsible for your face? With calli, you really appreciate how true that is. Some faces just look really bland, especially young, conventionally pretty ones. Without their physical beauty, those faces are just boring. But faces that are full of personality look as good as they ever did, maybe even better. It's like you're seeing something more essential about them.

Some people also ask about enforcement. We don't plan on doing anything like that. It's true, there's software that's pretty good at guessing if a person has calli or not, by analyzing eye gaze patterns. But it requires a lot of data, and the campus security cams don't zoom in close enough. Everyone would have to wear personal cams, and share the data. It's possible, but that's not what we're after. We think that once people try calli, they'll see the benefits themselves.

Tamera Lyons:

Check it out, I'm pretty!

What a day. When I woke up this morning I immediately went to the mirror; it was like I was a little kid on Christmas or something. But still, nothing; my face still looked plain. Later on I even (laughs) I tried to catch myself by surprise, by sneaking up on a mirror, but that didn't work. So I was kind of disappointed, and feeling just, you know, resigned to my fate.

But then this afternoon, I went out with my roommate Ina and a couple other girls from the dorm. I hadn't told anyone that I'd gotten my calli turned off, because I wanted to get used to it first. So we went to this snack bar on the other side of campus, one I hadn't been to before. We were sitting at this table, talking, and I was looking around, just seeing what people looked like without calli. And I saw this girl looking at me, and I thought, "She's really pretty." And then, (laughs) this'll sound really stupid, then I realized that this wall in the snack bar was a mirror, and I was looking at myself!

I can't describe it, I felt this incredible sense of relief. I just couldn't stop smiling! Ina asked me what I was so happy about, and I just shook my head. I went to the bathroom so I could stare at myself in the mirror for a bit.

So it's been a good day. I really like the way I look! It's been a good day.

Jeff Winthrop, third-year student, speaking at a student debate:

Of course it's wrong to judge people by their appearance, but this "blindness" isn't the answer. Education is.

Calli takes away the good as well as the bad. It doesn't just work when there's a possibility of discrimination, it keeps you from recognizing beauty altogether. There are plenty of times when looking at an attractive face doesn't hurt anyone. Calli won't let you make those distinctions, but education will.

And I know someone will say, what about when the technology gets better? Maybe one day they'll be able to insert an expert system into your brain, one that goes, "Is this an appropriate situation to apprehend beauty? If so, enjoy it; else, ignore it." Would that be okay? Would that be the "assisted maturity" you hear people talking about?

No, it wouldn't. That wouldn't be maturity; it'd be letting an expert system make your decisions for you. Maturity means seeing the differences, but realizing they don't matter. There's no technological shortcut.

Adesh Singh, third-year student, speaking at a student debate:

No one's talking about letting an expert system make your decisions. What makes calli ideal is precisely that it's such a minimal change. Calli doesn't decide for you; it doesn't prevent you from doing anything. And as for maturity, you demonstrate maturity by choosing calli in the first place.

Everyone knows physical beauty has nothing to do with merit; that's what education's accomplished. But even with the best intentions in the world, people haven't stopped practicing lookism. We try to be impartial, we try not to let a person's appearance affect us, but we can't suppress our autonomic responses, and anyone who claims they can is engaged in wishful thinking. Ask yourself: Don't you react differently when you meet an attractive person and when you meet an unattractive one?

Every study on this issue turns up the same results: looks help people get ahead. We can't help but think of good-looking people as more competent, more honest, more deserving than others. None of it's true, but their looks still give us that impression.

Calli doesn't blind you to anything; beauty is what blinds you. Calli lets you see.

Tamera Lyons:

So, I've been looking at good-looking guys around campus. It's fun; weird, but fun. Like, I was in the cafeteria the other day, and I saw this guy a couple tables away, I didn't know his name, but I kept turning to look at him. I can't describe anything specific about his face, but it just seemed much more noticeable than other people's. It was like his face was a magnet, and my eyes were compass needles being pulled toward it.

And after I looked at him for a while, I found it really easy to imagine that he was a nice guy! I didn't know anything about him, I couldn't even hear what he was talking about, but I wanted to get to know him. It was kind of odd, but definitely not in a bad way.

From a broadcast of EduNews, on the American College Network:

In the latest on the Pembleton University calliagnosia initiative: EduNews has received evidence that public-relations firm Wyatt/Hayes paid four Pembleton students to dissuade classmates from voting for the initiative, without having them register their affiliations. Evidence includes an internal memo from Wyatt/Hayes, proposing that "good-looking students with high reputation ratings" be sought, and records of payments from the agency to Pembleton students.

The files were sent by the SemioTech Warriors, a culture-jamming group responsible for numerous acts of media vandalism.

When contacted about this story, Wyatt/Hayes issued a statement decrying this violation of their internal computer systems.

Jeff Winthrop:

Yes, it's true, Wyatt/Hayes paid me, but it wasn't an endorsement deal; they never told me what to say. They just made it possible for me to devote more time to the anti-calli campaign, which is what I would've done anyway if I hadn't needed to make money tutoring. All I've been doing is expressing my honest opinion: I think calli's a bad idea.

A couple of people in the anti-calli campaign have asked that I not speak publicly about the issue anymore, because they think it'd hurt the cause. I'm sorry they feel that way, because this is just an ad hominem attack. If you thought my arguments made sense before, this shouldn't change anything. But I realize that some people can't make those distinctions, and I'll do what's best for the cause.

Maria deSouza:

Those students really should have registered their affiliations; we all know people who are walking endorsements. But now, whenever someone criticizes the initiative, people ask them if they're being paid. The backlash is definitely hurting the anticalli campaign.

I consider it a compliment that someone is taking enough interest in the initiative to hire a PRfirm. We've always hoped that its passing might influence people at other schools, and this means that corporations are thinking the same thing.

We've invited the president of the National Calliagnosia Association to speak on campus. Before we weren't sure if we wanted to bring the national group in, because they have a different emphasis than we do; they're more focused on the media uses of beauty, while here at SEE we're more interested in the social equality issue. But given the way students reacted to what Wyatt/Hayes did, it's clear that the media manipulation issue has the power to get us where we need to go. Our best shot at getting the initiative passed is to take advantage of the anger against advertisers. The social equality will follow afterwards.

From the speech given at Pembleton by Walter Lambert, president of the National Calliagnosia Association:

Think of cocaine. In its natural form, as coca leaves, it's appealing, but not to an extent that it usually becomes a problem. But refine it, purify it, and you get a compound that hits your pleasure receptors with an unnatural intensity. That's when it becomes addictive.

Beauty has undergone a similar process, thanks to advertisers. Evolution gave us a circuit that responds to good looks— call it the pleasure receptor for our visual cortex— and in our natural environment, it was useful to have. But take a person with one-in-a-million skin and bone structure, add professional makeup and retouching, and you're no longer looking at beauty in its natural form. You've got pharmaceutical-grade beauty, the cocaine of good looks.

Biologists call this "supernormal stimulus;" show a mother bird a giant plastic egg, and she'll incubate it instead of her own real eggs. Madison Avenue has saturated our environment with this kind of stimuli, this visual drug. Our beauty receptors receive more stimulation than they were evolved to handle; they're getting more in one day than our ancestors' did in their entire lives. And the result is that beauty is slowly ruining our lives.

How? The way any drug becomes a problem: by interfering with our relationships with other people. We become dissatisfied with the way ordinary people look because they can't compare to supermodels. Two-dimensional images are bad enough, but now with spex, advertisers can put a supermodel right in front of you, making eye contact. Software companies offer goddesses who'll remind you of your appointments. We've all heard about men who prefer virtual girlfriends over actual ones, but they're not the only ones who've been affected. The more time any of us spend with gorgeous digital apparitions around, the more our relationships with real human beings are going to suffer.

We can't avoid these images and still live in the modern world. And that means we can't kick this habit, because beauty is a drug you can't abstain from unless you literally keep your eyes closed all the time.

Until now. Now you can get another set of eyelids, one that blocks out this drug, but still lets you see. And that's calliagnosia. Some people call it excessive, but I call it just enough. Technology is being used to manipulate us through our emotional reactions, so it's only fair that we use it to protect ourselves too.

Right now you have an opportunity to make an enormous impact. The Pembleton student body has always been at the vanguard of every progressive movement; what you decide here will set an example for students across the country. By passing this initiative, by adopting calliagnosia, you'll be sending a message to advertisers that young people are no longer willing to be manipulated.

From a broadcast of EduNews:

Following NCA president Walter Lambert's speech, polls show that 54% of Pembleton students support the calliagnosia initiative. Polls across the country show that an average of 28% of students would support a similar initiative at their school, an increase of 8% in the past month.

Tamera Lyons:

I thought he went overboard with that cocaine analogy. Do you know anyone who steals stuff and sells it so he can get his fix of advertising?

But I guess he has a point about how good-looking people are in commercials versus in real life. It's not that they look better than people in real life, but they look good in a different way.

Like, I was at the campus store the other day, and I needed to check my email, and when I put on my spex I saw this poster running a commercial. It was for some shampoo, Jouissance I think. I'd seen it before, but it was different without calli. The model was so— I couldn't take my eyes off her. I don't mean I felt the same as that time I saw the good-looking guy in the cafeteria; it wasn't like I wanted to get to know her. It was more like… watching a sunset, or a fireworks display.

I just stood there and watched the commercial like five times, just so I could look at her some more. I didn't think a human being could look so, you know, spectacular.

But it's not like I'm going to quit talking to people so I can watch commercials through my spex all the time. Watching them is very intense, but it's a totally different experience than looking at a real person. And it's not even like I immediately want to go out and buy everything they're selling, either. I'm not even really paying attention to the products. I just think they're amazing to watch.

Maria deSouza:

If I'd met Tamera earlier, I might have tried to persuade her not to get her calli turned off. I doubt I would've succeeded; she seems pretty firm about her decision. Even so, she's a great example of the benefits of calli. You can't help but notice it when you talk to her. For example, at one point I was saying how lucky she was, and she said, "Because I'm beautiful?" And she was being totally sincere! Like she was talking about her height. Can you imagine a woman without calli saying that?

Tamera is completely unself-conscious about her looks; she's not vain or insecure, and she can describe herself as beautiful without embarrassment. I gather that she's very pretty, and with a lot of women who look like that, I can see something in their manner, a hint of showoffishness. Tamera doesn't have that. Or else they display false modesty, which is also easy to tell, but Tamera doesn't do that either, because she truly is modest. There's no way she could be like that if she hadn't been raised with calli. I just hope she stays that way.

Annika Lindstrom, second-year student:

I think this calli thing is a terrible idea. I like it when guys notice me, and I'd be really disappointed if they stopped.

I think this whole thing is just a way for people who, honestly, aren't very good-looking, to try and make themselves feel better. And the only way they can do that is to punish people who have what they don't. And that's just unfair.

Who wouldn't want to be pretty if they could? Ask anyone, ask the people behind this, and I bet you they'd all say yes. Okay, sure, being pretty means that you'll be hassled by jerks sometimes. There are always jerks, but that's part of life. If those scientists could come up with some way to turn off the jerk circuit in guys' brains, I'd be all in favor of that.

Jolene Carter, third-year student:

I'm voting for the initiative, because I think it'd be a relief if everyone had calli.

People are nice to me because of how I look, and part of me likes that, but part of me feels guilty because I haven't done anything to deserve it. And sure, it's nice to have men pay attention to me, but it can be hard to make a real connection with someone. Whenever I like a guy, I always wonder how much he's interested in me, versus how much he's interested in my looks. It can be hard to tell, because all relationships are wonderful at the beginning, you know? It's not until later that you find out whether you can really be comfortable with each other. It was like that with my last boyfriend. He wasn't happy with me if I didn't look fabulous, so I was never able to truly relax. But by the time I realized that, I'd already let myself get close to him, so that really hurt, finding out that he didn't see the real me.

And then there's how you feel around other women. I don't think most women like it, but you're always comparing how you look relative to everyone else. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a competition, and I don't want to be.

I thought about getting calli once, but it didn't seem like it would help unless everyone else did too; getting it all by myself wouldn't change the way others treat me. But if everyone on campus had calli, I'd be glad to get it.

Tamera Lyons:

I was showing my roommate Ina this album of pictures from high school, and we get to all these pictures of me and Garrett, my ex. So Ina wants to know all about him, and so I tell her. I'm telling her how we were together all of senior year, and how much I loved him, and wanted us to stay together, but he wanted to be free to date when he went to college. And then she's like, "You mean he broke up with you?"

It took me a while before I could get her to tell me what was up; she made me promise twice not to get mad. Eventually she said Garrett isn't exactly good-looking. I was thinking he must be average-looking, because he didn't really look that different after I got my calli turned off. But Ina said he was definitely below average.

She found pictures of a couple other guys who she thought looked like him, and with them I could see how they're not good-looking. Their faces just look goofy. Then I took another look at Garrett's picture, and I guess he's got some of the same features, but on him they look cute. To me, anyway.

I guess it's true what they say: love is a little bit like calli. When you love someone, you don't really see what they look like. I don't see Garrett the way others do, because I still have feelings for him.

Ina said she couldn't believe someone who looked like him would break up with someone who looked like me. She said that in a school without calli, he probably wouldn't have been able to get a date with me. Like, we wouldn't be in the same league.

That's weird to think about. When Garrett and I were going out, I always thought we were meant to be together. I don't mean that I believe in destiny, but I just thought there was something really right about the two of us. So the idea that we could've both been in the same school, but not gotten together because we didn't have calli, feels strange. And I know that Ina can't be sure of that. But I can't be sure she's wrong, either.

And maybe that means I should be glad I had calli, because it let me and Garrett get together. I don't know about that.

From a broadcast of EduNews:

Netsites for a dozen calliagnosia student organizations around the country were brought down today in a coordinated denial-of-service attack. Although no one claimed responsibility, some suggest the perpetrators are retaliating for last month's incident in which the American Association of Cosmetic Surgeons' net-site was replaced by a calliagnosia site.

Meanwhile, the SemioTech Warriors announced the release of their new "Dermatology" computer virus. This virus has begun infecting video servers around the world, altering broadcasts so that faces and bodies exhibit conditions such as acne and varicose veins.

Warren Davidson, first-year student:

I thought about trying calli before, when I was in high school, but I never knew how to bring it up with my parents. So when they started offering it here, I figured I'd give it a try. (shrugs) It's okay.

Actually, it's better than okay. (pause) I've always hated how I look. For a while in high school I couldn't stand the sight of myself in a mirror. But with calli, I don't mind as much. I know I look the same to other people, but that doesn't seem as big a deal as it used to. I feel better just by not being reminded that some people are so much better-looking than others. Like, for instance: I was helping this girl in the library with a problem on her calculus homework, and afterwards I realized that she's someone I'd thought was really pretty. Normally I would have been really nervous around her, but with calli, she wasn't so hard to talk to.

Maybe she thinks I look like a freak, I don't know, but the thing was, when I was talking to her I didn't think I looked like a freak. Before I got calli, I think I was just too self-conscious, and that just made things worse. Now I'm more relaxed.

It's not like I suddenly feel all wonderful about myself or anything, and I'm sure for other people calli wouldn't help them at all, but for me, calli makes me not feel as bad as I used to. And that's worth something.

Alex Bibescu, professor of religious studies at Pembleton:

Some people have been quick to dismiss the whole calliagnosia debate as superficial, an argument over makeup or who can and can't get a date. But if you actually look at it, you'll see it's much deeper than that. It reflects a very old ambivalence about the body, one that's been part of Western civilization since ancient times.

You see, the foundations of our culture were laid in classical Greece, where physical beauty and the body were celebrated. But our culture is also thoroughly permeated by the monotheistic tradition, which devalues the body in favor of the soul. These old conflicting impulses are rearing their heads again, this time in the calliagnosia debate.

I suspect that most calli supporters consider themselves to be modern, secular liberals, and wouldn't admit to being influenced by monotheism in any way. But take a look at who else advocates calliagnosia: conservative religious groups. There are communities of all three major monotheistic faiths— Jewish, Christian, and Muslim— who've begun using calli to make their young members more resistant to the charms of outsiders. This commonality is no coincidence. The liberal calli supporters may not use language like "resisting the temptations of the flesh," but in their own way, they're following the same tradition of deprecating the physical.

Really, the only calli supporters who can credibly claim they're not influenced by monotheism are the NeoMind Buddhists. They're a sect who see calliagnosia as a step toward enlightened thought, because it eliminates one's perception of illusory distinctions. But the NeoMind sect is open to broad use of neurostat as an aid to meditation, which is a radical stance of an entirely different sort. I doubt you'll find many modern liberals or conservative monotheists sympathetic to that!

So you see, this debate isn't just about commercials and cosmetics, it's about determining what's the appropriate relationship between the mind and the body. Are we more fully realized when we minimize the physical part of our nature? And that, you have to agree, is a profound question.

Joseph Weingartner:

After calliagnosia was discovered, some researchers wondered if it might be possible to create an analogous condition that rendered the subject blind to race or ethnicity. They've made a number of attempts— impairing various levels of category discrimination in tandem with face recognition, that sort of thing— but the resulting deficits were always unsatisfactory. Usually the test subjects would simply be unable to distinguish similar-looking individuals. One test actually produced a benign variant of Fregoli syndrome, causing the subject to mistake every person he met for a family member. Unfortunately, treating everyone like a brother isn't desirable in so literal a sense.

When neurostat treatments for problems like compulsive behavior entered widespread use, a lot of people thought that "mind programming" was finally here. People asked their doctors if they could get the same sexual tastes as their spouses. Media pundits worried about the possibility of programming loyalty to a government or corporation, or belief in an ideology or religion.

The fact is, we have no access to the contents of anyone's thoughts. We can shape broad aspects of personality, we can make changes consistent with the natural specialization of the brain, but these are extremely coarse-grained adjustments. There's no neural pathway that specifically handles resentment toward immigrants, any more than there's one for Marxist doctrine or foot fetishism. If we ever get true mind programming, we'll be able to create "race blindness," but until then, education is our best hope.

Tamera Lyons:

I had an interesting class today. In History of Ideas, we've got this T.A., he's named Anton, and he was saying how a lot of words we use to describe an attractive person used to be words for magic. Like the word "charm" originally meant a magic spell, and the word "glamour" did, too. And it's just blatant with words like "enchanting" and "spellbinding." And when he said that, I thought, yeah, that's what it's like: seeing a really good-looking person is like having a magic spell cast over you.

And Anton was saying how one of the primary uses of magic was to create love and desire in someone. And that makes total sense, too, when you think about those words "charm" and "glamour." Because seeing beauty feels like love. You feel like you've got a crush on a really good-looking person, just by looking at them.

And I've been thinking that maybe there's a way I can get back together with Garrett. Because if Garrett didn't have calli, maybe he'd fall in love with me again. Remember how I said before that maybe calli was what let us get together? Well, maybe calli is actually what's keeping us apart now. Maybe Garrett would want to get back with me if he saw what I really looked like.

Garrett turned eighteen during the summer, but he never got his calli turned off because he didn't think it was a big deal. He goes to Northrop now. So I called him up, just as a friend, and when we were talking about stuff, I asked him what he thought about the calli initiative here at Pembleton. He said he didn't see what all the fuss was about, and then I told him how much I liked not having calli anymore, and said he ought to try it, so he could judge both sides. He said that made sense. I didn't make a big deal out of it, but I was stoked.

Daniel Taglia, professor of comparative literature at Pembleton:

The student initiative doesn't apply to faculty, but obviously if it passes there'll be pressure on the faculty to adopt calliagnosia as well. So I don't consider it premature for me to say that I'm adamantly opposed to it.

This is just the latest example of political correctness run amok. The people advocating calli are well-intentioned, but what they're doing is infantilizing us. The very notion that beauty is something we need to be protected from is insulting. Next thing you know, a student organization will insist we all adopt music agnosia, so we don't feel bad about ourselves when we hear gifted singers or musicians.

When you watch Olympic athletes in competition, does your self-esteem plummet? Of course not. On the contrary, you feel wonder and admiration; you're inspired that such exceptional individuals exist. So why can't we feel the same way about beauty? Feminism would have us to apologize for having that reaction. It wants to replace aesthetics with politics, and to the extent it's succeeded, it's impoverished us.

Being in the presence of a world-class beauty can be as thrilling as listening to a world-class soprano. Gifted individuals aren't the only ones who benefit from their gifts; we all do. Or, I should say, we all can. Depriving ourselves of that opportunity would be a crime.

Commercial paid for by People for Ethical Nanomedicine:

Voiceover: Have your friends been telling you that calli is cool, that it's the smart thing to do? Then maybe you should talk to people who grew up with calli.

"After I got my calli turned off, I recoiled the first time I met an unattractive person. I knew it was silly, but I just couldn't help myself. Calli didn't help make me mature, it kept me from becoming mature. I had to relearn how to interact with people."

"I went to school to be a graphic artist. I worked day and night, but I never got anywhere with it. My teacher said I didn't have the eye for it, that calli had stunted me aesthetically. There's no way I can get back what I've lost."

"Having calli was like having my parents inside my head, censoring my thoughts. Now that I've had it turned off, I realize just what kind of abuse I'd been living with."

Voiceover: If the people who grew up with calliagnosia don't recommend it, shouldn't that tell you something?

They didn't have a choice, but you do. Brain damage is never a good idea, no matter what your friends say.

Maria deSouza:

We'd never heard of the People for Ethical Nanomedicine, so we did some research on them. It took some digging, but it turns out it's not a grassroots organization at all, it's an industry PRfront. A bunch of cosmetics companies got together recently and created it. We haven't been able to contact the people who appear in the commercial, so we don't know how much, if any, of what they said was true. Even if they were being honest, they certainly aren't typical; most people who get their calli turned off feel fine about it. And there are definitely graphic artists who grew up with calli.

It kind of reminds me of an ad I saw a while back, put out by a modeling agency when the calli movement was just getting started. It was just a picture of a supermodel's face, with a caption: "If you no longer saw her as beautiful, whose loss would it be? Hers, or yours?" This new campaign has the same message, basically saying, "you'll be sorry," but instead of taking that cocky attitude, it has more of a concerned-warning tone. This is classic PR: hide behind a nice-sounding name, and create the impression of a third party looking out for the consumer's interests.

Tamera Lyons:

I thought that commercial was totally idiotic. It's not like I'm in favor of the initiative— I don't want people to vote for it— but people shouldn't vote against it for the wrong reason. Growing up with calli isn't crippling. There's no reason for anyone to feel sorry for me or anything. I'm dealing with it fine. And that's why I think people ought to vote against the initiative: because seeing beauty is fine.

Anyway, I talked to Garrett again. He said he'd just gotten his calli turned off. He said it seemed cool so far, although it was kind of weird, and I told him I felt the same way when I got mine disabled. I suppose it's kind of funny, how I was acting like an old pro, even though I've only had mine off for a few weeks.

Joseph Weingartner:

One of the first questions researchers asked about calliagnosia was whether it has any "spillover," that is, whether it affects your appreciation of beauty outside of faces. For the most part, the answer seems to be "no." Calliagnosics seem to enjoy looking at the same things other people do. That said, we can't rule out the possibility of side effects.

As an example, consider the spillover that's observed in prosopagnosics. One prosopagnosic who was a dairy farmer found he could no longer recognize his cows individually. Another found it harder to distinguish models of cars, if you can imagine that. These cases suggest that we sometimes use our face-recognition module for tasks other than strict face recognition. We may not think something looks like a face— a car, for example— but at a neurological level we're treating it as if it were a face.

There may be a similar spillover among calliagnosics, but since calliagnosia is subtler than prosopagnosia, any spillover is harder to measure. The role of fashion in cars' appearances, for example, is vastly greater than its role in faces', and there's little consensus about which cars are most attractive. There may be a calliagnosic out there who doesn't enjoy looking at certain cars as much as he otherwise would, but he hasn't come forward to complain.

Then there's the role our beauty-recognition module plays in our aesthetic reaction to symmetry. We appreciate symmetry in a wide range of settings— painting, sculpture, graphic design— but at the same time we also appreciate asymmetry. There are a lot of factors that contribute to our reaction to art, and not much consensus about when a particular example is successful.

It might be interesting to see if calliagnosia communities produce fewer truly talented visual artists, but given how few such individuals arise in the general population, it's difficult to do a statistically meaningful study. The only thing we know for certain is that calliagnosics report a more muted response to some portraits, but that's not a side effect per se; portrait paintings derive at least some of their impact from the facial appearance of the subject.

Of course, any effect is too much for some people. This is the reason given by some parents for not wanting calliagnosia for their children: they want their children to be able to appreciate the Mona Lisa, and perhaps create its successor.

Marc Esposito, fourth-year student at Waterston College:

That Pembleton thing sounds totally crazed. I could see doing it like a setup for some prank. You know, as in, you'd fix this guy up with a girl, and tell him she's an absolute babe, but actually you've fixed him up with a dog, and he can't tell so he believes you. That'd be kind of funny, actually.

But I sure as hell would never get this calli thing. I want to date good-looking girls. Why would I want something that'd make me lower my standards? Okay, sure, some nights all the babes have been taken, and you have to choose from the leftovers. But that's why there's beer, right? Doesn't mean I want to wear beer goggles all the time.

Tamera Lyons:

So Garrett and I were talking on the phone again last night, and I asked him if he wanted to switch to video so we could see each other. And he said okay, so we did.

I was casual about it, but I had actually spent a lot of time getting ready. Ina's teaching me to put on makeup, but I'm not very good at it yet, so I got that phone software that makes it look like you're wearing makeup. I set it for just a little bit, and I think it made a real difference in how I looked. Maybe it was overkill, I don't know how much Garrett could tell, but I just wanted to be sure I looked as good as possible.

As soon as we switched to video, I could see him react. It was like his eyes got wider. He was like, "You look really great," and I was like, "Thanks." Then he got shy, and made some joke about the way he looked, but I told him I liked the way he looked.

We talked for a while on video, and all the time I was really conscious of him looking at me. That felt good. I got a feeling that he was thinking he might want us to get back together again, but maybe I was just imagining it.

Maybe next time we talk I'll suggest he could come visit me for a weekend, or I could go visit him at Northrop. That'd be really cool. Though I'd have to be sure I could do my own makeup before that.

I know there's no guarantee that he'll want to get back together. Getting my calli turned off didn't make me love him less, so maybe it won't make him love me any more. I'm hoping, though.

Cathy Minami, third-year student:

Anyone who says the calli movement is good for women is spreading the propaganda of all oppressors: the claim that subjugation is actually protection. Calli supporters want to demonize those women who possess beauty. Beauty can provide just as much pleasure for those who have it as for those who perceive it, but the calli movement makes women feel guilty about taking pleasure in their appearance. It's yet another patriarchal strategy for suppressing female sexuality, and once again, too many women have bought into it.

Of course beauty has been used as a tool of oppression, but eliminating beauty is not the answer; you can't liberate people by narrowing the scope of their experiences. That's positively Orwellian. What's needed is a woman-centered concept of beauty, one that lets all women feel good about themselves instead of making most of them feel bad.

Lawrence Sutton, fourth-year student:

I totally knew what Walter Lambert was talking about in his speech. I wouldn't have phrased it the way he did, but I've felt the same way for a while now. I got calli a couple years ago, long before this initiative came up, because I wanted to be able to concentrate on more important things.

I don't mean I only think about schoolwork; I've got a girlfriend, and we have a good relationship. That hasn't changed. What's changed is how I interact with advertising. Before, every time I used to walk past a magazine stand or see a commercial, I could feel my attention being drawn a little bit. It was like they were trying to arouse me against my will. I don't necessarily mean a sexual kind of arousal, but they were trying to appeal to me on a visceral level. And I would automatically resist, and go back to whatever I was doing before. But it was a distraction, and resisting those distractions took energy that I could have been using elsewhere.

But now with calli, I don't feel that pull. Calli freed me from that distraction, it gave me that energy back. So I'm totally in favor of it.

Lori Harber, third-year student at Maxwell College:

Calli is for wusses. My attitude is, fight back. Go radical ugly. That's what the beautiful people need to see.

I got my nose taken off about this time last year. It's a bigger deal than it sounds, surgery-wise; to be healthy and stuff, you have to move some of the hairs further in to catch dust. And the bone you see (taps it with a fingernail) isn't real, it's ceramic. Having your real bone exposed is a big infection risk.

I like it when I freak people out; sometimes I actually ruin someone's appetite when they're eating. But freaking people out, that's not what it's about. It's about how ugly can beat beautiful at its own game. I get more looks walking down the street than a beautiful woman. You see me standing next to a video model, who you going to notice more? Me, that's who. You won't want to, but you will.

Tamera Lyons:

Garrett and I were talking again last night, and we got to talking about, you know, if either of us had been going out with someone else. And I was casual about it, I said that I had hung out with some guys, but nothing major.

So I asked him the same. He was kind of embarrassed about it, but eventually he said that he was finding it harder to, like, really become friendly with girls in college, harder than he expected. And now he's thinking it's because of the way he looks.

I just said, "No way," but I didn't really know what to say. Part of me was glad that Garrett isn't seeing someone else yet, and part of me felt bad for him, and part of me was just surprised. I mean, he's smart, he's funny, he's a great guy, and I'm not just saying that because I went out with him. He was popular in high school.

But then I remembered what Ina said about me and Garrett. I guess being smart and funny doesn't mean you're in the same league as someone, you have to be equally good-looking too. And if Garrett's been talking to girls who are pretty, maybe they don't feel like he's in their league.

I didn't make a big deal out of it when we were talking, because I don't think he wanted to talk about it a lot. But afterwards, I was thinking that if we decide to do a visit, I should definitely go out to Northrop to see him instead of him coming here. Obviously, I'm hoping something'll happen between us, but also, I thought, maybe if the other people at his school see us together, he might feel better. Because I know sometimes that works: if you're hanging out with a cool person, you feel cool, and other people think you're cool. Not that I'm super cool, but I guess people like how I look, so I thought it might help.

Ellen Hutchinson, professor of sociology at Pembleton:

I admire the students who are putting forth this initiative. Their idealism heartens me, but I have mixed feelings about their goal.

Like everyone else my age, I've had to come to terms with the effects time has had on my appearance. It wasn't an easy thing to get used to, but I've reached the point where I'm content with the way I look. Although I can't deny that I'm curious to see what a calli-only community would be like; maybe there a woman my age wouldn't become invisible when a young woman entered the room.

But would I have wanted to adopt calli when I was young? I don't know. I'm sure it would've spared me some of the distress I felt about growing older. But I liked the way I looked when I was young. I wouldn't have wanted to give that up. I'm not sure if, as I grew older, there was ever a point when the benefits would have outweighed the costs for me.

And these students, they might never even lose the beauty of youth. With the gene therapies coming out now, they'll probably look young for decades, maybe even their entire lives. They might never have to make the adjustments I did, in which case adopting calli wouldn't even save them from pain later on. So the idea that they might voluntarily give up one of the pleasures of youth is almost galling. Sometimes I want to shake them and say, "No! Don't you realize what you have?"

I've always liked young people's willingness to fight for their beliefs. That's one reason I've never really believed in the cliche?? that youth is wasted on the young. But this initiative would bring the cliche?? closer to reality, and I would hate for that to be the case.

Joseph Weingartner:

I've tried calliagnosia for a day; I've tried a wide variety of agnosias for limited periods. Most neurologists do, so we can better understand these conditions and empathize with our patients. But I couldn't adopt calliagnosia on a long-term basis, if for no other reason than that I see patients.

There's a slight interaction between calliagnosia and the ability to gauge a person's health visually. It certainly doesn't make you blind to things like a person's skin tone, and a calliagnosic can recognize symptoms of illness just like anyone else does; this is something that general cognition handles perfectly well. But physicians need to be sensitive to very subtle cues when evaluating a patient; sometimes you use your intuition when making a diagnosis, and calliagnosia would act as a handicap in such situations.

Of course, I'd be disingenuous if I claimed that professional requirements were the only thing keeping me from adopting calliagnosia. The more relevant question is, would I choose calliagnosia if I did nothing but lab research and never dealt with patients? And to that, my answer is no. Like many other people, I enjoy seeing a pretty face, but I consider myself mature enough to not let that affect my judgment.

Tamera Lyons:

I can't believe it, Garrett got his calli turned back on.

We were talking on the phone last night, just ordinary stuff, and I ask him if he wants to switch to video. And he's like, "Okay," so we do. And then I realize he's not looking at me the same way he was before. So I ask him if everything's okay with him, and that's when he tells me about getting calli again.

He said he did it because he wasn't happy about the way he looked. I asked him if someone had said something about it, because he should ignore them, but he said it wasn't that. He just didn't like how he felt when he saw himself in a mirror. So I was like, "What are you talking about, you look cute." I tried to get him to give it another chance, saying stuff like, he should spend more time without calli before making any decisions. Garrett said he'd think about it, but I don't know what he's going to do.

Anyway, afterwards, I was thinking about what I'd said to him. Did I tell him that because I don't like calli, or because I wanted him to see how I looked? I mean, of course I liked the way he looked at me, and I was hoping it would lead somewhere, but it's not as if I'm being inconsistent, is it? If I'd always been in favor of calli, but made an exception when it came to Garrett, that'd be different. But I'm against calli, so it's not like that.

Oh, who am I kidding? I wanted Garrett to get his calli turned off for my own benefit, not because I'm anti-calli. And it's not even that I'm anti-calli, so much, as I am against calli being a requirement. I don't want anyone else deciding calli's right for me: not my parents, not a student organization. But if someone decides they want calli themselves, that's fine, whatever. So I should let Garrett decide for himself, I know that.

It's just frustrating. I mean, I had this whole plan figured out, with Garrett finding me irresistible, and realizing what a mistake he'd made. So I'm disappointed, that's all.

From Maria deSouza's speech the day before the election:

We've reached a point where we can begin to adjust our minds. The question is, when is it appropriate for us to do so? We shouldn't automatically accept that natural is better, nor should we automatically presume that we can improve on nature. It's up to us to decide which qualities we value, and what's the best way to achieve those.

I say that physical beauty is something we no longer need. Calli doesn't mean that you'll never see anyone as beautiful. When you see a smile that's genuine, you'll see beauty. When you see an act of courage or generosity, you'll see beauty. Most of all, when you look at someone you love, you'll see beauty. All calli does is keep you from being distracted by surfaces. True beauty is what you see with the eyes of love, and that's something that nothing can obscure.

From the speech broadcast by Rebecca Boyer, spokesperson for People for Ethical Nanomedicine, the day before the election:

You might be able to create a pure calli society in an artificial setting, but in the real world, you're never going to get a hundred percent compliance. And that is calli's weakness. Calli works fine if everybody has it, but if even one person doesn't, that person will take advantage of everyone else.

There'll always be people who don't get calli; you know that. Just think about what those people could do. A manager could promote attractive employees and demote ugly ones, but you won't even notice. A teacher could reward attractive students and punish ugly ones, but you won't be able to tell. All the discrimination you hate could be taking place, without you even realizing.

Of course, it's possible those things won't happen. But if people could always be trusted to do what's right, no one would have suggested calli in the first place. In fact, the people prone to such behavior are liable to do it even more once there's no chance of their getting caught.

If you're outraged by that sort of lookism, how can you afford to get calli? You're precisely the type of person who's needed to blow the whistle on that behavior, but if you've got calli, you won't be able to recognize it.

If you want to fight discrimination, keep your eyes open.

From a broadcast of EduNews:

The Pembleton University calliagnosia initiative was defeated by a vote of sixty-four percent to thirty-six percent.

Polls indicated a majority favoring the initiative until days before the election. Many students who previously supported the initiative say they reconsidered after seeing the speech given by Rebecca Boyer of the People for Ethical Nanomedicine. This despite an earlier revelation that PEN was established by cosmetics companies to oppose the calliagnosia movement.

Maria deSouza:

Of course it's disappointing, but we originally thought of the initiative as a long shot. That period when the majority supported it was something of a fluke, so I can't be too disappointed about people changing their minds. The important thing is that people everywhere are talking about the value of appearances, and more of them are thinking about calli seriously.

And we're not stopping; in fact, the next few years will be a very exciting time. A spex manufacturer just demonstrated some new technology that could change everything. They've figured out a way to fit somatic positioning beacons in a pair of spex, custom-calibrated for a single person. That means no more helmet, no more office visit needed to reprogram your neurostat; you can just put on your spex and do it yourself. That means you'll be able to turn your calli on or off, any time you want.

That means we won't have the problem of people feeling that they have to give up beauty altogether. Instead, we can promote the idea that beauty is appropriate in some situations and not in others. For example, people could keep calli enabled when they're working, but disable it when they're among friends. I think people recognize that calli offers benefits, and will choose it on at least a part-time basis.

I'd say the ultimate goal is for calli to be considered the proper way to behave in polite society. People can always disable their calli in private, but the default for public interaction would be freedom from lookism. Appreciating beauty would become a consensual interaction, something you do only when both parties, the beholder and the beheld, agree to it.

From a broadcast of EduNews:

In the latest on the Pembleton calliagnosia initiative, EduNews has learned that a new form of digital manipulation was used on the broadcast of PEN spokesperson Rebecca Boyer's speech. EduNews has received files from the SemioTech Warriors that contain what appear to be two recorded versions of the speech: an original— acquired from the Wyatt/Hayes computers— and the broadcast version. The files also include the SemioTech Warriors' analysis of the differences between the two versions.

The discrepancies are primarily enhancements to Ms. Boyer's voice intonation, facial expressions, and body language. Viewers who watch the original version rate Ms. Boyer's performance as good, while those who watch the edited version rate her performance as excellent, describing her as extraordinarily dynamic and persuasive. The SemioTech Warriors conclude that Wyatt/Hayes has developed new software capable of fine-tuning paralinguistic cues in order to maximize the emotional response evoked in viewers. This dramatically increases the effectiveness of recorded presentations, especially when viewed through spex, and its use in the PEN broadcast is likely what caused many supporters of the calliagnosia initiative to change their votes.

Walter Lambert, president of the National Calliagnosia Association:

In my entire career, I've met only a couple people who have the kind of charisma they gave Ms. Boyer in that speech. People like that radiate a kind of reality-distortion field that lets them convince you of almost anything. You feel moved by their very presence, you're ready to open your wallet or agree to whatever they ask. It's not until later that you remember all the objections you had, but by then, often as not, it's too late. And I'm truly frightened by the prospect of corporations being able to generate that effect with software.

What this is, is another kind of supernormal stimuli, like flawless beauty but even more dangerous. We had a defense against beauty, and Wyatt/Hayes has escalated things to the next level. And protecting ourselves from this type of persuasion is going to be a hell of a lot harder.

There is a type of tonal agnosia, or aprosodia, that makes you unable to hear voice intonation; all you hear are the words, not the delivery. There's also an agnosia that prevents you from recognizing facial expressions. Adopting the two of these would protect you from this type of manipulation, because you'd have to judge a speech purely on its content; its delivery would be invisible to you. But I can't recommend these agnosias. The result is nothing like calli. If you can't hear tone of voice or read someone's expression, your ability to interact with others is crippled. It'd be a kind of high-functioning autism. A few NCA members are adopting both agnosias, as a form of protest, but no one expects many people will follow their example.

So that means that once this software gets into widespread use, we're going to be facing extraordinarily persuasive pitches from all sides: commercials, press releases, evangelists. We'll hear the most stirring speeches given by a politician or general in decades. Even activists and culture jammers will use it, just to keep up with the establishment. Once the range of this software gets wide enough, even the movies will use it, too: an actor's own ability won't matter, because everyone's performance will be uncanny.

The same thing'll happen as happened with beauty: our environment will become saturated with this supernormal stimuli, and it'll affect our interaction with real people. When every speaker on a broadcast has the presence of a Winston Churchill or a Martin Luther King, we'll begin to regard ordinary people, with their average use of paralinguistic cues, as bland and unpersuasive. We'll become dissatisfied with the people we interact with in real life, because they won't be as engaging as the projections we see through our spex.

I just hope those spex for reprogramming neurostat hit the market soon. Then maybe we can encourage people to adopt the stronger agnosias just when they're watching video. That may be the only way for us to preserve authentic human interaction: if we save our emotional responses for real life.

Tamera Lyons:

I know how this is going to sound, but… well, I'm thinking about getting my calli turned back on.

In a way, it's because of that PEN video. I don't mean I'm getting calli just because makeup companies don't want people to and I'm angry at them. That's not it. But it's hard to explain.

I am angry at them, because they used a trick to manipulate people; they weren't playing fair. But what it made me realize was, I was doing the same kind of thing to Garrett. Or I wanted to, anyway. I was trying to use my looks to win him back. And in a way that's not playing fair, either.

I don't mean that I'm as bad as the advertisers are! I love Garrett, and they just want to make money. But remember when I was talking about beauty as a kind of magic spell? It gives you an advantage, and I think it's very easy to misuse something like that. And what calli does is make a person immune to that sort of spell. So I figure I shouldn't mind if Garrett would rather be immune, because I shouldn't be trying to gain an advantage in the first place. If I get him back, I want it to be by playing fair, by him loving me for myself.

I know, just because he got his calli turned back on doesn't mean that I have to. I've really been enjoying seeing what faces look like. But if Garrett's going to be immune, I feel like I should be too. So we're even, you know? And if we do get back together, maybe we'll get those new spex they're talking about. Then we can turn off our calli when we're by ourselves, just the two of us.

And I guess calli makes sense for other reasons, too. Those makeup companies and everyone else, they're just trying to create needs in you that you wouldn't feel if they were playing fair, and I don't like that. If I'm going to be dazzled watching a commercial, it'll be when I'm in the mood, not whenever they spring it on me. Although I'm not going to get those other agnosias, like that tonal one, not yet anyway. Maybe once those new spex come out.

This doesn't mean I agree with my parents' having me grow up with calli. I still think they were wrong; they thought getting rid of beauty would help make a utopia, and I don't believe that at all. Beauty isn't the problem, it's how some people are misusing it that's the problem. And that's what calli's good for; it lets you guard against that. I don't know, maybe this wasn't a problem back in my parents' day. But it's something we have to deal with now.

Story Notes

Psychologists once conducted an experiment where they repeatedly left a fake college application in an airport, supposedly forgotten by a traveler. The answers on the application were always the same, but sometimes they changed the photo of the fictitious applicant. It turned out people were more likely to mail in the application if the applicant was attractive. This is perhaps not surprising, but it illustrates just how thoroughly we're influenced by appearances; we favor attractive people even in a situation where we'll never meet them.

Yet any discussion of beauty's advantages is usually accompanied by a mention of the burden of beauty. I don't doubt that beauty has its drawbacks, but so does everything else. Why do people seem more sympathetic to the idea of burdensome beauty than to, say, the idea of burdensome wealth? It's because beauty is working its magic again: even in a discussion of its drawbacks, beauty is providing its possessors with an advantage.

I expect physical beauty will be around for as long as we have bodies and eyes. But if calliagnosia ever becomes available, I for one will give it a try.

前路迢迢

进退维谷间…

译本一

这是一个警告。请仔细阅读。

至此，你应已见过了预测器；读到此文时，它的销量该是数以百万计。为尚未有幸目睹者介绍两句：它是个小小的装置，同开车门的遥控器差不多。外形上说，它只有一个按钮和一个硕大的绿色发光二级管。你揿按钮，绿灯就闪亮。唯一特出之处是灯会在你揿按钮前一秒钟亮起。

多数人说刚上手时就好像在玩什么奇怪的游戏，游戏目的是在看见闪光之后揿按钮，容易得很。但当你起意想打破规则时，却会发现无法做到。如果你打算在看见闪光前揿按钮，闪光立刻就会出现，无论你动作多快，也无法在亮光过后一秒钟内揿按钮。如果你想等待闪光，意图避免事后揿按钮，那么闪光便永远不会出现。无论你做什么，闪光总是先于揿按钮。你无法愚弄预测器。

预测器的核心是一个负延时电路——它向过去发送信号。等负延时大于一秒钟以后，这项技术的深层内涵会变得更加清楚。近在眼前的问题是预测器正在展示根本不存在自由意志这玩意儿。

说明自由意志只是幻觉的论证早已有之，有些基于严密的物理学，余者仅是纯然逻辑推理。多数人虽觉得这些证明无法反驳，但却也无法真正接受其中结论。享有自由意志的经验不是非是几句话可以否定的。真能起作用的是实证，而这恰是预测器所提供的。

一般来说，玩家会着魔般地鼓捣预测器好几天，拿给朋友们看，绞尽脑汁瞒骗装置。人们或可假装对它失去兴趣，但无人会忘记个中涵义——接下来的几周中，关于“未来无法改变”的意念深入脑海。有些人意识到他们的抉择毫无意义，从此拒绝再做任何决定。他们仿佛整个军团的录事巴特比[1]，纷纷停止进行任何自发性活动。到头来，三分之一的预测器玩家必须入院治疗，因为他们已经无法自行进食。终极状态是运动不能性缄默[2]，醒状昏迷的一种。他们的眼球能追踪动作，他们偶尔改变姿势，但仅是这些了。运动能力依然存在，但动因却已消失。

人们玩预测器之前，运动不能性缄默非常罕见，它是大脑前扣带区域受损所致。现在它正仿佛一场精神性瘟疫般蔓延。人们曾经设想过能够毁灭思考者的念头——无法言谕的洛夫克拉夫特式的恐怖，或是某个哥德尔[3] 命题令人类的逻辑系统崩溃。结果让人们丧失能力的念头却是我们都已经遭遇过的：关于自由意志并不存在的想法。你相信，它才能够伤人。

医生试着在患者对说话尚存反应时与之辩论。我们都曾过着幸福、有活力的生活，他们劝道，那时候我们也没有自由意志。所以有什么不同吗？“上个月你的行动不比今天你的行动更自由，”医生如是说。“现在你还是可以那样过日子啊。”患者总是回答道，“但现在我知道了。”有些人就此再不开口。

有人争论说，预测器在行为方面导致的改变恰能说明我们的确拥有自由意志。机器人无法灰心丧气，只有能够自由思考的实体才行。有人坠入运动不能性缄默有人没有，这正说明了做出选择的重要性。

不幸的是，决定论适用于各种形态的应激行为，这样的推理却有误失。一个动态系统可能落入吸引域[4] 并收束于不动点，而另一个则可能有不确定的混沌表现，但两者本身却都是确定的。

我正在你的未来一年后向你发送这个警告：它是兆秒级负延时电路首次应用于建立通讯设备后收到的第一个长信息。关于其他问题的消息将接踵而至。我给你的信息是这样的：假装你拥有自由意志。重点是你必须扮出你的决定能起作用的样子，即便你知道事实绝非如此。现实不重要，重要的是你相信什么，而相信谎言是唯一避免醒态昏迷的方法。人类文明如今维系于自我欺骗上。也许一向如此。

然而我却明明知道，既然自由意志是个幻觉，那么谁将坠入运动不能性缄默谁将不坠入是已注定的。对此谁都无能为力——你无法选择预测器对你起何种作用。有人将倒下，有人将不，而我送出这个警告也无法改变两者比例。那么，我为什么还要送出呢？

因为我并无选择。

注释：

[1] Bartleby the Scrivener，梅尔维尔（Herman Melville）的同名短篇小说中的人物。从前在华尔街法律事务所里有一个死上班族，他是个生活平板、宛如游魂般的抄写员，名叫巴特比。他日以继夜不停地抄写，拒绝任何变化与沟通，不论人家要他做什么，他只是不停地重复，“我他妈的不愿意呀”（I would prefer not to），到最后甚至拒绝进食，结果就死了。

[2] akinetic mutism，病人觉醒状态降低，缄默不语，不能运动，大小便失禁，但定向反应存在，植物神经反应可正常，疼痛部分消失，仍保留吞咽、咀嚼反射，常有去大脑强直。

[3] G?del，一般被认为是亚里士多德以来最伟大的逻辑学家。哥德尔设计过许多逻辑悖论，有些的确拥有毁灭心智的能力。

[4] Basin of attraction，或译吸引盆、吸引槽，由位于趋近于一给定吸引子的轨道上的所有点所组成的集合构成。

（bruceyew 译）

译本二

这是一个警告。请仔细阅读。

现在你可能已经看到预测器了，当你阅读本文时这东西已经售出了上百万个。如果你还没见过这种东西，它其实就是一个小装置，有点像汽车的遥控钥匙。上面只有一个按钮和一个绿色的 LED 灯。按下按钮，灯光闪烁。特别的是，灯光会在你按下按钮前一秒钟闪烁。

大多数人表示，当他们第一次尝试这东西，就像是在玩一种奇怪的游戏，其规则就是在看到灯闪之后按下按钮——很容易的游戏。但是如果你想打破规则，你就会发现你根本做不到。如果你想在看到闪光前就按下按钮，灯会立刻闪现，并且不管你动作多快，你都不可能在闪光后的一秒内按到按钮。而如果你等着闪光，想等到闪光之后不去碰按钮，那光就永远也不会闪现。不管你怎么做，闪光总会在按下按钮前出现。绝无任何例外。

预测器的核心是一个负向时间延迟器——它会把信号传送到过去。等负向延时技术突破秒级达到更高程度的时候，该技术的重大影响将会变得很明显。但这并非本警告的重点。当前最直接的问题是，预测器向人们展示了：所谓自由意志这样的东西根本就不存在。

实际上一直以来就有类似的理论，有基于物理学的，也有基于纯粹逻辑的，而大多数人也都承认这些论点无可辩驳，但从来没有人真正接受这样的理论。我们拥有自由意志这一感觉本身就能强有力地把这些论证通通推翻。这一理论的证明需要的是切实的演示，而预测器带来的正是这个。

通常，一个人会花好几天时间完全沉迷于预测器，向朋友们展示，尝试各种计划以胜过这设备。慢慢地这人就会对预测器失去兴趣，但没人能忘记这东西表现出来的意义——几个星期后，未来之不可变更这一沉重的事实将慢慢潜入心底。一些人，明白了他们的自主意识并不重要，因此而拒绝再做任何抉择。像巴特斯克里文纳斯军团一样，他们不再从事任何自发的行动。最终，三分之一玩过预测器的人必须住院，因为他们不愿意再喂食自己。直到最终演变为运动不能性缄默症，就像是一种清醒的昏迷。

他们的眼睛会跟着眼前的景物移动，偶尔变换个姿势，但仅此而已。移动的能力依然存在，但动力已经消失。

在人们接触到预测器以前，运动不能性缄默症非常罕见，它是前扣带脑区域损坏的结果。而现在它就像一种认知功能瘟疫一样在蔓延。人们过去就推测存在着某种特定想法能摧毁人的思考能力，例如某种难以言说的洛夫克拉夫特式恐怖故事，或是能让人类的逻辑系统毁于一旦的哥德尔式语句。而到头来原来给人致命打击的这种想法我们都遇到过，即：自由意志并不存在。但除非你相信它，否则这个念头不会给你带来任何伤害。

医生们试着在病人还未完全丧失交谈动力的时候与他们争论：在这之前，我们一直都快乐而积极地生活着——他们如此据理力争——那时候我们也同样没有自由意志可言，而现在又能有任何不同吗？“一个月前的你做任何事都并不比现在的你更自由，”医生会这样说，“你仍然可以继续如此行动。”而病人却总是回答：“可是现在我知道了。”并且其中一些人从此再也不说一句话了。

有些人认为，事实上，预测器会导致行为改变这一点本身就证明了我们是有自由意志的。一个机器人不可能被打击而丧失动力，只有具有自由意志的人才会。一些人陷入了运动不能性缄默症而另一些人却没有，这正凸显了主动行事的重要性。

但不幸的是，这样的理由也是错的，因为各种行为都与宿命论相符。一个动力系统可能在某处开始保持稳定，也可能永远展现出混沌的变化，但两者都是完全确定的。

我是从一年后的未来向你传送此条警告的——这是用微秒级负向延时器组建的高级通信器所发送的第一条消息。

其他消息将会紧随其后，指出其他问题。我想传达的信息是这样的：假装你有自由意志。假装你的决定能对未来有重要影响，哪怕你知道事实并非如此。事实并不重要——重要的是你的信念，相信谎言是避免陷入清醒的昏迷的唯一方法。现在，文明的基础在于自我欺骗——或许它一直就是这样。

然而我知道，因为自由意志是一种幻像，谁终将陷入运动不能性缄默症而谁又不会，这也都是注定的。任何人都无法改变这一点——你无法选择预测器对你产生的影响。你们中有些人终会屈服，有些人则不会，我的警告对此毫无影响。那我何苦还发送此警告？

因为我别无选择。

What’s expected of us

by Ted Chiang

It’s a tough choice…

This is a warning. Please read carefully.

By now you’ve probably seen a Predictor; millions of them have been sold by the time you’re reading this. For those who haven’t seen one, it’s a small device, like a remote for opening your car door. Its only features are a button and a big green LED. The light flashes if you press the button. Specifically, the light flashes one second before you press the button.

Most people say that when they first try it, it feels like they’re playing a strange game, one where the goal is to press the button after seeing the flash, and it’s easy to play. But when you try to break the rules, you find that you can’t. If you try to press the button without having seen a flash, the flash immediately appears, and no matter how fast you move, you never push the button until a second has elapsed. If you wait for the flash, intending to keep from pressing the button afterwards, the flash never appears. No matter what you do, the light always precedes the button press. There’s no way to fool a Predictor.

The heart of each Predictor is a circuit with a negative time delay — it sends a signal back in time. The full implications of the technology will become apparent later, when negative delays of greater than a second are achieved, but that’s not what this warning is about. The immediate problem is that Predictors demonstrate that there’s no such thing as free will.

There have always been arguments showing that free will is an illusion, some based on hard physics, others based on pure logic. Most people agree these arguments are irrefutable, but no one ever really accepts the conclusion. The experience of having free will is too powerful for an argument to overrule. What it takes is a demonstration, and that’s what a Predictor provides.

Typically, a person plays with a Predictor compulsively for several days, showing it to friends, trying various schemes to outwit the device. The person may appear to lose interest in it, but no one can forget what it means — over the following weeks, the implications of an immutable future sink in. Some people, realizing that their choices don’t matter, refuse to make any choices at all. Like a legion of Bartleby the Scriveners[1], they no longer engage in spontaneous action. Eventually, a third of those who play with a Predictor must be hospitalized because they won’t feed themselves. The end state is akinetic mutism, a kind of waking coma. They’ll track motion with their eyes, and change position occasionally, but nothing more. The ability to move remains, but the motivation is gone.

Before people started playing with Predictors, akinetic mutism was very rare, a result of damage to the anterior cingulate region of the brain. Now it spreads like a cognitive plague. People used to speculate about a thought that destroys the thinker, some unspeakable lovecraftian horror, or a Godel sentence that crashes the human logical system. It turns out that the disabling thought is one that we’ve all encountered: the idea that free will doesn’t exist. It just wasn’t harmful until you believed it.

Doctors try arguing with the patients while they still respond to conversation. We had all been living happy, active lives before, they reason, and we hadn’t had free will then either. Why should anything change? “No action you took last month was any more freely chosen than one you take today,” a doctor might say. “You can still behave that way now.” The patients invariably respond, “But now I know.” And some of them never say anything again.

Some will argue that the fact the Predictor causes this change in behaviour means that we do have free will. An automaton cannot become discouraged, only a free-thinking entity can. The fact that some individuals descend into akinetic mutism whereas others do not just highlights the importance of making a choice.

Unfortunately, such reasoning is faulty: every form of behaviour is compatible with determinism. One dynamic system might fall into a basin of attraction and wind up at a fixed point, whereas another exhibits chaotic behaviour indefinitely, but both are completely deterministic.

I’m transmitting this warning to you from just over a year in your future: it’s the first lengthy message received when circuits with negative delays in the megasecond range are used to build communication devices. Other messages will follow, addressing other issues. My message to you is this: pretend that you have free will. It’s essential that you behave as if your decisions matter, even though you know that they don’t. The reality isn’t important: what’s important is your belief, and believing the lie is the only way to avoid a waking coma. Civilization now depends on self-deception. Perhaps it always has.

And yet I know that, because free will is an illusion, it’s all predetermined who will descend into akinetic mutism and who won’t. There’s nothing anyone can do about it — you can’t choose the effect the Predictor has on you. Some of you will succumb and some of you won’t, and my sending this warning won’t alter those proportions. So why did I do it?

Because I had no choice.

注：本文发表在Nature上（2005年）。

网址： http://www.nature.com/nature/journal/v436/n7047/full/436150a.html

商人和炼金术士之门

伟大的哈里发啊，穆斯林的领袖，匍匐于您的荣光之下是我的荣耀；在一个人的有生之年，他不可能奢望更大的福分了。我要向您讲述的是一个无比奇异的故事，篇幅不长，一瞥之下便尽收眼底。其中有奇妙的器具，还有更加奇妙的事件。对于能够被警示的人来说，它是警示；对于懂得学习的人来说，它富于教益。

我的名字叫福瓦德·伊本·阿巴斯，就出生在这座城市，祥和之城巴格达。我父亲是位谷物商人，但我这一生中的大半时间都在买卖精细织料，从大马士革进口丝料，从埃及进口亚麻，从摩洛哥进口镶金边的丝巾。过去我很富有，但内心总是骚动不宁，无论是购买享用奢侈品还是慷慨捐赠，都无法让心灵平静下来。但现在，我站在陛下面前，钱袋里连一个迪拉姆都没有，可我却觉得宁静安详。

世间万事万物，无不源自安拉。但是，如果陛下恩准，我想从我走进五金市场的那一天开始讲述我的故事。当时我需要买一件礼物，送给和我做买卖的一个人。有人告诉我，他似乎想要一只银盘。在市场里转了半个小时以后，我发现这里最大的店铺之一新换了东家。那家店的位置非常好，肯定要花大价钱才能买下店面。于是我走了进去，细看里面的货色。

我从来没见过这么多珍奇的货物。靠近门口的地方摆着一具天象仪，由七块镶银薄板拼成；一具靠水流驱动的时钟，每到一个小时都会发出悦耳的铃音；还有一只铜制夜莺，风一吹过便会啾啾而鸣。更里面的地方放着更奇妙的制品。我呆呆地盯着这些东西，像个目瞪口呆盯着杂耍艺人表演的小孩子。就在这时，一个老人从店堂后面的一扇门里走了出来。

“欢迎光临敝店，尊敬的先生。”他说，“我的名字是巴沙拉特，能为您效劳吗？”

“你这里出售的货色真是妙极了。我和全世界各个地方的人做生意，却从来没见过这样的东西。我能问问吗，你是从哪里进的这些货？”

“您的赞赏真让我受宠若惊。”他回答道，“您在这里看到的每一件东西都是我自己工场的出品，由我本人制作，或是在我指导下，由我的助手制作。”

这个人竟然精通这么多不同门类的手艺，我不由得大为敬佩。我向他询问店内五花八门的制品，听他向我侃侃而谈占星学、数学、泥土占卜和医学。我们聊了一个多小时，我听得如痴如醉，对这个人的痴迷和敬佩之心像黎明的花儿一般盛开怒放。但最后，他提到了他的炼金术实验。

“炼金术？”我吃了一惊，因为他看上去实在不像玩弄这类骗术的人，“你是说，你可以把廉价金属变成金子？”

“我可以，尊敬的先生，但炼金术真正追求的并不是这个目的。”

“那它追求的是什么目的？”

“它想提炼出金子，但成本一定要比从地下矿脉中开采来得低廉。炼金术有办法制造出金子，但这个过程委实太过艰难。相比之下，从大山底下采出金子实在太容易了，就像从树上摘下桃子。”

我笑道：“真是个聪明的回答。你是个学识渊博的人，这一点没人可以否认，可我还是觉得炼金术这一套不足取信。”

巴沙拉特注视着我，想了想，“我近来做出了一件东西，也许可以改变您的看法。这东西我从未示人，您是第一个。您有兴趣看一看吗？”

“不胜荣幸之至。”

“请跟我来。”他领着我走进店堂里面的一扇门。隔壁是间工场，摆放着许多我猜不出名堂的装置：一根根金属棒，上面缠着铜线，解开的话，这些铜线的长度可以够到天边；一块花岗石板浮在水银上，石板上安装着许多镜子……巴沙拉特径直走过这些东西，连看都没看一眼。

他领着我来到一座样子很结实的基座边。这个基座高齐人胸，上面立着一个粗大的金属环，直径有两掌张开那么宽，环身非常粗，看样子，就算最强壮的男子汉，想搬动这个环也会非常吃力。那种金属是黑色的，黑得宛如夜色，但打磨得非常光滑，如果它不是这种颜色，一定可以当镜子使。巴沙拉特让我站在金属环的一侧，面对它的环身，而他自己站在金属环的正对面。

“请注意看。”他说。

巴沙拉特将他的胳膊伸进环口。他站在我的右侧，但那只胳膊并没有从我左侧的环口钻出来，而是仿佛齐肘截断了一般。他上下挥动着半截胳膊，之后又抽回胳膊。胳膊完完整整。

我没想到这样一位渊博学者竟会玩起戏法来，但这个戏法很不错，我礼貌地恭维了他几句。

“先别忙，等等看。”说着，他后退了一步。

我等待着。哎呀，我左侧的环口中伸出一只胳膊，孤零零的一只，没有连着身体。胳膊上还套着衣袖，看样式，和巴沙拉特的袍子正好相配。胳膊上下挥动起来，然后缩进环口，消失了。

头一个戏法已经很不错了，但我以前见过类似的，可这一个比头一个强得多。看底座和金属环的粗细，不可能藏进一个人。“真妙！”我赞叹地说。

“谢谢您的夸奖，但这并不仅仅是靠手法玩出的花样。右侧环口在左侧环口之前，比它早了几秒。穿过这个环，就是瞬间穿过这段时间。”

“我没听明白。”我说。

“容我再向您演示一遍。”他再一次把胳膊伸进环口，胳膊消失了。他露出笑容，抽动了一下，像在拽一根绳头。接着，他重新抽回胳膊，在我面前摊开手掌。掌心里放着一枚戒指，我认出来了。

“这是我的戒指！”我看了看自已的手，戒指仍旧戴在指头上，“你变出了一只一模一样的。”

“不，这确确实实是您的戒指。等着看吧。”

再一次，一只胳膊从左侧环口伸了出来。我想看看这个戏法究竟是怎么回事，于是冲过去，一把抓住那只胳膊的手。手是真的，有血有肉，暖乎乎的，跟我的手一样。我抓住它一扯，它往回一拽。接着，以小偷般的灵活，这只手从我手指上褪下我的戒指，胳膊缩进环口，消失得无影无踪。

“我的戒指不见了！”我叫道。

“不，尊敬的先生，”他说，“您的戒指在这儿。”他把拿在手上的戒指递给我，“和您开个小玩笑，请别介意。”

我把戒指戴回手指。“可是，戒指早就在你那儿了，从我手上拿走之前已经在你那儿了。”

就在这时，一只胳膊伸了出来，这一次是伸出右侧环口。“这是什么？”我惊叫道，但没等它缩回去，我已经认出来了：这仍旧是他的胳膊。和上一次一样，我还是从这只胳膊上的衣袖上认出来的。但奇怪的是，这一次，我并没看见他把胳膊伸进环口。

“您再想想我刚才的那句话，”他说，“想想时间先后次序：这个金属环右侧的环口在前，左侧的环口在后。”说着，他绕到左侧环口，将胳膊从那一侧伸进环口。胳膊再一次消失了。

尊贵的陛下肯定早已明白了这是怎么回事，而我却直到这时才醒悟过来：一个动作，在金属环口右侧开始，几秒钟后，金属环口左侧显示出它的结果。“这是魔法吗？”我问道。

“不，尊敬的先生，我从没遇见过神仙鬼怪，即使遇上，我也不相信它会听从我的吩咐。这是炼金术的一种。”

他向我作了解释，讲述了他如何在现实的肌肤上寻找小小的孔洞（和虫子在树木上蛀出的孔洞很相似）；找到一个之后如何扩大这个孔洞，像吹玻璃的人把一滴熔化的玻璃液吹成一根长管子；最后，他又如何让时间像水流一样注入管子的一端开口，让它在里面变得黏稠如糖浆，从另一端缓缓流出。我承认，他的话我并没听懂，更无法检验其真伪。我只能这么说：“你创造了一件真正惊人的作品。”

“谢谢您，”他说，“但这只是一个序幕，我想让您观看的大戏还在后头呢。”他让我跟着他走进更里面的另一个房间。屋里正中央矗立着一扇巨大的圆形门洞，用的材料仍是那种打磨得很光滑的黑色金属。

“刚才您看到的只是一扇‘秒门’，那个环的两侧只相差几秒钟。”他说，“而这是一扇‘年门’。门洞两边相差足足二十年。”

老实说，我一时没明白他的意思。我想象着他从右侧门洞伸进胳膊，等上二十年，胳膊才从门洞左侧伸出来。这样的戏法有什么意义呢？我这么说了，他大笑起来。 “这也算是用法之一吧。”他说，“但请想一想，如果您跨进这扇门，会发生什么。”他站在门洞右侧，示意让我靠近些，接着指向门洞另一侧，“看。”

我看了，发现房间那一边的地毯和垫子跟我进来时看到的不一样。我转头左右瞧了瞧，这才意识到：望向门洞那一侧时，我看到的是另一个房间，和我现在双脚所站的房间大不一样。

“您看到的是这个房间二十年后的样子。”巴拉沙特说。

我使劲眨了眨眼睛，像个在沙漠中看到水流幻影的人。但我看到的一切并没有发生变化。“你刚才说，我可以迈过去，到那边去？”我问。

“您可以。一步之后，您就会置身于距今二十年后的巴格达。您可以找到二十年后更年长的您，和他聊聊。之后，您可以再次迈过这扇‘年门’，回到现在。”

听着巴拉沙特的话，我觉得头晕目眩。“这种事你干过吗？”我问他，“你过去过吗？”

“是的，我的许多主顾也去过。”

“刚才你还说，你从没向别人展示过这个东西，我是头一个。”

“这扇门，您是头一个。但我曾在开罗有一间店面，在那里做了好些年买卖。就是在那儿，我造出了第一扇‘年门’。在那里，我向许多人展示过那扇门，他们都使用过它。”

“和更年长的自己谈过之后，他们学到了什么？”

“每个人学到的东西都不一样。如果您想听，我可以为您讲述这样一个人的故事。”接着，巴拉沙特给我讲了个故事。如果能取悦陛下，我愿在此重述这个故事。

幸运的绳匠的故事

从前有个名叫哈桑的年轻人，他是一个制绳匠人。他迈过了年门，想看看二十年后的开罗是什么样子。来到二十年后的开罗以后，他对城市的发展惊叹不已，觉得自己仿佛一脚踏进了一幅织在挂毯上的美景。眼前这座城市千真万确正是开罗，但哪怕最常见的景物，他都像看到了奇迹一般。

他在聚集了许多玩蛇弄剑的艺人的老城门游逛着，这时，一个占星术士对他喊道：“年轻人，想知道你的未来吗？”

哈桑大笑起来。“我已经知道了。”他说。

“你一定想知道有没有财富在未来等着你吧，对吗？”

“我是个绳匠，我知道我没财运。”

“绳匠就没财运吗？那位著名的大商人哈桑·阿尔—胡巴尔如何？他发家前就是个绳匠。”

这番话激起了他的好奇心。哈桑到市场向人打听，看有没有人听说过这位富商，结果发现人人都知道这个名字。据说他住在本城的富豪区，于是哈桑去了那儿。人家给他指点了那位富商的宅第，它是那条街上最大的宅子。

他敲响宅门，一个仆人领着他走进宅子。这所宅子很大，里面应有尽有，中央还有一个喷泉。仆人去通报主人，哈桑在大厅等着。望着周围光润的黑檀木和大理石，他感到自己完全不属于这个地方。正当他打算离开时，他年长的自己出现了。

“你总算来了！”对方说道，“我等得你好苦！”

“等我？你知道我会来？”哈桑吃惊地说。

“当然，因为我拜访过我年长的自己，就像你现在拜访我一样。是很久以前的事了，我忘了你会什么时候到来。来吧，跟我一块儿吃饭。”

两个人走进一间餐室，仆人们端上肚子里填着阿月浑子果仁的小鸡，蜂蜜浸渍的油炸馅饼，用石榴汁调味的烤羊羔。年长的哈桑没有详谈他的生平经历：他提到各行买卖，却没说他是怎么成为一个商人的；他谈起他的妻子，却说现在时间不合适，没让她和年轻人见面。相反，他让年轻人讲起孩提时代的恶作剧，重新回忆起这些早已遗忘的往事让老人乐不可支。

最后，年轻的哈桑终于问老人：“你是怎么改变了你的人生，让你的生活发生了这么巨大的改变？”

“眼下，我只能告诉你这些事：去市场买制绳纤维的时候你要经过黑狗巷。过去你走的是巷子南侧，别那么走了，走北侧。”

“这样做就会让我发财吗？”

“只管按我说的做。现在回去吧，你还得搓绳子呢。到时候，你自然会知道什时候该再来找我。”

年轻的哈桑回到他的时代，按照老人说的话，走那条巷子时总是靠北走，哪怕北侧没有树荫也照走不误。几天之后，他亲眼看到一匹马受了惊，在街对面发起疯来，踢倒了好几个人，打翻了一个沉重的棕榈油罐，砸伤了一个人，还把另一个人踩在马蹄下。骚乱平复之后，哈桑祈祷安拉保佑伤者复原、死者升天，并且感谢安拉让他免遭一劫。

第二天，哈桑迈过年门，找到年长的自己。“你从那儿路过的时候，受伤了吗？”他问。

“没有，因为我年长的自己警告过我。别忘了，你和我是同一个人，发生在你身上的无论什么事，都曾经发生在我身上。”

就这样，年长的哈桑指点年轻人，年轻人谨遵他的教导。他不再从平时那家杂货店买鸡蛋，于是，其他人因为买了坏鸡蛋生病时，他却平安无事。他买了大批制绳纤维贮存起来，所以，当商队没有按时抵达、制绳纤维缺货时，他却有原料可以继续开工。按年长的自己的指点办事，让哈桑避开了许多麻烦。但他还是觉得很奇怪，年长的自己为什么不多透露一些情况：他会娶谁为妻？怎么才能富裕起来？

有一天，他在市场上把制好的绳子全卖掉了，带着比平时更鼓的钱包回家。走在街上时，他和一个男孩碰了一下。哈桑摸了摸钱包，发现它不见了，于是大喊一声转过身来，在人群中寻找那个小偷。听到哈桑的喊叫，那个男孩立即挤开人群飞跑起来，哈桑只来得及看到他手肘处撕破的衣袖，转眼间，男孩便消失不见了。

有那么一会儿，哈桑震惊不已：竟然会发生这种事，年长的自己竟然没有事先提醒他。但他的震惊很快就变成了一腔怒火。他紧紧追了上去，穿过人群，一路打量每个男孩的肘部衣袖。他的运气不错，发现那个小偷蹲在一辆运水果的大车下面。哈桑一把抓住他，喊叫着告诉大伙儿他抓住了一个小偷，请大家找一个卫兵来。男孩害怕被逮捕，他扔下哈桑的钱包，哭了起来。哈桑瞪着男孩，看了许久，他的怒气渐渐消退了。他放走了男孩。

下一次见到年长的自己时，哈桑问他：“那个小偷的事，你为什么没事先提醒我？”

“这次经历让你很愉快，对不对？”年长的自己问道。

哈桑正想否认，但马上又打住了。“我确实很愉快。”他承认道。追赶那个男孩的时候，他一点也不知道自己会成功还是会失败，只觉得全身热血奔涌。他已经好几个星期没产生这种感觉了。看到男孩的泪水时，他想起先知教诲众人要有怜悯之心。决定放走那个男孩让他觉得自己是个善良的好人。

“那么，你希望我事先告诉你、然后剥夺你的这些乐趣吗？”

年少无知的时候，我们常常觉得很多习俗毫无意义，长大以后才渐渐醒悟过来。就像这样，哈桑明白了：事先透露信息有好处，但同样地，不透露信息也有其好处。“不。”他说，“你没有提醒我，这样很好。”

年长的哈桑看出年轻人已经明白了。“现在，我要告诉你一些很重要的事。去租一匹马，我会告诉你往哪儿骑。你一直骑到城市西面山脚下的一个地方，在那里，你会找到一丛小树，其中有一棵被闪电打过。在那棵树下，找到你能推动的最沉的一块岩石，然后在石块下面挖。”

“挖什么？”

“挖到以后，你自然会知道。”

第二天，哈桑骑到山脚，找到了那棵树。它附近到处是石块，哈桑只好翻开一块，在底下挖一阵，再翻开另一块。最后，他的铁锹碰到了什么东西，不是石头，也不是泥土。他刨开土，发现了一只青铜箱子，里头满满地盛着金第纳尔和各种珠宝。一生之中，哈桑从没见过这么多金珠宝贝。他把箱子搬上马背，回到了开罗。

下一次和年长的自己见面时，他问：“你怎么知道那里有宝藏？”

“我从我的年长的自己那儿知道的，”年长的哈桑说，“跟你一样。至于说我们最初是怎么知道这个宝藏的，我只能这么说：这是安拉的旨意。世间万事，还有别的解释吗？”

“我发誓，我一定会好好利用安拉赐给我的这笔财富。”年轻的哈桑说。

“当年我也是这么发誓的，现在我重申这一誓言。”年长者说，“这是我们之间的最后一次交谈了。从现在起，你要靠自己了，你会找到自己的路的。愿安宁与你同在。”

哈桑回家了。有了这些金子，他现在可以大批购进制绳纤维，雇用工人，给他们很公道的薪水，把制成的绳子卖给需要的人，获取可观的利润。他娶了一个美丽聪明的女人为妻，并且听从了妻子的意见，开始涉足其他生意，成了一位富裕、受人尊重的商人。这期间，他对穷人慷慨大方，为人正直善良。就这样，哈桑过着最幸福的生活，直到割断人间一切联系，消灭所有人生乐趣的死亡将他带走。

“真是个不同寻常的故事。”我说，“对那些还没拿定主意要不要使用这扇年门的人来说，这个故事的诱惑力真是大得不能再大了。”

“您还心存疑虑，这很明智。”巴拉沙特说，“但是，安拉奖赏那些他愿意奖赏的人，惩罚那些他愿意惩罚的人。‘门’不会影响安拉对您的看法。”

我点点头，觉得明白了他的意思，“也就是说，即使你成功地避开了年长的你遭遇的不幸，你仍然可能碰上其他形式的不幸。”

“不。我岁数大了，表达不清，请您原谅我。使用‘门’不是抽签。抽签的时候，每一支签都和别的签不同。‘门’不是这样。使用‘门’就像从一条密道进入宫殿。要进某个房间，走秘道比走大门更快。但无论你用什么途径进去，房间仍旧是那个房间。”

这番话倒是出乎我的意料，“这么说，未来是个定数？和过去一样无法改变？”

“据说忏悔和赎罪可以抹掉过去的罪孽。”

“这句话我也听说过，但我还没有机会检验它说得对不对。”

“听到这个我很遗憾。”巴拉沙特说，“但我只想说：未来也是一样的，在这方面，它和过去没有区别。”

我想了想，“这么说来，即使你发现二十年后你已经死了，你仍旧无法避开你的死亡，毫无办法？”他点点头。我不由得十分沮丧，但转念一想，既然未来已经注定，可不可以让这个注定的未来成为现在的保障呢？我说，“假设你知道二十年后你还活着，那么，这二十年中，无论做什么，你都不会死。你可以在战场上无所顾忌地厮杀，因为你注定会幸存下来。”

“有这种可能。”他说，“但还有另一种可能性：仗恃未来、横行于现在的人，也许在头一次使用年门的时候，就会发现他年长的自己早已亡故。”

“啊。”我说，“那么，是不是可以这么说，只有小心谨慎的人才会见到他们年长的自己？”

“让我再给您讲一个故事吧，它说的是另一个使用年门的人。听完之后，您可以自己判断这个人算不算小心谨慎。”接着，巴拉沙特给我讲了一个故事。如果能取悦陛下，我愿在此重述这个故事。

从自己那里偷东西的织工的故事

从前有个年轻织工，名叫阿吉布，靠编织地毯过着贫苦的生活，但他总想品尝富人享受的奢侈的滋味。听说哈桑的故事以后，阿吉布立即跨过年门，寻找他年长的自己。他很有把握，这位年长的自己一定会像年长的哈桑一样，既富有，又慷慨。

来到二十年后的开罗以后，他立即前往富豪区，向人打听阿吉布·伊木·塔赫尔。他事先作了一番准备：如果碰上某个认识那位富翁的人、注意到了年轻人和他相似的长相，他就会自称是阿吉布的儿子，刚从大马士革回来。但是，他没有找到机会诉说这个编造的故事，因为他问的所有人中，没有一个知道这个名字。

最后，他决定去从前居住的那片地方，看有没有人知道他搬到哪里去了。来到那条街上，他拦住一个男孩，问他知不知道有个名叫阿吉布的人住哪儿。那孩子领着他来到阿吉布从前居住的房子前面。

“可这是他以前住的地方呀，”阿古布说，“他现在住哪儿？”

“如果他昨天搬了家，那我就不知道他搬到哪里去了。”男孩说。

阿吉布简直不敢相信。过了二十年，年长的自己仍旧住在同一所房子里！这就意味着，他根本没有发财。也就是说，年长的自己不可能指点他，至少阿吉布不可能按照他的指点发财。为什么他的命运如此不济，跟那个幸运的绳匠迥然不同呢？但他还是抱着一线希望：那个男孩也许弄错了。于是，阿吉布守在房子外面，观察着。

终于，他看到一个人走出屋子。阿吉布心里一沉，他认出来了，这正是年长的自己。年长的阿吉布身后跟着一个女人，估计是他妻子。但阿吉布几乎没怎么看那个女人，他能看到的只有自己的失败：岁月并没有让他的境况好起来。他痛心地望着老两口身上穿的粗布衣服，直到他们走出视线。

好奇心让人们围观被砍头的犯人；在同样的好奇心驱使下，阿吉布走近自己的房门。他自己的钥匙仍能打开门锁，于是他进去了。屋里的家具什物大都换了，但仍是那么简陋破旧。看到它们，阿吉布又羞又恼：过了二十年，难道他还是买不起好一点的枕头吗？

一时冲动之下，他来到他平时存放积蓄的木箱旁，打开锁头。他掀起箱盖，发现里面满满地盛着金第纳尔。

阿吉布大吃一惊。他年长的自己有整整一箱金子，却穿得这么破旧，住在同一座小房子里，就这样过了二十年！明明发了财，却不知享受——年长的自己准是个小气吝啬、享受不到任何乐趣的家伙，阿吉布心想。他早就知道，钱财是身外之物，不可能带到坟墓里去。难道他年老之后，竟会忘记这个道理吗？

阿吉布拿定了主意：这笔财富应该属于懂得享用它们的人，也就是他本人。他想，从他年长的自己手里拿走这笔财富，应该不算偷窃吧，因为，说到底，得到财富的不正是他自己吗？他把箱子扛上肩头，好不容易才扛着它穿过年门，来到他熟悉的那个开罗。

他把新到手的财富存了一部分在一个银行家那里，但总是随身带着一个沉甸甸的钱袋，里面装满金子。他穿的是大马士革长袍，脚下是西班牙科尔多瓦拖鞋，头上缠着镶嵌珠宝的科罗珊头巾。他在有钱人居住的城区租了一幢房子，里面铺着最好的地毯，放着最好的长榻。他还雇了一个厨子，为他烹制最奢侈的美味佳肴。

接下来，他去找一个他很早以前就遥遥仰慕的女人的哥哥。这女人名叫塔希娜，她的哥哥是个药剂师，塔希娜也在他的药店帮忙。以前，阿吉布不时去那家药店配一剂药，好借机和她攀谈几句。有一次，她的面纱滑落下来，他发现她有一双像瞪羚般美丽的黑眼睛。塔希娜的哥哥不肯让她嫁给一个织工，但现在阿吉布有钱了，不再显得不般配了。

塔希娜的哥哥同意了这门婚事，塔希娜本人更是高兴地答应下来，因为她早就爱上了阿吉布，正如阿吉布爱上了她。筹办婚事的时候，阿吉布毫不吝惜。他雇了一艘豪华游艇，泛舟城南运河，召集了大批乐师舞女，在船上排开盛宴。宴会上，他把一条最美丽的珍珠项链送给了她。这场婚事在城里的富人区传得沸沸扬扬。

阿吉布沉浸在金钱带给他和塔希娜的享乐中。婚后的一个星期，他们俩是所有人中最快乐的人。但接下来的某一天，阿吉布外出回来，发现大门洞开，家里的金银器皿被洗劫一空。吓得魂飞魄散的厨子从藏身处钻出来，告诉他，强盗们把塔希娜抢走了。

阿吉布向安拉祈祷，最后精疲力竭地睡着了。第二天早晨，他被敲门声惊醒。来的是个陌生人，“有人要我带一个口信给你。”

“什么口信？”阿吉布问道。

“你的妻子很安全。”

阿吉布只觉得恐惧和怒火在腹中翻滚，像黑色的毒液。“你们要多少赎金？”他问。

“一万第纳尔。”

“可我没有那么多钱哪！”阿吉布惊叫道。

“不要跟我讨价还价。”那个强盗说，“我见过你是怎么花钱的，像倒水一样。”

阿吉布跪了下来。“我那是浪费钱财啊。凭着先知的名字起誓，我真的没有那么多钱。”他说。

强盗仔细打量着他。“把你所有的钱全算上，”他说，“明天同一时间放在这里。只要我觉得你偷偷留了一笔，你的妻子就会死掉。如果我觉得你还算老实，把钱都拿出来了，我的人会把她交还给你。”

阿吉布没有别的办法。“好吧。”他说。那个强盗离开了。

第二天，他去了那个银行家那里，把剩下的所有钱财都取了出来，交给那个强盗。强盗打量着阿吉布绝望的眼神，知道他没有骗他。强盗没有违约，当天晚上，塔希娜被放了回来。

夫妻拥抱之后，塔希娜说：“当时我还不相信你肯出这么多钱来赎我。”

“没有了你，金钱再多也不能给我带来快乐。”阿吉布说。说完之后，他才惊讶地发现，这是他的真心话，“但现在我很难过，因为我再也买不起你应得的享乐了。”

“你永远不需要再给我买任何东西。”她说。

阿吉布垂下头，“我觉得，这是对我从前干的坏事的惩罚。”

“什么坏事？”塔希娜问。但阿吉布什么都没说。“有一句话，我一直没问过你。”她说，“但我知道，这么多钱不是你继承得来的。告诉我：这钱是你偷的吗？”

“不是。”阿吉布说。无论是对她还是对自己，他都无法坦承事实，“这钱是别人送给我的。”

“贷给你的？”

“不，这笔钱不需要还。”

“而你也不打算还吗？”塔希娜震惊不已，“也就是说，另有一个男人出钱筹办了我们的婚礼、支付了我的赎金，而你却心安理得？”她泪水盈盈，“那我算是你的妻子呢，还是那另一个男人的妻子？”

“你是我的妻子。”他说。

“连我的性命都属于另一个男人，我怎么可能是你的妻子？”

“我绝不会让你怀疑我对你的爱。”阿吉布说，“我向你发誓：我要偿还那笔钱，每一个第纳尔都还清。”

于是，阿吉布和塔希娜搬回了阿吉布的老房子，开始努力攒钱。夫妇俩都在塔希娜哥哥的药剂店里当帮工。后来，塔希娜的哥哥发了财，成了一个香料商，阿吉布和塔希娜盘下了卖药给病人的药剂店。店子的收入还不错，但他们过得很节俭，家具坏了宁可修修补补也不肯买新的。好些年里，每当阿吉布把一枚金币投进那个箱子，他都会笑逐颜开地告诉塔希娜：这是个信物，表明他是多么爱她。他会说，即使这个箱子盛满了金币以后，这仍然是一笔好买卖。

但是，一次增加一两枚金币，这个箱子是很难填满的。日久天长，节俭变成了吝啬，节约开支变成了一毛不拔。更精的是，阿吉布和塔希娜之间的感情也随着时间流逝渐渐淡漠了。因为那些两人不能花用的钱，他们开始憎恨对方。

就这样，岁月更替，阿吉布老了。日见衰老中，他等待着那一天：到那天，他的金子会第二次被人从他手中夺走。

“真是个奇异而悲惨的故事。”我说。

“是啊。”巴沙拉特说，“您现在怎么想？在您看来，阿吉布的行为算得上小心谨慎吗？”

我迟疑半晌，这才回答，“我没有资格对他下判断。”我说，“他的所作所为带来的后果，必然由他自己承担；我也一样。”我沉默了一会儿，又说，“但阿吉布竟然会把他的所作所为全部告诉你，我很钦佩他的坦诚。”

“这个嘛，还是个年轻人的时候，阿吉布没有告诉我什么。”巴沙拉特说，“他扛着那只箱子迈过年门回来后，我有二十年没再见过他。再来找我的时候，阿吉布苍老多了。那天他回到家中，发现箱子没有了，于是知道自己已经偿清了欠债。直到这时，他才觉得可以把发生的一切告诉我了。”

“是吗？头一个故事里的老哈桑事后也找过你吗？”

“不，老哈桑的故事是他年轻的自己向我讲述的。老哈桑再也没到我的店铺来过。说起这件事，我这里还来过另一位客人，老哈桑的故事里也有她的一份。有关她的故事，老哈桑本人是不可能告诉我的。”接下来，巴沙拉特给我讲了那个客人的故事。如果能取悦陛下，我愿在此重述这个故事。

妻子和她的情人的故事

拉妮娅和哈桑结婚许多年了，夫妇俩过着最幸福的生活。有一天，她看见丈夫和一个年轻人一同进餐。她发现那个年轻人和当初娶她时的哈桑长得一模一样，因此大为震惊，好不容易才控制住自己，没有贸然闯进去，打断他们的交谈。年轻人走后，她要求哈桑告诉她，那个年轻人究竟是谁。于是，哈桑给她讲述了一个最最离奇的故事。

“你跟他说起过我吗？”她问，“我们俩头一次见面时，你知道接下来会发生什么吗？”

“见到你的那一刻，我就知道我一定会娶你为妻。”哈桑面带笑容，“但不是因为有人事先告诉了我。我的妻子，你一定同样不希望我现在就告诉他，破坏那一刻的惊喜吧？”

于是，拉妮娅没有和丈夫年轻的自己讲话，但她一次次偷听他的话，悄悄打量他。每次看到那张年轻的脸庞，她的脉搏都会加快。有的时候，我们的记忆会愚弄我们，让过去的回忆比事实更加甜蜜。但当她看到两个哈桑面对面坐在一起时，她可以清清楚楚地看到年轻人的面孔。他是那么英俊，这是事实，绝不是记忆作祟。夜里她无法入睡，脑子里总是想着那张英俊的脸。

过了一些日子，哈桑和他年轻的自己分手道别。他离开开罗，去大马士革和一个生意人做买卖。丈夫不在的时候，拉妮娅找到了哈桑向她描述过的那家店铺，迈过年门，来到她年轻时代的开罗。

她记得他那时住在哪里，很容易就找到了年轻的哈桑，跟踪他的活动。望着他的时候，她想起他们年轻时如何**。当时的情景是如此鲜明，让她感到一股强烈的欲望。她已经好些年没对年长的哈桑产生过这种欲望了。她一直是个忠实的妻子，但眼前是个不会再有第二次的机会。拉妮娅决定遵从自己的欲念。她租了一幢房子，接下来的几天买了些家具什物，把房子布置停当。

房子收拾好以后，她一边小心翼翼地跟踪哈桑，一边鼓起勇气，准备和他接触。她跟着他来到珠宝市场，望着他走进一家店铺。年轻的哈桑拿出一条镶着十颗宝石的项链给珠宝商看，问他愿意出多少钱买下它。拉妮娅认出来了：他们的婚礼之后，哈桑送给她的正是这条项链。以前她还不知道他曾打算卖掉它呢。她站在不远处，装着察看店里摆放的戒指，一边侧耳倾听。

“明天再带过来吧，我会付给你一千第纳尔。”珠宝商说。年轻的哈桑同意了这个价钱，离开了。

目送他离去的时候，拉妮娅听到旁边两个人交头接耳：

“看见那条项链了吗？那是咱们哪批货里的。”

“你看准了吗？”另一个人说。

“没错。挖走咱们箱子的就是这个杂种。”

“向头儿报告，给他说说这个人。等这家伙卖掉项链以后，咱们夺走他的钱，而且不止是项链钱。”

两个人走了，没注意到拉妮娅。她心脏狂跳，但身体却僵立在那儿，动弹不得，像一只刚刚发现老虎从旁边走过的小鹿。她明白了，哈桑掘出的宝藏原来是一伙强盗的赃物，那两个人就是这个盗伙的成员。这些人监视着开罗的珠宝店，想找出是谁偷走了他们掠夺得来的战利品。

拉妮娅知道，既然这条项链最后成了她的首饰，说明年轻的哈桑并没有卖掉它。她同样知道，那伙强盗不可能杀掉哈桑。但安拉的旨意绝不会是让她袖手旁观。安拉让她来到这里，正是要她充当他的工具。

拉妮娅回到年门，迈回她的时代，回到自己的宅子，在首饰盒里找出那条项链。然后，她再一次使用了年门。但她没有再从左侧迈进去，而是从右侧进入，来到二十年后的开罗。在那里，她找到已经是个老太太的年长的自己。年长的拉妮娅热情地欢迎她，老人从自己的首饰盒里拿出那条项链。接下来，两个女人作了一番排练，准备帮助年轻的哈桑。

第二天，两个强盗又来到那家珠宝店，他们还带来了第三个人。拉妮娅估计这就是他们的头儿。几个人望着哈桑将项链交给珠宝商。珠宝商正在检查项链，拉妮娅走了上去，说：“真是太巧了！珠宝商，我正想卖掉一条项链，和这一条一模一样。”她从带在身边的一个钱袋里取出她的项链。

“真是太不同寻常了。”珠宝商说，“我从没见过这么相似的两条项链。”

就在这时，年长的拉妮娅走上前来，“我看到了什么？一定是这双眼睛欺骗了我！”说着，她拿出第三条一模一样的项链，“把它卖给我的人还保证过，说它是独一无二的。事实证明他是个骗子。”

“也许你应该退还给他。”拉妮娅说。

“这要看情况了。”年长的拉妮娅说。

她问哈桑，“他付你多少钱买这条项链？”

“一千第纳尔。”早已晕头转向的哈桑说。

“哎哟！珠宝商，你愿意把这条也买下吗？”

“我现在必须重新考虑我的出价了。”珠宝商说。

哈桑和年长的拉妮娅与珠宝商讨价还价，拉妮娅后退一步，距离远近正好可以听到强盗头子痛骂另外两个强盗。“你们这两个笨蛋，”他说，“这是一条再常见不过的项链。照你们这样做，我们就要杀掉开罗一半的珠宝商人，让卫兵找上门来。”他在手下的脑袋上扇了几巴掌，带着他们离开了。

拉妮娅这才把注意力转回珠宝商，他已经不肯按原价买下哈桑的项链了。年长的拉妮娅说：“好吧，我还是尽量把它退还给卖主吧。”说完，年长的妇人走了。拉妮娅看得出来，她在面纱下露出了笑容。

拉妮娅转向哈桑，“看样子，咱们今天谁也卖不了项链了。”

“也许换个日子再说吧。”哈桑说。

“我要把我的项链带回家放好。”拉妮娅说，“愿意陪我一起去吗？”

哈桑同意了，陪着拉妮娅来到她租下的房子。她邀请他进屋，请他饮酒。两人都有些醉意以后，她领着他走进卧室。她用厚窗帘遮住窗子，吹灭所有烛火，让房间里黑得像浓重的夜色。直到这时，她才摘下面纱，将他领上了她的床。

这一刻拉妮娅期待已久，她盼望着得到预料中的欢愉。但她吃惊地发现，哈桑的动作竟然十分笨拙。她清楚地记得他们俩结婚那一夜：他是那么自信，他的抚摸让她忘了呼吸。她知道，再过不久．哈桑就会头一次见到年轻的拉妮娅。有那么一会儿，她迷惑不解：这个笨手笨脚的毛头小伙子怎么会在这么短的时间里发生这么大的变化。当然，没过多久她就明白过来。答案显而易见。

于是，接下来的每个下午，拉妮娅都和哈桑在她租的房子里幽会，向他传授爱的技艺，由此充分证明了那句老话：女人是安拉最神奇的造物。她告诉他：“给予对方的欢愉越多，你得到的欢愉就越多。”拉妮娅不由得心里偷笑：她这句话真是半点不假，千真万确。没过多久，他便掌握了这种技艺，表现出了她记忆中的那种本领。她也从中得到了极大的乐趣，比她身为年轻女人时得到的享受更多。

时间过得真快，转眼就到了分别的那一天。拉妮娅告诉年轻的哈桑，她要离开了。他很明白事理，没有追问她的理由，只问他们今后能不能再见面。她温和地告诉他，不。接下来，她把家具卖给房东，从年门返回她那个时代的开罗。

年长的哈桑从大马士革回来时，拉妮娅在家里等着他。她热烈地欢迎他，但没有向他透露自己的秘密。

巴沙拉特说完以后，我沉浸在自己的思绪里。他说：“我看得出来，这个故事打动了您。其他故事都没有激起您这么大的兴趣。”

“你说得不错。”我承认道，“这个故事让我发现，虽说过去无法改变，回到过去时，你仍旧可以遇到出乎意料的事件。”

“是这样。我说过，在这方面，未来和过去没有区别。您现在明白我的意思了吗？二者都是我们无法改变的，但我们可以更深入地理解它们。”

“是的，我明白了。你打开了我的双眼。现在，我希望能够使用这座年门。我该付你多少钱？”

他摇了摇手。“我并不出售‘门’这种路径。”他说，“安拉按照自己的心愿指引人们来到我的店铺，我只是执行他旨意的工具。能成为他的工具，我已经十分满足了。”

换了旁人，我一定会把这些话看成讨价还价的伎俩。但听巴沙拉特说了那么多以后，我知道他说的是真心话。“您的慷慨之心正如您渊博的学识，两者都是无可衡量的。”说着，我向他躬身致意，“如果您今后有机会让一个织料商人为您效劳的话，请一定通知我。”

“谢谢您。让我们谈谈您的旅行吧。在您访问二十年后的巴格达之前，还有些事情需要讨论。”

“我不想访问未来，”我告诉他，“我想去的是另一个方向，重回我年轻时的时代。”

“啊，真是太抱歉了。这扇门无法把您带回二十年前的过去。您看，它是我一周前刚刚制作完毕的。二十年前，这里并不存在这一扇门，所以您无法穿过它迈回现在。”

我实在太沮丧了，说话时一定难过得像个被人遗弃的小该子。我说：“如果朝那个方向走，这扇门能把我带到多久以前的过去？”我转到门洞的另一侧，面向我刚才站立的方向。

巴沙拉特也转过来，站在我身旁。穿过门洞望去，里面的景象和门洞外面完全一样。巴沙拉特伸出手臂，穿过门洞。手臂停在空中，好像遇到了一堵看不见的墙。我更仔细地望过去，这才注意到桌上放着一盏铜灯。灯焰没有半点闪烁，一动不动，仿佛固定在那里。门洞里面的房间好像嵌在最透明的琥珀里一般，没有任何动静。

“您现在看到的是这个房间上个星期的样子。”巴沙拉特说，“再过大约二十年，这扇门的左侧才能进入，人们可以从这一侧进去，访问他们的过去。或者，”他领着我回到他最初展示给我看的那一侧，“我们也可以现在就从右侧进入，去访问未来。但这扇门恐怕无法让您回到您的青拜时代。”

“您在开罗的那扇门呢？”我问。

他点点头，“那扇门还在那里，现在是我的儿子负责那边的店铺。”

“我可以先去开罗，用那扇门回到二十年前的开罗，从那儿一路旅行，来到巴格达。对吗？”

“对，那样的旅行是可行的，如果这是您的愿望的话。”

“这是我的愿望。”我说，“您能告诉我到了开罗后怎么才能找到您的店铺吗？”

“有些事我们必须先谈谈。”巴拉沙特说，“我不会询问您的目的，我会等待，直到您愿意告诉我的那一天。但我必须提醒您：已经发生的事是无法改变的。”

“我知道。”我说。

“所以，过去降临在您身上的不幸，您是无法避开的。无论安拉赐予您的是什么，您只能接受下来。”

“这一生中，我每天都在提醒自己别忘了这句话。”

“这样的话，我很荣幸尽我所能协助您。”他说。

他拿出纸笔和墨水，开始书写。“我会为您写一封信，或许有助于您的旅途。”他把信折好，在页边滴了些熔化的蜡，用他的戒指在上面按下印记。“您到开罗以后，把它交给我儿子，他就会让您进入在开罗的年门。”

像我这样的商人自然惯于用华丽的词藻表达谢意。但我从来没有像感谢巴沙拉特那样言语丰赡，感情激动，而且每一个字都是发自内心深处。他指点我到开罗后怎么找到他的店铺，我则向他保证，回来以后一定源源本本地把一切都告诉他。我正打算告辞，突然想起一件事。“您在这里的这扇门通向未来，也就是说，您确切地知道，至少今后二十年内，您和这家店会一直在这儿，屹立不倒。”

“不错，是这样。”巴沙拉特说。

我正想问他是不是见过他年长的自己，话到嘴边又咽了回去。如果回答是“不”，那当然是因为他年长的自己已经不在人世了。那样的话，我实际上就是在问他是不是知道自己的死期。这样一个不问目的便施恩于我的人，我有什么资格向他提出这种问题呢？从他的表情上，我看出他知道了我打算问什么，于是我低下头，向他谦恭地表示敬意。他点了点头．接受了我的致歉。我这才回到家中，安排旅行事宜。

商队两个月后才抵达开罗。这段时间里，盘踞在我心中的是什么事？陛下，我这就向您禀报我没有告诉巴拉沙特的事情。我从前结过婚，那是二十年前的事了，娶的是一个名叫纳吉娅的女子。她的身姿像柳枝一样轻盈，脸庞像月亮一般可爱，她的善良和温柔更是俘虏了我的心。结婚的时候，我刚刚开始做买卖，生活虽不富裕，但也没什么欠缺。

结婚一年后，我准备启程去巴士拉见一个贩奴船长。我找到了一个好机会，可以靠贩卖奴隶赚一笔钱。但纳吉娅不同意。我提醒她，拥有奴隶并不犯法，只要善待他们就行。但她说，我不可能知道我的买家会怎么对待他们的奴隶，所以应该只贩卖货物，而不是人。

我离家远行的那天早晨，纳吉娅和我大吵了一架。我对她恶语相加。一想起那些话就让我羞愧不已，所以恳请陛下原谅我不在此重复了。我怒气冲冲地上路，从此再也没见过她。我走后一些日子，一座清真寺的墙壁倒塌下来，她受了很重的伤。她被送到大清真寺，但那里的大夫也救不了她。不久以后，她死了。我直到一个星期后返程回家才知道她的死讯。我感到仿佛是我用自己的双手杀死了她。

地狱的煎熬比得上我在接下来的日子里所经受的折磨吗？这个问题，我只差一点就有了答案，因为内疚之心险些让我丧命。我敢说，我受到的折磨正是来自地狱。悲痛像冥世的烈焰，灼烧着我的身体，却并没有灼伤我的肌肤，只让我的心痛苦不已，再也经不起任何打击。

痛悼亡者的时期终于过去了，我觉得自己像被掏空了一般，只剩下一个皮囊，里面空无一物。我释放了买来的奴隶，成了一个织料商人。过了一些年，我成了富翁，但一直没有再次结婚。有些和我做买卖的生意人想把自己的姐妹或是女儿嫁给我，他们说，女人的爱情会让你忘记你的痛苦。也许他们说得对，但它无法让你忘记你给予别人的痛苦。无论什么时候，只要我想象自己与另一个女人结婚的情景，我都会记起最后一次与纳吉娅相处时她眼中的痛楚。于是，我的心对其他女人关闭了。

我把这件往事告诉了一位毛拉。忏悔和赎罪可以抹掉过去的罪孽，这句话就是他说的。我努力忏悔，尽力赎罪。二十年来，我一直是个正直的人，按时祈祷斋戒，向比我不幸的人布施，还去麦加朝圣。但愧疚之情仍旧缠着我不放。安拉是仁慈的，这是我自己的失败。

即使巴沙拉特问我，我还是不会把我期望达到的目的告诉他。他讲述的故事说得很清楚，那些我明知已经发生的事，我是无法改变的。当时，没有人阻止年轻的我，让我不要在和纳吉娅的最后一次交谈中大吵大闹。但哈桑的一生经历中还暗藏了拉妮娅的一个故事，而哈桑本人并不知道。这一点让我看到了一线希望：或许，当那个年轻的我外出做买卖时，我可以做些什么。

当时或许出了什么差错，我的纳吉娅并没有死，而是幸存下来。存在这种可能吗？在我出门经商期间，或许是另一个女人被尸布包裹着葬在墓地。也许我可以救出纳吉娅，带着她回到我那个时代的巴格达。我知道这是蛮干。饱经世故的人们常说：“不会回头的有四件：说出口的话，离弦的箭，逝去的生活和失去的机会。”我比大多数人更清楚，这些话再正确没有了。但我仍然抱着奢望：也许安拉会判定我二十年的忏悔已经足够了，也许他会给我一次机会，让我重新得到失去的亲人。

商队的旅行一路平安无事。六十次日出和三百次祈祷之后，我来到了开罗。不同于祥和之城巴格达整齐有序的设计，那座城市是个让人摸不清方向的迷宫。我好不容易才弄清当地街道，总算来到横贯开罗法蒂玛区的大街。从那里出发，我终于找到了巴沙拉特店铺所在的街道。

我告诉那位店主，我在巴格达跟他父亲谈过，然后把巴沙拉特给我的信递给他。读完信后，他领我走进店堂后面的一间屋子，屋里正中央的地方立着另一扇年门。他朝我打了个手势，请我从年门左侧迈进去。

站在那个巨大的金属圈前，我突然觉得一阵凉气袭人，赶紧暗暗资备自己过于紧张了。我深吸一口气，举步迈过门洞，发现我置身于摆放着不同家具的同一间房子里。如果不是这些不一样的家具，我不会觉得穿过年门与穿过普通房门有任何区别。过来之后我才意识到，刚才感到的凉气原来是拂过这间屋子的阵阵清风。这个时代的这一天比我刚刚离开的那一天凉爽得多。我的后背仍能感觉到刚离开的那一天的热气，透过年门吹来，柔和得像一声叹息。

店主跟着我过来了，他喊了一声：“父亲，您来了位客人。”

一个人走进这间屋子，不是别人，正是巴沙拉特，比我在巴格达见到的巴沙拉特年轻了二十岁。“欢迎您，尊敬的先生，”他说，“我的名字叫巴沙拉特。”

“您不认识我吗？”我问。

“不。您一定见过我年长的自己。对我来说，这是我们头一次见面。但我仍然非常乐意为您效劳。”

陛下，叙述这个事件已经暴露了我的种种过失，所以我也就不必再掩饰什么了。从巴格达来开罗的一路上，我沉浸在自己的心事里，一直没意识到巴拉沙特很可能在我踏进他在巴格达的店铺时便认出了我。早在我欣赏他的水钟和会唱歌的铜鸟时，他便知道我会长途跋涉前往开罗，甚至多半知道我这次远行最后是否实现了我的目的。

但在开罗跟我交谈的巴沙拉特对这些事一无所知。“而我加倍感激您的好意，先生。”我说，“我的名字叫福瓦德·伊本·阿巴斯，刚从巴格达来到这里。”

巴沙拉特的儿子离开了，巴沙拉特和我开始交谈。我向他打听了现在是几月份、哪一天，知道时间还很充裕，足够我赶回祥和之城巴格达。我向他保证，等我回来以后，我会把发生的一切告诉他。年轻的巴沙拉特和年长的他同样和蔼有礼。“我期待着您回来时与您再次交谈，并在二十年后为您效劳。”他说。

他的话让我顿了一下。“今天之前．您有在巴格达开一家店的打算吗？”

“您为什么这么问？”

“我一直觉得我们在巴格达的相遇太巧了，正好让我可以及时赶到这里，使用年门，然后回去。但现在我想，也许这并不是什么巧合。会不会正是因为我今天来到这里，才让您决定在二十年后迁往巴格达？”

巴沙拉特笑道：“偶然事件和有意安排，尊敬的先生，它们是同一张壁毯的两面。您或许觉得某一面更好看，但您不能说，只有这一面才是真的，另一面是假的。”

“无论是现在还是未来，您的话总是那么发人深省。”我说。

我谢过了他，和他道别。就在我离开他的店铺时，一个女人和我擦肩而过，有些急匆匆地走进店堂。我听见巴沙拉特管她叫拉妮娅，不由得吃惊地停住脚步。

站在门外，我听见那女人说：“我把项链带来了，但愿年长的我没把它弄丢。”

“我相信，您一定会好好保管它，等待您的来访。”巴沙拉特说。

我明白了，这正是巴沙拉特那个故事里的拉妮娅。她这是要去找到她年长的自己，让两人一块儿回到她们的年轻时代，用两根一模一样的项链愚弄强盗，拯救她们的丈夫。一时间，我真不知道自己是醒着还是在梦中，因为我觉得我仿佛踏进了一个故事。一想到我竟然可以跟故事中的人物对话，参与事件的发展，我就觉得头晕目眩。我很想开口说话，看能不能在这个故事中扮演一个藏而不露的角色。但我马上清醒过来，想起我的任务是在我自己的故事中扮演一个藏而不露的角色。于是我一言不发地走了，想找一支商队，搭他们的车上路。

尊贵的陛下，有人说，命运会嘲弄凡人的计划和安排。一开始，我似乎是全世界最走运的人。这个月正好有一支商队前往巴格达，我很顺利地加入进去。但接下来的几周里，我开始诅咒自己时运不济。种种事故让商队的行程不断耽搁：离开开罗没多久，途中一个镇子的水井干涸了，不得不派出人手折回去取水；在另一个村庄，保卫商队的士兵染上了痢疾，我们又耽搁了好几周，等着他们康复。每一次延误都使我不得不重新修订抵达巴格达的时间，让我一天比一天焦躁。

接着又是沙暴。它仿佛是来自安拉的警告，让我开始怀疑自己的行动是否明智。好在沙暴开始时，我们已在库法西边一家商路旅店落脚了。在这里耽搁的时间从几天增加到几个星期。一次又一次，天空晴朗起来，但刚把货物装上驼背，天色又变得晦暗阴沉。纳吉娅出事的日子一天天逼近，我简直绝望了。

我挨个恳求赶骆驼的人，想雇一个驼夫带我离开商队，单独上路。可我说不动他们，没有一个驼夫答应。最后，我只找到一个人愿意卖给我一头骆驼。价钱非常昂贵，远远超过通常情况下的售价。但我毫不犹豫地付了钱。就这样，我不顾一切，独自出发了。

不用说，沙暴之中，我没能前进多少。但狂风稍稍减弱之后，我立即以最快速度赶路。没有和商队随行的士兵的保护，强盗不费吹灰之力就能抓住我。两天之后，我果真落入了强盗手中。他们抢走了我的钱和骆驼，但没有杀我。我也不知道这是出于怜悯，还是懒得多此一举。我徒步向回走，想找到商队。沙暴停止了，现在折磨我的是晴朗无云的天空，高温让我苦不堪言。商队发现我时，我的舌头已经肿得很大，嘴唇像太阳灼烤之下的泥土一样绽裂开来。这以后，我别无选择，只能跟着商队慢吞吞地前进。

玫瑰凋谢时，花瓣一片片脱落；我的希望也一样，一天天枯萎。商队抵达这座祥和之城时，我知道已经太迟了。通过城门的时候，我还是向卫兵们打听，这里是不是有一座清真寺倒塌了。第一个回答的卫兵说他没听说过。那一刻，我的心脏停止了跳动：也许我记错了事件发生的日期，我到底还是及时赶到了。

就在这时，另一个卫兵告诉我，确实有一座清真寺倒塌了，就是昨天的事，发生在卡拉区。他的话像刽子手的斧头一般落下来。我从那么遥远的地方赶来，下场却是第二次听到我一生中最悲惨的消息。

我来到那座清真寺。原来是墙壁的地方变成了一堆砖石瓦砾。二十年来，这番情景一直盘踞在我梦中，挥之不去。现在，它出现在我睁开的双眼前，清晰得让我无法忍受。我转过身去，漫无目的地走着，对周围的一切视而不见。最后，我发现自己来到了我的老宅，就是纳吉娅和我一起生活的那幢房子。我站在街上，呆呆地望着它，心中充满回忆和痛苦。

不知过了多久，一个年轻女孩走上前来。“尊敬的先生，”她说，“请问福瓦德·伊本·阿巴斯的家是哪幢房子？”

“就是这幢。”我说。

“请问您就是福瓦德·伊本·阿巴斯吗？”

“我就是。请你走开，不要打扰我。”

“尊敬的先生，请您原谅我。我的名字叫麦姆娜，是大清真寺里大夫们的助手。您妻子去世之前是我照料她。”

我转身望着她。“照料纳吉娅？”

“是的，尊敬的先生。我向她保证过，一定替她把这个口信捎给您。”

“什么口信？”

“她让我告诉您，弥留之际，她仍旧想念着您。她让我告诉您，虽然她的一生很短暂，但却十分幸福，这全是因为有了您。”

看到泪水流下我的脸颊，她说：“我的话让您难过了，请原谅我。”

“你没有什么需要我原谅的，孩子。这个口信对我太宝贵了，我永远无法报答你。我会终生感激你，但就算这样．我还是永远欠你的情。”

“沉浸在悲痛中的人用不着感激任何人。”她说，“愿安宁与您同在。”

“也与你同在。”我说。

她离开以后，我在附近徘徊了好几个小时。我哭泣着，但这是解脱的哭泣。我想着巴沙拉特的话。他说得太对了：无论是过去还是未来，我们都无法改变，只能更深刻地理解它们。我这一次回到过去的旅行什么都没有改变，但我知道的事情却改变了一切。事情只能是这样，必然是这样。如果我们的人生是安拉讲述的一个个故事，那么我们既是故事的聆听者，又是故事中的角色。聆听和扮演人生这个故事，我们最终才能从中得到教益。

夜幕降临了，卫兵们发现我在宵禁之后仍旧四处游荡，身上的衣服风尘仆仆。他们问我是什么人。我告诉他们我叫什么、住在哪里。卫兵把我带到我的邻居面前，看他们认不认识我。没有一个人认出我来，于是我被关进了监狱。

我向卫兵们的长官叙述了我的故事。他觉得这个故事十分有趣，但并不相信。谁又能相信这样的故事呢？这时，我想起了在我满怀悲伤度过的二十年间世上发生的一些事。于是我告诉他，陛下将有一个患上白化病的孙子。过了几天，那个婴儿的病情传到那位长官耳中，他把我带到总督面前。听完我的故事后，总督把我带进宫中。皇宫总管大人听了我的故事，把我带到陛下面前，让我得到了至高无上的荣誉，亲口向尊贵的陛下讲述这个故事。

我的故事发展到现在，它已经赶上了我的生活，和它齐头并进。无论是我的故事还是生活，两者都是盘绕纠缠，分解不清。至于它们接下来会朝哪个方向发展，全凭陛下明断。从现在起的二十年间，巴格达这座城市发生的许多事件我都知道，只是不知道等待着我的是何种命运。现在我身无分文，没有盘缠返回开罗，前往那里的年门，但我却觉得自己无比幸运，因为我有机会重新面对自己过去犯下的错误，安拉用这种办法抚平了我心中的伤痛。如果陛下垂询，我将把我知道的发生在未来的一切事件告诉陛下。能为陛下效劳，这是我的荣幸。但对我自己而言，我所得到的最宝贵的教益是：

没有什么能抹掉过去。但你可以忏悔，可以赎罪。你可以得到宽恕。只有这些，但这已经足够了。

（据特德·姜先生本人表示，这个故事受到物理学家吉普·索恩的研究工作的启发。吉普·索恩相关介绍可参见http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kip_Thorne。）

（李克勤 译）

原载于《科幻世界译文版》2007.09 第146页

The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate

by Ted Chiang

O MIGHTY CALIPH AND Commander of the Faithful, I am humbled to be in the splendor of your presence; a man can hope for no greater blessing as long as he lives. The story I have to tell is truly a strange one, and were the entirety to be tattooed at the corner of one's eye, the marvel of its presentation would not exceed that of the events recounted, for it is a warning to those who would be warned and a lesson to those who would learn.

My name is Fuwaad ibn Abbas, and I was born here in Baghdad, City of Peace. My father was a grain merchant, but for much of my life I have worked as a purveyor of fine fabrics, trading in silk from Damascus and linen from Egypt and scarves from Morocco that are embroidered with gold. I was prosperous, but my heart was troubled, and neither the purchase of luxuries nor the giving of alms was able to soothe it. Now I stand before you without a single dirham in my purse, but I am at peace.

Allah is the beginning of all things, but with Your Majesty's permission, I begin my story with the day I took a walk through the district of metalsmiths. I needed to purchase a gift for a man I had to do business with, and had been told he might appreciate a tray made of silver. After browsing for half an hour, I noticed that one of the largest shops in the market had been taken over by a new merchant. It was a prized location that must have been expensive to acquire, so I entered to peruse its wares.

Never before had I seen such a marvelous assortment of goods. Near the entrance there was an astrolabe equipped with seven plates inlaid with silver, a water-clock that chimed on the hour, and a nightingale made of brass that sang when the wind blew. Farther inside there were even more ingenious mechanisms, and I stared at them the way a child watches a juggler, when an old man stepped out from a doorway in the back.

"Welcome to my humble shop, my lord," he said. "My name is Bashaarat. How may I assist you?"

"These are remarkable items that you have for sale. I deal with traders from every corner of the world, and yet I have never seen their like. From where, may I ask, did you acquire your merchandise?"

"I am grateful to you for your kind words," he said. "Everything you see here was made in my workshop, by myself or by my assistants under my direction."

I was impressed that this man could be so well versed in so many arts. I asked him about the various instruments in his shop, and listened to him discourse learnedly about astrology, mathematics, geomancy, and medicine. We spoke for over an hour, and my fascination and respect bloomed like a flower warmed by the dawn, until he mentioned his experiments in alchemy.

"Alchemy?" I said. This surprised me, for he did not seem the type to make such a sharper's claim. "You mean you can turn base metal into gold?"

"I can, my lord, but that is not in fact what most seek from alchemy."

"What do most seek, then?"

"They seek a source of gold that is cheaper than mining ore from the ground. Alchemy does describe a means to make gold, but the procedure is so arduous that, by comparison, digging beneath a mountain is as easy as plucking peaches from a tree."

I smiled. "A clever reply. No one could dispute that you are a learned man, but I know better than to credit alchemy."

Bashaarat looked at me and considered. "I have recently built something that may change your opinion. You would be the first person I have shown it to. Would you care to see it?"

"It would be a great pleasure."

"Please follow me." He led me through the doorway in the rear of his shop. The next room was a workshop, arrayed with devices whose functions I could not guess—bars of metal wrapped with enough copper thread to reach the horizon, mirrors mounted on a circular slab of granite floating in quicksilver—but Bashaarat walked past these without a glance.

Instead he led me to a sturdy pedestal, chest high, on which a stout metal hoop was mounted upright. The hoop's opening was as wide as two outstretched hands, and its rim so thick that it would tax the strongest man to carry. The metal was black as night, but polished to such smoothness that, had it been a different color, it could have served as a mirror. Bashaarat bade me stand so that I looked upon the hoop edgewise, while he stood next to its opening.

"Please observe," he said.

Bashaarat thrust his arm through the hoop from the right side, but it did not extend out from the left. Instead, it was as if his arm were severed at the elbow, and he waved the stump up and down, and then pulled his arm out intact.

I had not expected to see such a learned man perform a conjuror's trick, but it was well done, and I applauded politely.

"Now wait a moment," he said as he took a step back.

I waited, and behold, an arm reached out of the hoop from its left side, without a body to hold it up. The sleeve it wore matched Bashaarat's robe. The arm waved up and down, and then retreated through the hoop until it was gone.

The first trick I had thought a clever mime, but this one seemed far superior, because the pedestal and hoop were clearly too slender to conceal a person. "Very clever!" I exclaimed.

"Thank you, but this is not mere sleight of hand. The right side of the hoop precedes the left by several seconds. To pass through the hoop is to cross that duration instantly."

"I do not understand," I said.

"Let me repeat the demonstration." Again he thrust his arm through the hoop, and his arm disappeared. He smiled, and pulled back and forth as if playing tug-a-rope. Then he pulled his arm out again, and presented his hand to me with the palm open. On it lay a ring I recognized.

"That is my ring!" I checked my hand, and saw that my ring still lay on my finger. "You have conjured up a duplicate."

"No, this is truly your ring. Wait."

Again, an arm reached out from the left side. Wishing to discover the mechanism of the trick, I rushed over to grab it by the hand. It was not a false hand, but one fully warm and alive as mine. I pulled on it, and it pulled back. Then, as deft as a pickpocket, the hand slipped the ring from my finger and the arm withdrew into the hoop, vanishing completely.

"My ring is gone!" I exclaimed.

"No, my lord," he said. "Your ring is here." And he gave me the ring he held. "Forgive me for my game."

I replaced it on my finger. "You had the ring before it was taken from me."

At that moment an arm reached out, this time from the right side of the hoop. "What is this?" I exclaimed. Again I recognized it as his by the sleeve before it withdrew, but I had not seen him reach in.

"Recall," he said, "the right side of the hoop precedes the left." And he walked over to the left side of the hoop, and thrust his arm through from that side, and again it disappeared.

Your Majesty has undoubtedly already grasped this, but it was only then that I understood: whatever happened on the right side of the hoop was complemented, a few seconds later, by an event on the left side. "Is this sorcery?" I asked.

"No, my lord, I have never met a djinni, and if I did, I would not trust it to do my bidding. This is a form of alchemy."

He offered an explanation, speaking of his search for tiny pores in the skin of reality, like the holes that worms bore into wood, and how upon finding one he was able to expand and stretch it the way a glassblower turns a dollop of molten glass into a long-necked pipe, and how he then allowed time to flow like water at one mouth while causing it to thicken like syrup at the other. I confess I did not really understand his words, and cannot testify to their truth. All I could say in response was, "You have created something truly astonishing."

"Thank you," he said, "but this is merely a prelude to what I intended to show you." He bade me follow him into another room, farther in the back. There stood a circular doorway whose massive frame was made of the same polished black metal, mounted in the middle of the room.

"What I showed you before was a Gate of Seconds," he said. "This is a Gate of Years. The two sides of the doorway are separated by a span of twenty years."

I confess I did not understand his remark immediately. I imagined him reaching his arm in from the right side and waiting twenty years before it emerged from the left side, and it seemed a very obscure magic trick. I said as much, and he laughed. "That is one use for it," he said, "but consider what would happen if you were to step through." Standing on the right side, he gestured for me to come closer, and then pointed through the doorway. "Look."

I looked, and saw that there appeared to be different rugs and pillows on the other side of the room than I had seen when I had entered. I moved my head from side to side, and realized that when I peered through the doorway, I was looking at a different room from the one I stood in.

"You are seeing the room twenty years from now," said Bashaarat.

I blinked, as one might at an illusion of water in the desert, but what I saw did not change. "And you say I could step through?" I asked.

"You could. And with that step, you would visit the Baghdad of twenty years hence. You could seek out your older self and have a conversation with him. Afterwards, you could step back through the Gate of Years and return to the present day."

Hearing Bashaarat's words, I felt as if I were reeling. "You have done this?" I asked him. "You have stepped through?"

"I have, and so have numerous customers of mine."

"Earlier you said I was the first to whom you showed this."

"This Gate, yes. But for many years I owned a shop in Cairo, and it was there that I first built a Gate of Years. There were many to whom I showed that Gate, and who made use of it."

"What did they learn when talking to their older selves?"

"Each person learns something different. If you wish, I can tell you the story of one such person." Bashaarat proceeded to tell me such a story, and if it pleases Your Majesty, I will recount it here.

THE TALE OF THE FORTUNATE ROPE-MAKER

THERE ONCE WAS a young man named Hassan who was a maker of rope. He stepped through the Gate of Years to see the Cairo of twenty years later, and upon arriving he marveled at how the city had grown. He felt as if he had stepped into a scene embroidered on a tapestry, and even though the city was no more and no less than Cairo, he looked upon the most common sights as objects of wonder.

He was wandering by the Zuweyla Gate, where the sword dancers and snake charmers perform, when an astrologer called to him. "Young man! Do you wish to know the future?"

Hassan laughed. "I know it already," he said.

"Surely you want to know if wealth awaits you, do you not?"

"I am a rope-maker. I know that it does not."

"Can you be so sure? What about the renowned merchant Hassan al-Hubbaul, who began as a rope-maker?"

His curiosity aroused, Hassan asked around the market for others who knew of this wealthy merchant, and found that the name was well known. It was said he lived in the wealthy Habbaniya quarter of the city, so Hassan walked there and asked people to point out his house, which turned out to be the largest one on its street.

He knocked at the door, and a servant led him to a spacious and well-appointed hall with a fountain in the center. Hassan waited while the servant went to fetch his master, but as he looked at the polished ebony and marble around him, he felt that he did not belong in such surroundings, and was about to leave when his older self appeared.

"At last you are here!" the man said. "I have been expecting you!"

"You have?" said Hassan, astounded.

"Of course, because I visited my older self just as you are visiting me. It has been so long that I had forgotten the exact day. Come, dine with me."

The two went to a dining room, where servants brought chicken stuffed with pistachio nuts, fritters soaked in honey, and roast lamb with spiced pomegranates. The older Hassan gave few details of his life: he mentioned business interests of many varieties, but did not say how he had become a merchant; he mentioned a wife, but said it was not time for the younger man to meet her. Instead, he asked young Hassan to remind him of the pranks he had played as a child, and he laughed to hear stories that had faded from his own memory.

At last the younger Hassan asked the older, "How did you make such great changes in your fortune?"

"All I will tell you right now is this: when you go to buy hemp from the market, and you are walking along the Street of Black Dogs, do not walk along the south side as you usually do. Walk along the north."

"And that will enable me to raise my station?"

"Just do as I say. Go back home now; you have rope to make. You will know when to visit me again."

Young Hassan returned to his day and did as he was instructed, keeping to the north side of the street even when there was no shade there. It was a few days later that he witnessed a maddened horse run amok on the south side of the street directly opposite him, kicking several people, injuring another by knocking a heavy jug of palm oil onto him, and even trampling one person under its hooves. After the commotion had subsided, Hassan prayed to Allah for the injured to be healed and the dead to be at peace, and thanked Allah for sparing him.

The next day Hassan stepped through the Gate of Years and sought out his older self. "Were you injured by the horse when you walked by?" he asked him.

"No, because I heeded my older self's warning. Do not forget, you and I are one; every circumstance that befalls you once befell me."

And so the elder Hassan gave the younger instructions, and the younger obeyed them. He refrained from buying eggs from his usual grocer, and thus avoided the illness that struck customers who bought eggs from a spoiled basket. He bought extra hemp, and thus had material to work with when others suffered a shortage due to a delayed caravan. Following his older self's instructions spared Hassan many troubles, but he wondered why his older self would not tell him more. Who would he marry? How would he become wealthy?

Then one day, after having sold all his rope in the market and carrying an unusually full purse, Hassan bumped into a boy while walking on the street. He felt for his purse, discovered it missing, and turned around with a shout to search the crowd for the pickpocket. Hearing Hassan's cry, the boy immediately began running through the crowd. Hassan saw that the boy's tunic was torn at the elbow, but then quickly lost sight of him.

For a moment Hassan was shocked that this could happen with no warning from his older self. But his surprise was soon replaced by anger, and he gave chase. He ran through the crowd, checking the elbows of boys' tunics, until by chance he found the pickpocket crouching beneath a fruit wagon. Hassan grabbed him and began shouting to all that he had caught a thief, asking them to find a guardsman. The boy, afraid of arrest, dropped Hassan's purse and began weeping. Hassan stared at the boy for a long moment, and then his anger faded, and he let him go.

When next he saw his older self, Hassan asked him, "Why did you not warn me about the pickpocket?"

"Did you not enjoy the experience?" asked his older self.

Hassan was about to deny it, but stopped himself. "I did enjoy it," he admitted. In pursuing the boy, with no hint of whether he'd succeed or fail, he had felt his blood surge in a way it had not for many weeks. And seeing the boy's tears had reminded him of the Prophet's teachings on the value of mercy, and Hassan had felt virtuous in choosing to let the boy go.

"Would you rather I had denied you that, then?"

Just as we grow to understand the purpose of customs that seemed pointless to us in our youth, Hassan realized that there was merit in withholding information as well as in disclosing it. "No," he said, "it was good that you did not warn me."

The older Hassan saw that he had understood. "Now I will tell you something very important. Hire a horse. I will give you directions to a spot in the foothills to the west of the city. There you will find within a grove of trees one that was struck by lightning. Around the base of the tree, look for the heaviest rock you can overturn, and then dig beneath it."

"What should I look for?"

"You will know when you find it."

The next day Hassan rode out to the foothills and searched until he found the tree. The ground around it was covered in rocks, so Hassan overturned one to dig beneath it, and then another, and then another. At last his spade struck something besides rock and soil. He cleared aside the soil and discovered a bronze chest, filled with gold dinars and assorted jewelry. Hassan had never seen its like in all his life. He loaded the chest onto the horse, and rode back to Cairo.

The next time he spoke to his older self, he asked, "How did you know where the treasure was?"

"I learned it from myself," said the older Hassan, "just as you did. As to how we came to know its location, I have no explanation except that it was the will of Allah, and what other explanation is there for anything?"

"I swear I shall make good use of these riches that Allah has blessed me with," said the younger Hassan.

"And I renew that oath," said the older. "This is the last time we shall speak. You will find your own way now. Peace be upon you."

And so Hassan returned home. With the gold he was able to purchase hemp in great quantity, and hire workmen and pay them a fair wage, and sell rope profitably to all who sought it. He married a beautiful and clever woman, at whose advice he began trading in other goods, until he was a wealthy and respected merchant. All the while he gave generously to the poor and lived as an upright man. In this way Hassan lived the happiest of lives until he was overtaken by death, breaker of ties and destroyer of delights.

"That is a remarkable story," I said. "For someone who is debating whether to make use of the Gate, there could hardly be a better inducement."

"You are wise to be skeptical," said Bashaarat. "Allah rewards those he wishes to reward and chastises those he wishes to chastise. The Gate does not change how he regards you."

I nodded, thinking I understood. "So even if you succeed in avoiding the misfortunes that your older self experienced, there is no assurance you will not encounter other misfortunes."

"No, forgive an old man for being unclear. Using the Gate is not like drawing lots, where the token you select varies with each turn. Rather, using the Gate is like taking a secret passageway in a palace, one that lets you enter a room more quickly than by walking down the hallway. The room remains the same, no matter which door you use to enter."

This surprised me. "The future is fixed, then? As unchangeable as the past?"

"It is said that repentance and atonement erase the past."

"I have heard that too, but I have not found it to be true."

"I am sorry to hear that," said Bashaarat. "All I can say is that the future is no different."

I thought on this for a while. "So if you learn that you are dead twenty years from now, there is nothing you can do to avoid your death?" He nodded. This seemed to me very disheartening, but then I wondered if it could not also provide a guarantee. I said, "Suppose you learn that you are alive twenty years from now. Then nothing could kill you in the next twenty years. You could then fight in battles without a care, because your survival is assured."

"That is possible," he said. "It is also possible that a man who would make use of such a guarantee would not find his older self alive when he first used the Gate."

"Ah," I said. "Is it then the case that only the prudent meet their older selves?"

"Let me tell you the story of another person who used the Gate, and you can decide for yourself if he was prudent or not." Bashaarat proceeded to tell me the story, and if it pleases Your Majesty, I will recount it here.

THE TALE OF THE WEAVER WHO STOLE FROM HIMSELF

THERE WAS a young weaver named Ajib who made a modest living as a weaver of rugs, but yearned to taste the luxuries enjoyed by the wealthy. After hearing the story of Hassan, Ajib immediately stepped through the Gate of Years to seek out his older self, who, he was sure, would be as rich and as generous as the older Hassan.

Upon arriving in the Cairo of twenty years later, he proceeded to the wealthy Habbaniya quarter of the city and asked people for the residence of Ajib ibn Taher. He was prepared, if he met someone who knew the man and remarked on the similarity of their features, to identify himself as Ajib's son, newly arrived from Damascus. But he never had the chance to offer this story, because no one he asked recognized the name.

Eventually he decided to return to his old neighborhood, and see if anyone there knew where he had moved to. When he got to his old street, he stopped a boy and asked him if he knew where to find a man named Ajib. The boy directed him to Ajib's old house.

"That is where he used to live," Ajib said. "Where does he live now?"

"If he has moved since yesterday, I do not know where," said the boy.

Ajib was incredulous. Could his older self still live in the same house, twenty years later? That would mean he had never become wealthy, and his older self would have no advice to give him, or at least none Ajib would profit by following. How could his fate differ so much from that of the fortunate rope-maker? In hopes that the boy was mistaken, Ajib waited outside the house, and watched.

Eventually he saw a man leave the house, and with a sinking heart recognized it as his older self. The older Ajib was followed by a woman that he presumed was his wife, but he scarcely noticed her, for all he could see was his own failure to have bettered himself. He stared with dismay at the plain clothes the older couple wore until they walked out of sight.

Driven by the curiosity that impels men to look at the heads of the executed, Ajib went to the door of his house. His own key still fit the lock, so he entered. The furnishings had changed, but were simple and worn, and Ajib was mortified to see them. After twenty years, could he not even afford better pillows?

On an impulse, he went to the wooden chest where he normally kept his savings, and unlocked it. He lifted the lid, and saw the chest was filled with gold dinars.

Ajib was astonished. His older self had a chest of gold, and yet he wore such plain clothes and lived in the same small house for twenty years! What a stingy, joyless man his older self must be, thought Ajib, to have wealth and not enjoy it. Ajib had long known that one could not take one's possessions to the grave. Could that be something that he would forget as he aged?

Ajib decided that such riches should belong to someone who appreciated them, and that was himself. To take his older self's wealth would not be stealing, he reasoned, because it was he himself who would receive it. He heaved the chest onto his shoulder, and with much effort was able to bring it back through the Gate of Years to the Cairo he knew.

He deposited some of his new found wealth with a banker, but always carried a purse heavy with gold. He dressed in a Damascene robe and Cordovan slippers and a Khurasani turban bearing a jewel. He rented a house in the wealthy quarter, furnished it with the finest rugs and couches, and hired a cook to prepare him sumptuous meals.

He then sought out the brother of a woman he had long desired from afar, a woman named Taahira. Her brother was an apothecary, and Taahira assisted him in his shop. Ajib would occasionally purchase a remedy so that he might speak to her. Once he had seen her veil slip, and her eyes were as dark and beautiful as a gazelle's. Taahira's brother would not have consented to her marrying a weaver, but now Ajib could present himself as a favorable match.

Taahira's brother approved, and Taahira herself readily consented, for she had desired Ajib, too. Ajib spared no expense for their wedding. He hired one of the pleasure barges that floated in the canal south of the city and held a feast with musicians and dancers, at which he presented her with a magnificent pearl necklace. The celebration was the subject of gossip throughout the quarter.

Ajib reveled in the joy that money brought him and Taahira, and for a week the two of them lived the most delightful of lives. Then one day Ajib came home to find the door to his house broken open and the interior ransacked of all silver and gold items. The terrified cook emerged from hiding and told him that robbers had taken Taahira.

Ajib prayed to Allah until, exhausted with worry, he fell asleep. The next morning he was awoken by a knocking at his door. There was a stranger there. "I have a message for you," the man said.

"What message?" asked Ajib.

"Your wife is safe."

Ajib felt fear and rage churn in his stomach like black bile. "What ransom would you have?" he asked.

"Ten thousand dinars."

"That is more than all I possess!" Ajib exclaimed.

"Do not haggle with me," said the robber. "I have seen you spend money like others pour water."

Ajib dropped to his knees. "I have been wasteful. I swear by the name of the Prophet that I do not have that much," he said.

The robber looked at him closely. "Gather all the money you have," he said, "and have it here tomorrow at this same hour. If I believe you are holding back, your wife will die. If I believe you to be honest, my men will return her to you."

Ajib could see no other choice. "Agreed," he said, and the robber left.

The next day he went to the banker and withdrew all the money that remained. He gave it to the robber, who gauged the desperation in Ajib's eyes and was satisfied. The robber did as he promised, and that evening Taahira was returned.

After they had embraced, Taahira said, "I didn't believe you would pay so much money for me."

"I could not take pleasure in it without you," said Ajib, and he was surprised to realize it was true. "But now I regret that I cannot buy you what you deserve."

"You need never buy me anything again," she said.

Ajib bowed his head. "I feel as if I have been punished for my misdeeds."

"What misdeeds?" asked Taahira, but Ajib said nothing. "I did not ask you this before," she said. "But I know you did not inherit all the money you gained. Tell me: did you steal it?"

"No," said Ajib, unwilling to admit the truth to her or himself. "It was given to me."

"A loan, then?"

"No, it does not need to be repaid."

"And you don't wish to pay it back?" Taahira was shocked. "So you are content that this other man paid for our wedding? That he paid my ransom?" She seemed on the verge of tears. "Am I your wife then, or this other man's?"

"You are my wife," he said.

"How can I be, when my very life is owed to another?"

"I would not have you doubt my love," said Ajib. "I swear to you that I will pay back the money, to the last dirham."

And so Ajib and Taahira moved back into Ajib's old house and began saving their money. Both of them went to work for Taahira's brother the apothecary, and when he eventually became a perfumer to the wealthy, Ajib and Taahira took over the business of selling remedies to the ill. It was a good living, but they spent as little as they could, living modestly and repairing damaged furnishings instead of buying new. For years, Ajib smiled whenever he dropped a coin into the chest, telling Taahira that it was a reminder of how much he valued her. He would say that even after the chest was full, it would be a bargain.

But it is not easy to fill a chest by adding just a few coins at a time, and so what began as thrift gradually turned into miserliness, and prudent decisions were replaced by tight-fisted ones. Worse, Ajib's and Taahira's affections for each other faded over time, and each grew to resent the other for the money they could not spend.

In this manner the years passed and Ajib grew older, waiting for the second time that his gold would be taken from him.

"What a strange and sad story," I said.

"Indeed," said Bashaarat. "Would you say that Ajib acted prudently?"

I hesitated before speaking. "It is not my place to judge him," I said. "He must live with the consequences of his actions, just as I must live with mine." I was silent for a moment, and then said, "I admire Ajib's candor, that he told you everything he had done."

"Ah, but Ajib did not tell me of this as a young man," said Bashaarat. "After he emerged from the Gate carrying the chest, I did not see him again for another twenty years. Ajib was a much older man when he came to visit me again. He had come home and found his chest gone, and the knowledge that he had paid his debt made him feel he could tell me all that had transpired."

"Indeed? Did the older Hassan from your first story come to see you as well?"

"No, I heard Hassan's story from his younger self. The older Hassan never returned to my shop, but in his place I had a different visitor, one who shared a story about Hassan that he himself could never have told me." Bashaarat proceeded to tell me that visitor's story, and if it pleases Your Majesty, I will recount it here.

THE TALE OF THE WIFE AND HER LOVER

Raniya had been married to Hassan for many years, and they lived the happiest of lives. One day she saw her husband dine with a young man, whom she recognized as the very image of Hassan when she had first married him. So great was her astonishment that she could scarcely keep herself from intruding on their conversation. After the young man left, she demanded that Hassan tell her who he was, and Hassan related to her an incredible tale.

"Have you told him about me?" she asked. "Did you know what lay ahead of us when we first met?"

"I knew I would marry you from the moment I saw you," Hassan said, smiling, "but not because anyone had told me. Surely, wife, you would not wish to spoil that moment for him?"

So Raniya did not speak to her husband's younger self, but only eavesdropped on his conversation, and stole glances at him. Her pulse quickened at the sight of his youthful features; sometimes our memories fool us with their sweetness, but when she beheld the two men seated opposite each other, she could see the fullness of the younger one's beauty without exaggeration. At night, she would lie awake, thinking of it.

Some days after Hassan had bid farewell to his younger self, he left Cairo to conduct business with a merchant in Damascus. In his absence Raniya found the shop that Hassan had described to her, and stepped through the Gate of Years to the Cairo of her youth.

She remembered where he had lived back then, and so was easily able to find the young Hassan and follow him. As she watched him, she felt a desire stronger than she had felt in years for the older Hassan, so vivid were her recollections of their youthful lovemaking. She had always been a loyal and faithful wife, but here was an opportunity that would never be available again. Resolving to act on this desire, Raniya rented a house, and in subsequent days bought furnishings for it.

Once the house was ready, she followed Hassan discreetly while she tried to gather enough boldness to approach him. In the jewelers' market, she watched as he went to a jeweler, showed him a necklace set with ten gemstones, and asked him how much he would pay for it. Raniya recognized it as one Hassan had given to her in the days after their wedding; she had not known he had once tried to sell it. She stood a short distance away and listened, pretending to look at some rings.

"Bring it back tomorrow, and I will pay you a thousand dinars," said the jeweler. Young Hassan agreed to the price, and left.

As she watched him leave, Raniya overheard two men talking nearby:

"Did you see that necklace? It is one of ours."

"Are you certain?" asked the other.

"I am. That is the bastard who dug up our chest."

"Let us tell our captain about him. After this fellow has sold his necklace, we will take his money, and more."

The two men left without noticing Raniya, who stood with her heart racing but her body motionless, like a deer after a tiger has passed. She realized that the treasure Hassan had dug up must have belonged to a band of thieves, and these men were two of its members. They were now observing the jewelers of Cairo to identify the person who had taken their loot.

Raniya knew that since she possessed the necklace, the young Hassan could not have sold it. She also knew that the thieves could not have killed Hassan. But it could not be Allah's will for her to do nothing. Allah must have brought her here so that he might use her as his instrument.

Raniya returned to the Gate of Years, stepped through to her own day, and at her house found the necklace in her jewelry box. Then she used the Gate of Years again, but instead of entering it from the left side, she entered it from the right, so that she visited the Cairo of twenty years later. There she sought out her older self, now an aged woman. The older Raniya greeted her warmly, and retrieved the necklace from her own jewelry box. The two women then rehearsed how they would assist the young Hassan.

The next day, the two thieves were back with a third man, whom Raniya assumed was their captain. They all watched as Hassan presented the necklace to the jeweler.

As the jeweler examined it, Raniya walked up and said, "What a coincidence! Jeweler, I wish to sell a necklace just like that." She brought out her necklace from a purse she carried.

"This is remarkable," said the jeweler. "I have never seen two necklaces more similar."

Then the aged Raniya walked up. "What do I see? Surely my eyes deceive me!" And with that she brought out a third identical necklace. "The seller sold it to me with the promise that it was unique. This proves him a liar."

"Perhaps you should return it," said Raniya.

"That depends," said the aged Raniya. She asked Hassan, "How much is he paying you for it?"

"A thousand dinars," said Hassan, bewildered.

"Really! Jeweler, would you care to buy this one too?"

"I must reconsider my offer," said the jeweler.

While Hassan and the aged Raniya bargained with the jeweler, Raniya stepped back just far enough to hear the captain berate the other thieves. "You fools," he said. "It is a common necklace. You would have us kill half the jewelers in Cairo and bring the guardsmen down upon our heads." He slapped their heads and led them off.

Raniya returned her attention to the jeweler, who had withdrawn his offer to buy Hassan's necklace. The older Raniya said, "Very well. I will try to return it to the man who sold it to me." As the older woman left, Raniya could tell that she smiled beneath her veil.

Raniya turned to Hassan. "It appears that neither of us will sell a necklace today."

"Another day, perhaps," said Hassan.

"I shall take mine back to my house for safekeeping," said Raniya. "Would you walk with me?"

Hassan agreed, and walked with Raniya to the house she had rented. Then she invited him in, and offered him wine, and after they had both drunk some, she led him to her bedroom. She covered the windows with heavy curtains and extinguished all lamps so that the room was as dark as night. Only then did she remove her veil and take him to bed.

Raniya had been flush with anticipation for this moment, and so was surprised to find that Hassan's movements were clumsy and awkward. She remembered their wedding night very clearly; he had been confident, and his touch had taken her breath away. She knew Hassan's first meeting with the young Raniya was not far away, and for a moment did not understand how this fumbling boy could change so quickly. And then of course the answer was clear.

So every afternoon for many days, Raniya met Hassan at her rented house and instructed him in the art of love, and in doing so she demonstrated that, as is often said, women are Allah's most wondrous creation. She told him, "The pleasure you give is returned in the pleasure you receive," and inwardly she smiled as she thought of how true her words really were. Before long, he gained the expertise she remembered, and she took greater enjoyment in it than she had as a young woman.

All too soon, the day arrived when Raniya told the young Hassan that it was time for her to leave. He knew better than to press her for her reasons, but asked her if they might ever see each other again. She told him, gently, no. Then she sold the furnishings to the house's owner, and returned through the Gate of Years to the Cairo of her own day.

When the older Hassan returned from his trip to Damascus, Raniya was home waiting for him. She greeted him warmly, but kept her secrets to herself.

I was lost in my own thoughts when Bashaarat finished this story, until he said, "I see that this story has intrigued you in a way the others did not."

"You see clearly," I admitted. "I realize now that, even though the past is unchangeable, one may encounter the unexpected when visiting it."

"Indeed. Do you now understand why I say the future and the past are the same? We cannot change either, but we can know both more fully."

"I do understand; you have opened my eyes, and now I wish to use the Gate of Years. What price do you ask?"

He waved his hand. "I do not sell passage through the Gate," he said. "Allah guides whom he wishes to my shop, and I am content to be an instrument of his will."

Had it been another man, I would have taken his words to be a negotiating ploy, but after all that Bashaarat had told me, I knew that he was sincere. "Your generosity is as boundless as your learning," I said, and bowed. "If there is ever a service that a merchant of fabrics might provide for you, please call upon me."

"Thank you. Let us talk now about your trip. There are some matters we must speak of before you visit the Baghdad of twenty years hence."

"I do not wish to visit the future," I told him. "I would step through in the other direction, to revisit my youth."

"Ah, my deepest apologies. This Gate will not take you there. You see, I built this Gate only a week ago. Twenty years ago, there was no doorway here for you to step out of."

My dismay was so great that I must have sounded like a forlorn child. I said, "But where does the other side of the Gate lead?" and walked around the circular doorway to face its opposite side.

Bashaarat walked around the doorway to stand beside me. The view through the Gate appeared identical to the view outside it, but when he extended his hand to reach through, it stopped as if it met an invisible wall. I looked more closely, and noticed a brass lamp set on a table. Its flame did not flicker, but was as fixed and unmoving as if the room were trapped in clearest amber.

"What you see here is the room as it appeared last week," said Bashaarat. "In some twenty years' time, this left side of the Gate will permit entry, allowing people to enter from this direction and visit their past. Or," he said, leading me back to the side of the doorway he had first shown me, "we can enter from the right side now, and visit them ourselves. But I'm afraid this Gate will never allow visits to the days of your youth."

"What about the Gate of Years you had in Cairo?" I asked.

He nodded. "That Gate still stands. My son now runs my shop there."

"So I could travel to Cairo, and use the Gate to visit the Cairo of twenty years ago. From there I could travel back to Baghdad."

"Yes, you could make that journey, if you so desire."

"I do," I said. "Will you tell me how to find your shop in Cairo?"

"We must speak of some things first," said Bashaarat. "I will not ask your intentions, being content to wait until you are ready to tell me. But I would remind you that what is made cannot be unmade."

"I know," I said.

"And that you cannot avoid the ordeals that are assigned to you. What Allah gives you, you must accept."

"I remind myself of that every day of my life."

"Then it is my honor to assist you in whatever way I can," he said.

He brought out some paper and a pen and inkpot and began writing. "I shall write for you a letter to aid you on your journey." He folded the letter, dribbled some candle wax over the edge, and pressed his ring against it. "When you reach Cairo, give this to my son, and he will let you enter the Gate of Years there."

A merchant such as myself must be well-versed in expressions of gratitude, but I had never before been as effusive in giving thanks as I was to Bashaarat, and every word was heartfelt. He gave me directions to his shop in Cairo, and I assured him I would tell him all upon my return. As I was about to leave his shop, a thought occurred to me. "Because the Gate of Years you have here opens to the future, you are assured that the Gate and this shop will be remain standing for twenty years or more."

"Yes, that is true," said Bashaarat.

I began to ask him if he had met his older self, but then I bit back my words. If the answer was no, it was surely because his older self was dead, and I would be asking him if he knew the date of his death. Who was I to make such an inquiry, when this man was granting me a boon without asking my intentions? I saw from his expression that he knew what I had meant to ask, and I bowed my head in humble apology. He indicated his acceptance with a nod, and I returned home to make arrangements.

The caravan took two months to reach Cairo. As for what occupied my mind during the journey, Your Majesty, I now tell you what I had not told Bashaarat. I was married once, twenty years before, to a woman named Najya. Her figure swayed as gracefully as a willow bough and her face was as lovely as the moon, but it was her kind and tender nature that captured my heart. I had just begun my career as a merchant when we married, and we were not wealthy, but did not feel the lack.

We had been married only a year when I was to travel to Basra to meet with a ship's captain. I had an opportunity to profit by trading in slaves, but Najya did not approve. I reminded her that the Koran does not forbid the owning of slaves as long as one treats them well, and that even the Prophet owned some. But she said there was no way I could know how my buyers would treat their slaves, and that it was better to sell goods than men.

On the morning of my departure, Najya and I argued. I spoke harshly to her, using words that it shames me to recall, and I beg Your Majesty's forgiveness if I do not repeat them here. I left in anger, and never saw her again. She was badly injured when the wall of a mosque collapsed, some days after I left. She was taken to the bimaristan, but the physicians could not save her, and she died soon after. I did not learn of her death until I returned a week later, and I felt as if I had killed her with my own hand.

Can the torments of Hell be worse than what I endured in the days that followed? It seemed likely that I would find out, so near to death did my anguish take me. And surely the experience must be similar, for like infernal fire, grief burns but does not consume; instead, it makes the heart vulnerable to further suffering.

Eventually my period of lamentation ended, and I was left a hollow man, a bag of skin with no innards. I freed the slaves I had bought and became a fabric merchant. Over the years I became wealthy, but I never remarried. Some of the men I did business with tried to match me with a sister or a daughter, telling me that the love of a woman can make you forget your pains. Perhaps they are right, but it cannot make you forget the pain you caused another. Whenever I imagined myself marrying another woman, I remembered the look of hurt in Najya's eyes when I last saw her, and my heart was closed to others.

I spoke to a mullah about what I had done, and it was he who told me that repentance and atonement erase the past. I repented and atoned as best I knew how; for twenty years I lived as an upright man, I offered prayers and fasted and gave alms to those less fortunate and made a pilgrimage to Mecca, and yet I was still haunted by guilt. Allah is all-merciful, so I knew the failing to be mine.

Had Bashaarat asked me, I could not have said what I hoped to achieve. It was clear from his stories that I could not change what I knew to have happened. No one had stopped my younger self from arguing with Najya in our final conversation. But the tale of Raniya, which lay hidden within the tale of Hassan's life without his knowing it, gave me a slim hope: perhaps I might be able to play some part in events while my younger self was away on business.

Could it not be that there had been a mistake, and my Najya had survived? Perhaps it was another woman whose body had been wrapped in a shroud and buried while I was gone. Perhaps I could rescue Najya and bring her back with me to the Baghdad of my own day. I knew it was foolhardy; men of experience say, "Four things do not come back: the spoken word, the sped arrow, the past life, and the neglected opportunity," and I understood the truth of those words better than most. And yet I dared to hope that Allah had judged my twenty years of repentance sufficient, and was now granting me a chance to regain what I had lost.

The caravan journey was uneventful, and after sixty sunrises and three hundred prayers, I reached Cairo. There I had to navigate the city's streets, which are a bewildering maze compared to the harmonious design of the City of Peace. I made my way to the Bayn al-Qasrayn, the main street that runs through the Fatimid quarter of Cairo. From there I found the street on which Bashaarat's shop was located.

I told the shopkeeper that I had spoken to his father in Baghdad, and gave him the letter Bashaarat had given me. After reading it, he led me into a back room, in whose center stood another Gate of Years, and he gestured for me to enter from its left side.

As I stood before the massive circle of metal, I felt a chill, and chided myself for my nervousness. With a deep breath I stepped through, and found myself in the same room with different furnishings. If not for those, I would not have known the Gate to be different from an ordinary doorway. Then I recognized that the chill I had felt was simply the coolness of the air in this room, for the day here was not as hot as the day I had left. I could feel its warm breeze at my back, coming through the Gate like a sigh.

The shopkeeper followed behind me and called out, "Father, you have a visitor."

A man entered the room, and who should it be but Bashaarat, twenty years younger than when I'd seen him in Baghdad. "Welcome, my lord," he said. "I am Bashaarat."

"You do not know me?" I asked.

"No, you must have met my older self. For me, this is our first meeting, but it is my honor to assist you."

Your Majesty, as befits this chronicle of my shortcomings, I must confess that, so immersed was I in my own woes during the journey from Baghdad, I had not previously realized that Bashaarat had likely recognized me the moment I stepped into his shop. Even as I was admiring his water-clock and brass songbird, he had known that I would travel to Cairo, and likely knew whether I had achieved my goal or not.

The Bashaarat I spoke to now knew none of those things. "I am doubly grateful for your kindness, sir," I said. "My name is Fuwaad ibn Abbas, newly arrived from Baghdad."

Bashaarat's son took his leave, and Bashaarat and I conferred; I asked him the day and month, confirming that there was ample time for me to travel back to the City of Peace, and promised him I would tell him everything when I returned. His younger self was as gracious as his older. "I look forward to speaking with you on your return, and to assisting you again twenty years from now," he said.

His words gave me pause. "Had you planned to open a shop in Baghdad before today?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I had been marveling at the coincidence that we met in Baghdad just in time for me to make my journey here, use the Gate, and travel back. But now I wonder if it is perhaps not a coincidence at all. Is my arrival here today the reason that you will move to Baghdad twenty years from now?"

Bashaarat smiled. "Coincidence and intention are two sides of a tapestry, my lord. You may find one more agreeable to look at, but you cannot say one is true and the other is false."

"Now as ever, you have given me much to think about," I said.

I thanked him and bid farewell. As I was leaving his shop, I passed a woman entering with some haste. I heard Bashaarat greet her as Raniya, and stopped in surprise.

From just outside the door, I could hear the woman say, "I have the necklace. I hope my older self has not lost it."

"I am sure you will have kept it safe, in anticipation of your visit," said Bashaarat.

I realized that this was Raniya from the story Bashaarat had told me. She was on her way to collect her older self so that they might return to the days of their youth, confound some thieves with a doubled necklace, and save their husband. For a moment I was unsure if I were dreaming or awake, because I felt as if I had stepped into a tale, and the thought that I might talk to its players and partake of its events was dizzying. I was tempted to speak, and see if I might play a hidden role in that tale, but then I remembered that my goal was to play a hidden role in my own tale. So I left without a word, and went to arrange passage with a caravan.

It is said, Your Majesty, that Fate laughs at men's schemes. At first it appeared as if I were the most fortunate of men, for a caravan headed for Baghdad was departing within the month, and I was able to join it. In the weeks that followed I began to curse my luck, because the caravan's journey was plagued by delays. The wells at a town not far from Cairo were dry, and an expedition had to be sent back for water. At another village, the soldiers protecting the caravan contracted dysentery, and we had to wait for weeks for their recovery. With each delay, I revised my estimate of when we'd reach Baghdad, and grew increasingly anxious.

Then there were the sandstorms, which seemed like a warning from Allah, and truly caused me to doubt the wisdom of my actions. We had the good fortune to be resting at a caravanserai west of Kufa when the sandstorms first struck, but our stay was prolonged from days to weeks as, time and again, the skies became clear, only to darken again as soon as the camels were reloaded. The day of Najya's accident was fast approaching, and I grew desperate.

I solicited each of the camel drivers in turn, trying to hire one to take me ahead alone, but could not persuade any of them. Eventually I found one willing to sell me a camel at what would have been an exorbitant price under ordinary circumstances, but which I was all too willing to pay. I then struck out on my own.

It will come as no surprise that I made little progress in the storm, but when the winds subsided, I immediately adopted a rapid pace. Without the soldiers that accompanied the caravan, however, I was an easy target for bandits, and sure enough, I was stopped after two days' ride. They took my money and the camel I had purchased, but spared my life, whether out of pity or because they could not be bothered to kill me I do not know. I began walking back to rejoin the caravan, but now the skies tormented me with their cloudlessness, and I suffered from the heat. By the time the caravan found me, my tongue was swollen and my lips were as cracked as mud baked by the sun. After that I had no choice but to accompany the caravan at its usual pace.

Like a fading rose that drops its petals one by one, my hopes dwindled with each passing day. By the time the caravan reached the City of Peace, I knew it was too late, but the moment we rode through the city gates, I asked the guardsmen if they had heard of a mosque collapsing. The first guardsman I spoke to had not, and for a heartbeat I dared to hope that I had misremembered the date of the accident, and that I had in fact arrived in time.

Then another guardsman told me that a mosque had indeed collapsed just yesterday in the Karkh quarter. His words struck me with the force of the executioner's axe. I had traveled so far, only to receive the worst news of my life a second time.

I walked to the mosque, and saw the piles of bricks where there had once been a wall. It was a scene that had haunted my dreams for twenty years, but now the image remained even after I opened my eyes, and with a clarity sharper than I could endure. I turned away and walked without aim, blind to what was around me, until I found myself before my old house, the one where Najya and I had lived. I stood in the street in front of it, filled with memory and anguish.

I do not know how much time had passed when I became aware that a young woman had walked up to me. "My lord," she said, "I'm looking for the house of Fuwaad ibn Abbas."

"You have found it," I said.

"Are you Fuwaad ibn Abbas, my lord?"

"I am, and I ask you, please leave me be."

"My lord, I beg your forgiveness. My name is Maimuna, and I assist the physicians at the bimaristan. I tended to your wife before she died."

I turned to look at her. "You tended to Najya?"

"I did, my lord. I am sworn to deliver a message to you from her."

"What message?"

"She wished me to tell you that her last thoughts were of you. She wished me to tell you that while her life was short, it was made happy by the time she spent with you."

She saw the tears streaming down my cheeks, and said, "Forgive me if my words cause you pain, my lord."

"There is nothing to forgive, child. Would that I had the means to pay you as much as this message is worth to me, because a lifetime of thanks would still leave me in your debt."

"Grief owes no debt," she said. "Peace be upon you, my lord."

"Peace be upon you," I said.

She left, and I wandered the streets for hours, crying tears of release. All the while I thought on the truth of Bashaarat's words: past and future are the same, and we cannot change either, only know them more fully. My journey to the past had changed nothing, but what I had learned had changed everything, and I understood that it could not have been otherwise. If our lives are tales that Allah tells, then we are the audience as well as the players, and it is by living these tales that we receive their lessons.

Night fell, and it was then that the city's guardsmen found me, wandering the streets after curfew in my dusty clothes, and asked who I was. I told them my name and where I lived, and the guardsmen brought me to my neighbors to see if they knew me, but they did not recognize me, and I was taken to jail.

I told the guard captain my story, and he found it entertaining, but did not credit it, for who would? Then I remembered some news from my time of grief twenty years before, and told him that Your Majesty's grandson would be born an albino. Some days later, word of the infant's condition reached the captain, and he brought me to the governor of the quarter. When the governor heard my story, he brought me here to the palace, and when your lord chamberlain heard my story, he in turn brought me here to the throne room, so that I might have the infinite privilege of recounting it to Your Majesty.

Now my tale has caught up to my life, coiled as they both are, and the direction they take next is for Your Majesty to decide. I know many things that will happen here in Baghdad over the next twenty years, but nothing about what awaits me now. I have no money for the journey back to Cairo and the Gate of Years there, yet I count myself fortunate beyond measure, for I was given the opportunity to revisit my past mistakes, and I have learned what remedies Allah allows. I would be honored to relate everything I know of the future, if Your Majesty sees fit to ask, but for myself, the most precious knowledge I possess is this:

Nothing erases the past. There is repentance, there is atonement, and there is forgiveness. That is all, but that is enough.

呼吸——宇宙的毁灭

空气（还有人称之为氩气）就是生命之源的说法流传已久，实际情况却不是这样。我刻下这些文字的目的，就是为了说明我是如何理解了真正的生命之源以及生命最终将怎样消亡，这个结果不可避免。

在大部分历史进程中，“我们依靠空气维持生命”这个命题的正确性明显得都不需要去证明。我们每天消耗两个肺的空气，把空的肺从胸腔取出来，再换上充满空气的肺。假如有人不小心让气压降的过低，他就会感到肢体变得沉重，他知道这就需要补充空气了。在体内的两个肺用尽之前连一个肺都无法更换这种情况极少发生。在这种不幸的情况下——比如有人被困住了，无法移动，而且旁边也没有人帮助他——空气用完之后几秒钟他就会丧命。

然而在正常的生活中，我们对于空气的需求远远超出想象，不过大家认为，到空气补给站要做的其它事情都要比满足这种需求更重要。因为补给站是最主要的社交场所，我们在那里既能获得生命的补给又能获得情感的满足。我们都在家里备有充满空气的肺，可是有人茕茕孑立的时候，打开胸腔更换肺似乎比做家务强不了多少；但是和大伙一起换肺却是一种群体行为，一种共同分享的快乐。

假如有人非常忙碌或者不善交际，他只需要在补给站把一对充满空气的肺安装在自己的身体里，再把空的放在房间的另一边就行了。要是刚刚换过肺的人有些空闲时间的话，他可以把空的肺连接到空气配送机上，重新装满它们，以方便下一个人使用。这个过程很简单，也是一种礼貌的体现。不过最常见的行为显然是在补给站闲逛并享受与人相伴的美好时光，跟朋友或熟人讨论当天的天气，顺便再把刚刚充满的肺提供给和自己交谈的人。尽管从最严格的意义上来说，这也许不能称之为分享空气，因为配送机仅仅是从深埋地下的储气槽连接出来的管道终端，所以大家明白我们的空气来自于同一个源头——伟大的世界之肺、我们的能量之源，不过这样的共识倒使得为他人提供便利成了一种友谊的体现。

很多肺会在第二天回到同一个气体补给站，不过大家出门去附近的地区时，也会有很多肺流通到别的补给站；从外观来看肺都是一样的：光滑的铝质圆柱体，所以人们分辨不出某个特定的肺是一直待在自己家附近还是去过了很远的地方。新闻和闲话随着肺在人和地区间传递。虽然我个人很喜欢旅行，但是通过这样的方式人们不离开家就可以了解到远方的新闻，甚至是那些来自于世界最边缘的新闻。我曾经一直旅行到世界的边缘，亲眼看见坚固的铬墙从地面一直向上延伸进无边的天空。

正是在一座气体补给站我第一次听说了促使我进行调查并导致我最终发现的那些谣言。很简单，事情始于我们区公告员的一番话。按照传统，在每年头一天的中午，公告员要朗诵一段很久以前为这样的年度仪式而创作诗文，这个过程需要整整一个小时的时间。公告员提到，他最近一次朗诵的时候，钟楼在他结束之前就敲响了整点报时的钟声，这可是以前从来没有发生过的事情。另一人说这是一个巧合，因为他刚刚从附近的一个区回来，那里的公告员也对同样的事情提出了抱怨。

没有人过多地思考这件事，只是把它当作看似正常的简单事实。仅仅过了几天，有人再次提到了一个类似的情形，又一位公告员的朗诵与钟楼的时间不符，有人认为这种异常情况也许体现出所有钟楼共有的机械缺陷，比较奇怪的是缺陷导致了时钟变快而不是变慢。钟表匠检查了出现问题的钟楼，但是没有发现任何缺陷。其实，经过与那些在新年庆典中走时正常的钟楼相比较，人们发现这些钟楼后来都一直在准确地计时。

我个人认为这个问题有些蹊跷，然而我的精力过多地集中在自己的研究上面，没法更多地思考别的事情。我一直都是一名解剖学学生，为了提供后来一些事情的背景信息，我先简要介绍一下我与这门学科的联系。

因为我们的生命力旺盛，致命的灾难也不常见，所以死亡很少发生。这是一件幸运的事，然而这令解剖学研究难以进行，尤其是很多非常严重的事故导致的死者的遗体受损，从而不能用于研究。假如充满空气的肺破裂，爆炸的威力可以撕碎我们的金属钛躯体，仿佛那是锡做的一样。过去解剖学家把精力都用来研究四肢，因为这是最有可能完整保留下来的部分。一个世纪之前我上了第一堂解剖课，讲师为我们展示了一条完整的断臂，为了露出里面密集的连杆束和活塞，外壳已经被除去。回想起来，当时的情形我仍然历历在目。讲师把那只手臂的动气管连接至挂在墙上的肺，这是他储存在实验室里备用的，然后他就能操纵从手臂的残端伸出的操纵连杆了，那只手也断断续续地随之张开与合拢。

从那以后，解剖学的发展已经达到了可以将残臂修复的程度，偶尔还能实施断肢再植的手术。同时，我们也开始有能力研究世人的生理学。我也给别人描述过我亲身参与的第一堂解剖课，在描述的同时，我打开自己手臂的外壳，指导学生在我移动手指的时候仔细观察缩短和伸长的连杆。

尽管有了这些发展，在解剖学领域的核心仍然存在一个无法解决的巨大难题：记忆。虽然我们了解一些大脑的结构，但是由于它极其精密复杂，脑生理学研究的艰难尽人皆知。在一些典型的死亡事故中，颅骨被打破，大脑喷出一股金粉，里面除了少量破碎的细丝和箔片几乎没留下什么，留下的东西却一点用处也没有。几十年来关于记忆的主导理论认为，一个人的所有经历都被刻在了金箔上，脑部破裂时气体的冲击力撕碎了这些金箔，形成了后来发现的那些微小碎片。解剖学家收集起这些小块的金片——它们薄得可以透过光线，只不过光的颜色会变绿——花上好些年的努力把碎片拼成原样。他们希望最终能够破译死者最近的经历在金箔上留下的记号。

我不赞同这种所谓的铭刻理论，理由很简单，假如我们的经历真以这种方式被记录下来，为什么记忆是不完整的呢？铭刻理论的鼓吹者为遗忘提出了一种解释——他们说随着时间流逝，金箔会从阅读记忆的探针下面移位，最初的金箔最终会完全移出了记忆探针的触控范围——可我认为这个解释一点儿说服力都没有。不过这一理论所表达的主张对我来说还是很容易理解的，我也曾花很长时间检查显微镜下的金箔碎片，我也曾想象，假如旋转细调旋钮便可清晰地看见符号的轮廓，这将令人多么愉悦啊。

而且不可思议的是，也许死者本人生前就已经遗忘的过去会从他尘封已久的记忆中被揭示出来。我们对于以前的记忆仅限于一百年之内，而文字记录——我们记录事件，但已记不清自己曾有过这样的行为——覆盖的时间只比记忆多几百年。开始用文字记录历史之前我们存在了多少年？我们来自于哪里？从我们的头脑中找出答案才有希望回答这些问题，这就是记忆铭刻理论看上去如此诱人的原因。

我所支持的反对派有这样的看法：我们的记忆存储在某种媒介中，也许是旋转的齿轮，也许是一系列不同状态的开关，清除记忆和保存记忆一样容易。这种理论表明我们忘记的一切确实无法恢复，我们的头脑所承载的历史也不比图书馆中记录的那些久远。缺少空气致死的人更换新肺以后，尽管可以复苏，但他没有了记忆，几乎变成了傻子，这种理论的一个优势就在于它可以更好地解释这种现象：死亡的冲击以某种方式重置了所有的齿轮或开关。记忆铭刻理论的支持者声称，死亡的冲击只不过使金箔发生了移位。不过没有人愿意为了解决争端而去屠戮生命，即使试验的对象是一个傻子。我构想过一个实验，它也许能令我查明最终的真相。不过做这个实验要冒很大的风险，所以要三思而后行。了解到更多有关时钟异常的消息之前，我一直犹豫了很长时间。

从更远的一个区传来消息，那里的公告员也发现了同样的状况，在他完成新年朗诵之前钟楼里响起了正点报时的钟声。令这件事与众不同的是，那座钟楼采用了一种特殊的机构，它用流进碗里的水银计时。这样的话时间差异就不能用那种共同的机械故障来解释了。大多数人认为这是一个骗局，某个捣蛋鬼耍的恶作剧。我却有一个不同的观点，它更加悲观，我都不敢说出来，不过它坚定了我的初衷。我要进行我的实验。

我制作的第一件工具最简单：我将四块棱镜平行安放在支架上并仔细地调整它们，使它们截面上等腰直角三角形的顶点位于一个矩形的四角。这样，水平射入一块下层棱镜的光线会向上反射，再经过另外三块棱镜的反射，光线会沿着一个四边形环路回到原点。所以，当我坐下来，使眼睛和第一块棱镜等高，我就能看到自己的后脑。这具自我观察潜望镜为将来所要做的一切打下了基础。

移动以类似方式排列的调整杆便可以调整潜望镜的视场。这一组调整杆要比潜望镜的大得多，不过在设计上还是相当简单的。相对而言，最后我又分别在这些工具上安装的设备要更加精密。我为潜望镜添加了一台双筒显微镜，安放在可以上下左右转动的支架上，我还为操纵杆配备了一批可以精确操纵的机械手，不过这样描述对机械师的工艺杰作实在有失公允。机械手结合了解剖学家的灵巧和他们所研究的身体结构带来的启发，操作者能够使用它们代替自己的双手，甚至是完成更加精密复杂的工作。

把这套设备全部组装完成花去了几个月的时间，但是我必须小心谨慎。准备工作一完成，我就可以将双手放在一套旋钮和控制杆上，操纵一对安放在我脑后的机械手，并用潜望镜观察它们的操作对象。接下来我就能解剖自己的大脑了。

我知道，这样的想法听上去十分疯狂，要是我讲给同事的话，他们一定会极力阻止我的。但是我不能让别人冒着受伤害的危险充当我的解剖实验对象，既然打算一个人实施解剖，我就不会满足于在这个过程中仅仅被动地充当解剖对象。自我解剖是唯一的选择。我弄来一打充满空气的肺，把它们连在一个汇流管上并安放在工作台的下方。我将坐在那里工作。为了将其直接连接在我胸腔内的支气管入口，我又安装了一个分配器。这些设备将为我提供可以使用六天的空气。考虑到我也可能在这段时间里完不成实验，我预约了一位同事在实验结束时来我家做客。不过我推测，决定我在这段时间能否完成实验的唯一因素就是我是否会在实验中死亡。

我首先取下了位于头顶和后脑的大弧度金属外壳，接下来是两块弧度稍小一些的侧面外壳，只有我的脸没有取下来，不过它固定在一个约束支架上，即使能通过潜望镜观察到后面，我也无法看清它的内表面。我看到自己的大脑暴露出来，它由十几个部分组成，外面覆着造型精致的外壳。我把潜望镜移到了将大脑一分为二的裂缝跟前，在迫切的渴望中瞥见了脑部件内部惊人的机械结构。就算是我看到的内容不多，我也能断定这是我见过的最具美感的复杂机械，超越了我们制造的一切，毫无疑问它具有非凡的起源。眼前的一幕令我兴奋得不知所措。我又严格从美学角度出发，品味了好几分钟，然后才继续进行探索。

一般的猜测认为大脑的结构是这样划分的：一台引擎位于头部的中心，实现现实认知，环绕在它周围的是一系列存储记忆的部件。我的观察结果与这个理论一致，因为外围部件似乎相互类似，而位于中心的部件却不大一样，它更加奇怪，而且活动的部分也更多。然而这些部件安装的十分密集，我无法看清它们是如何运作的。如果我要更深入地研究，我就得更近一步观察。

每个部件都有一个专属的空气储备器，从大脑基部的调节阀伸出的软管为它补充空气。我把潜望镜对准了最后边的那个部件，利用遥控机械手，迅速取下输气软管并装了一根更长的软管。为了在极短的时间内完成这个动作，我曾练习了无数次。即便如此，我也不确定自己能否在这个部件耗尽它自己的空气储备之前完成连接。确认了部件的运转没有被我打断之后，我才继续往下进行。我重新整理了一下较长的软管，然后便可以更清楚地看到刚刚被它挡住的那个裂缝里有些什么：连接这个部件与相邻部件的其它软管。我操纵最纤细的一对机械手伸进那道狭窄的缝隙，一个接一个地用较长的软管替换原来的软管。最后，我完成了整个部件上的工作，它与大脑其它部分的每一条连接管路都被我更换了。这样我就可以从支撑结构上拆下它并把整个单元从原本的后脑那里取下来了。

我知道这样做有可能在不知不觉中消弱我的思维能力，进行的几项基础算术测试表明我的思维没有问题。一个部件已经挂在上边的架子上，此时我可以更清楚地观察大脑中央的认知引擎，不过，要将附加的显微镜伸进去进行细致的观察，空间还不够。为了能够彻底弄清楚大脑的工作原理，我至少得取下六个外围部件。

我为每个部件更换了软管，这项重复的工作需要极大的精力和耐心。我从后边又取下一个部件，从顶部取下两个，从两个侧面各取下一个，然后把所有的六个都挂在了头顶的架子上。我完成时的情形看上去就像是爆炸一秒钟之后某个极短瞬间的再现。考虑到这些，我再一次感到震惊。不过，认知引擎终于显露出来，从我躯干伸出的一束软管和操纵连杆在下边撑着它，我也终于可以将显微镜旋转到任意的角度并观察拆卸下来的组件的内表面了。

我一面凝视此情此景，一面问自己，我的身体都包含些什么？房间里用来帮助我观察和操作的管子基本上类似于把我的眼睛和双手同大脑连接起来的软管。在实验过程中，这些机械手从本质上来说不正是我的双手吗？潜望镜末端的显微镜头实际上不也是我的双眼吗？作为一个得到了扩展的个体，我的微不足道的身体充当了中央的超大脑。就是以这种不可思议的配合，我开始了探索自我的旅程。

我把显微镜转向了一个记忆单元，开始检查它的结构。我没指望自己能解开记忆之谜，只想着我也许能推测出记忆存储的方式。如我所料，那里根本就没有用来记录的大片金箔，不过令我惊讶的是成排的齿轮和开关也不存在。相反，里面的部件几乎就只有一排的空气管。透过空气管之间的缝隙，我隐约看见这个存储单元的内部在泛着涟漪。

经过仔细的观察和不断增加显微镜的放大倍率，我发现空气管分生出微小的毛细管，与毛细管交织在一起的是一张由金属丝编织成的致密的格子网，网上挂着金质的叶片。毛细管逸出的气流使叶片各自保持着不同的状态，它们不是传统意义上的开关，因为没有气流的帮助它们就无法维持自身的状态。但是我猜这些叶片就是我所寻求的开关，存储记忆的媒介。我看到的涟漪一定就是回忆的表现：叶片的排列方式被读取出来并传送回识别引擎。

拥有了这样全新的理解，我就可以再将显微镜对准识别引擎了。在那里我也观察到了金属丝网格，不过上边承载的金叶没有固定在哪个状态，而是在迅速地前后扑动，快得我几乎都看不清。实际上，整个引擎似乎都在运转，它所包含的网格多于输送空气的毛细管，我奇怪空气如何能连续不断地吹动所有的金叶。我对叶片进行了好几个小时的仔细观察才发现，它们自身也起到了毛细管的作用，叶片组成临时的管道和瓣膜，在短暂的时间里使气流转向，依次吹向其它的叶片，最后管道和瓣膜还会消失。这是一台连续变化的引擎，它的一部分作用其实就是改变自身，网格结构还算不上一台真正的机械，因为它相当于一张纸，识别引擎不停在上面书写。

可以这么说，我的意识被编码成这些微小叶片的状态，不过更准确的描述是不断改变方向并驱动叶片的气流。看着这些不停摆动的金叶，我明白了空气不像我们通常所想的那样，仅仅为实现思维的引擎提供动力。其实，空气恰恰就是我们思维的媒介。我们的思维就是一种气流的模式。我的记忆被记录下来，不是通过金箔上的刻痕甚至开关的位置，而是依靠持续不断的氩气流。

我领悟了这种网格结构的性质之后，一系列结论接二连三地反映在我的脑海里。第一个也是最普通的一个，我明白了为什么造就大脑的唯一成分是金这种最具延展性和韧性的金属。只有最薄的叶片才能满足这种机制对于移动速度的要求，只有最精致的细丝才能充当叶片的转轴。我用笔在铜板上刻下这些文字时会产生一些铜屑，每刻完一页，我就会把它们扫下来，相比之下，这些铜屑简直就是粗糙笨重废料。只有金质媒介才能实现记忆的快速擦除和存储，而且比任何开关或齿轮的组合要快得多。

接下来我明白了为什么缺少空气致死的人在安装充满空气的肺之后仍然无法恢复生命。持续的气流形成气垫，使网格结构中的叶片在它们之间维持平衡状态，也使得它们来回的摆动非常迅速。这也就意味着，一旦气流停止，一切就都丢失了，所有的叶片都垂下来，呈现同样的悬挂状态，它们所代表的思维模式和意识都被擦除了。恢复空气供应无法复原失去的一切。这也是速度的代价，存储思维模式的媒介越稳定，意识运作的速度就越缓慢。

随后我明查清了时钟异常的原因所在。我看出叶片移动的速度取决于吹向它们的空气，充足的气流几乎可以使叶片无摩擦地移动，要是它们移动得比较缓慢，那时因为它们受制于较大的摩擦力，只有在支撑它们的空气垫比较薄和吹过网格的气流比较弱时才会出现这种情况。

钟楼的时间没有变快，其实是我们的头脑变慢了。钟摆驱动钟楼的节拍从不会改变，流过管子的水银也没有加快速度，但是我们的大脑依赖空气的流动，空气流动得越慢，我们的思维就越慢，从而使我们觉得时钟变快了。

我曾害怕我们的头脑可能会变得缓慢，正是这样的担心激励着我进行自我解剖。然而我认为我们的识别引擎——尽管由空气驱动——最终的本质还是机械式的，这台机器的某个部分会逐渐疲劳变形，从而造成速度减慢。这本来是一件可怕的事，不过至少我们还有希望能修复这台机器，把我们的大脑恢复到它最初的速度。

然而，要是我们的思维纯粹是气流的模式，而不是齿轮的运动，这个问题就严重得多了，有什么因素可能导致流经每个人大脑的气流变慢呢？不可能是气体补给站的配送器压力降低所致。我们肺部的气压特别高，所以空气必须经过一系列的调节阀降压后才送到大脑。我觉得思维能力的减弱一定源于反方面的因素：我们的环境气压在升高。

怎么可能呢？这个问题一出现，唯一可能的答案也变得明确了：我们天空的高度一定是有限的。在我们目力所及的范围之外，环绕我们这个世界铬墙向内倾斜，形成一个穹顶；我们的宇宙如同一座密室，而不是一口开放的井。空气逐渐在密室中积累，直到气压与地下气槽中的相同。在这篇铭文最初，我说空气不是生命之源，这就是原因所在。空气即不会创生，也不会消失，宇宙中的空气总量保持恒定。假如我们的生命只需要空气，那么我们永远不会死。然而真正的生命之源是气压差，空气从稠密的地方流向稀疏的地方。我们的思维和活动，以及我们所造的每一台机器的运转都是靠流动的空气来驱动的，不同压力间的相互平衡产生了这种动力。一旦宇宙间各处的压力达到相同，所有的空气将不再流动，变得毫无价值。总有一天，我们将被静止的空气所围绕，无法从中获得半点能量。

其实我们消耗的不是空气。每天我从新换的肺中获取的空气完全从我的肢关节和身体外壳逸出，就是说这些空气被我排放到身体周围的大气中。我只是把高压的空气转换成低压的空气。我身体的每一个动作都对宇宙气压的平衡起到了推波助澜的作用，我所考虑的每一个想法，都加速了那个末日的到来。

要是我在其它的场合认识到这一点的话，我会从椅子上一跃而起、冲到大街上。但是以我现在的情形——身体锁在固定支架上，大脑四处悬挂在实验室里——这么做是不可能的。我能看见自己喧嚣的思维引发大脑中的叶片飞速运动，这反而又增长了我对这种约束状态的不安。在这样的时刻恐慌起来可能会导致死亡，就如同被困在梦魇中的同时不由自主地扭动身体，挣扎着对抗的束缚，直到空气用尽。出于偶然，我的手碰到用于调整的控制端，把潜望镜的视场从网格结构转向了工作台的平面，不过这正和我意。不用再观察自己经过放大的恐慌心理，我也得以平静下来。我又恢复镇定之后，便又开始了组装自我的冗长过程。最后我把大脑恢复到初始的紧凑结构，装好脑壳，然后从固定支架上解脱出来。

起初我给别的解剖学家讲述我的发现时，他们不相信我。不过，在我进行自我解剖实验之后的几个月里，他们中越来越多的人相信了我。人们对大脑又进行了一些检查，对大气压力实施了多次测量，结果都证实了我的断言。我们这座宇宙的背景气压的确在升高，从而减缓了我们的思维速度。

这个真相被广泛了解之后，恐慌开始大范围传播，这是因为人们第一次审视“死亡不可避免”这个想法。为了抑制我们的大气变得稠密，很多人号召严格减少活动，对于浪费空气的谴责逐渐升级为愤怒的谩骂，甚至在有些区，出现了死刑惩罚。考虑到许多世纪之后我们的大气压才会同地下气槽中相同，恐慌平息下来，因此死亡的惩罚也就令人蒙羞。我们不确定这个过程到底要经历多少个世纪，有人在进行和讨论进一步的测量和计算。同时，大家开始广泛地讨论，我们应该如何度过余下的时间。

有一个团体致力于实现逆转气压平衡并发展了许多信徒。他们之中的机械师制造了一台机器，它从大气中获取空气，用外力使之体积变小。他们将这个过程称之为“压缩。”机器把空气恢复到储气槽的气压，那些逆转主义者兴奋地宣布这为一种新型补给站的建造打下了基础，这种补给站——和它填充的每一个肺——不仅为个人赋予了新生，而且也激活的整座宇宙。唉！仔细检查一下这台机器你就会发下它致命的缺陷，机器本身由储气槽中的空气提供动力，充满一个肺要消耗的更多一点空气。它不能逆转气压平衡，反而和世上万物一样，只能加剧这个过程。

尽管他们的一些信徒在这样的挫败之后幻想破灭，但是逆转主义者作为一个团体却没有踌躇不前，而是提出新的设计，用展开的发条或落下的重物为为压缩机提供动力。机械师没有获得更好的结果，每一根旋紧的发条都意味着上发条的人要释放空气，每一个高于地平面的重物都表示举起它的人要释放空气。在这座宇宙中，所有的动力源最终都由气压差产生，总而言之，没有什么机器的操作能增大气压差。

逆转主义者继续从事他们的工作，他们确信总有一天会造出一台机器，使产生的压缩空气比消耗的多，那将是一个永恒的动力源，补充着宇宙失去的生命力。我不像他们那么乐观，我相信气压趋于平衡的过程是不可动摇的。我们宇宙中所有的空气最终会均匀分布，不会有哪个地方更稠密或更稀疏，活塞无法驱动，旋翼无法转动，就连头脑中的金叶都不再运动，气压消失、动力枯竭、思维凝固，宇宙达到彻底的平衡。

有人会对这样的情况感到讽刺，我们的脑研究没有为我们揭示过去的秘密，反而展现了我们最终将走向怎样的未来。然而我坚持认为，我们其实了解到一些有关过去的重要事实。宇宙的开端仿佛是深吸一口气，然后屏住了呼吸。没人知道为什么，然而不管原因如何，我很高兴宇宙以这样的形式诞生，因为我的存在也要归因于此。我所有的欲望和沉思正是我们的宇宙缓缓呼出的气流。在这漫长的呼气结束之前，我的思维将一直存在。

所以我们的思维也许会尽可能地被延长，解剖学家和机械师们正在研制脑部调节阀的替代品，作用是逐渐提高大脑内的气压，使它保持高于环境的气压差。一旦这种阀安装到体内，即使我们的周围的空气变得稠密起来，我们的思维速度大体上也会保持不变。可是这并不意味着生活不会改变，气压差最终会降低到令我们的肢体虚弱、行动迟缓的地步。到那时我们也许得减缓自己思维，这样身体的迟钝才不那么明显，不过这还是会导致外界的一些过程看上去像是在加速。随着钟摆疯狂地摆动，嘀嗒的时钟好像变成了叫个不休的鸟儿，坠向地面的物体似乎受到了弹簧的推动，舞动的绳索仿佛成了噼啪作响的皮鞭。

我们的肢体将在某个时刻完全停止活动，我无法确定末日临近时各种问题出现的正确顺序，但是我想情况会是这样：我们的思维将继续运作，所以我们像雕像一样无法动弹的同时还保留着意识。也许可以说话的时间还要更长一些，因为我们的声匣工作时需要的气压要比肢体小。但是由于无法前往气体补给站，每次讲话都会消耗思维所需的空气，思维完全停止的结局就离我们更近了一步。为了延长思维能力而保持沉默和在交谈中走向最后的终结，哪个选择更好一些呢？我不知道。

在我们停止活动的前几天里，也许有一些人可以将大脑调节阀直接连在补给站的配送机上，其实就是用伟大的世界之肺代替了自己的肺。要是这样的话，那些人直到气压完全平衡的最后一刻都能够保持清醒。我们这座宇宙中所剩的最后一丝气压也将在驱动一个人思考的过程中消耗殆尽。

随后，我们的宇宙将进入绝对平衡的状态，所有的生命和思维都将停止，时间也因此而失去意义。

不过我还怀有一点渺茫的希望。

尽管我们的宇宙是封闭的，不过在无穷大的固体铬中它也许不是唯一的气室。我推测别处可能还有一个，不同于我们的另外一个，甚至体积更大呢。这个假想的宇宙可能有跟我们一样或者更高的气压，然而，假如它的气压比我们的更低甚至是绝对的真空呢？

把我们同那个假想宇宙分隔开的金属铬厚得我们都无法钻透，所以我们不能凭借自身力量到达那里，也就没办法从我们的宇宙中释放掉过剩的大气并以这种方式重新获得动力。但是我想象这个宇宙邻居有它自己的居民，他们的能力超过了我们。假如他们可以在两个宇宙间开拓出一条管道，并安上阀门从我们这里向那边释放空气，那我们该怎么办？他们可以把我们的宇宙当作储气槽，开动配送机充满他们的肺，用我们的空气发展他们的文明。

为我提供动力的空气还能驱动别人，助我刻下这些文字的空气有一天会流过别人的身体，一想到这些我就感到欣慰。我没有欺骗自己，认为这会是我再生的方式，因为我不是那些空气，我只是空气流动模式的体现。

然而我还怀有更加渺茫的希望：另外那个宇宙的居民不仅把我们的宇宙当作储气槽，而且一旦用尽了这里的空气，他们哪天也许能开辟出一条通道，亲自来我们的宇宙探险。他们可能会在我们的街道上徜徉、观察我们僵硬的身体、研究我们的财产、惊异于我们的生命。

我作这篇说明的原因即在于此。我希望你就是其中的一位探险者，我希望你发现这些铜板并破译表面上的文字。不论你们的大脑是否由我思考时消耗的空气所驱动，通过阅读我的文字，你的思维模式就模拟了我曾经的思维模式。以这种方式，我从你身上获得了新生。

你的探险者同伴们将会读到我们留下的其它书籍，通过你们合力思考，我的整个文明重获新生。当你们走在我们寂静的街道上，想象着这里曾经的样子，钟楼鸣响，补给站里到处都是闲聊的邻里，公告员在公共广场朗诵诗文，解剖学家教室里上课。下一次你观察周围这个静止的世界时想象一下我描述的这一切，这样它就会在你的脑海里重新变得充满活力、生机勃勃。

探险者，我希望你一切顺利，不过我怀疑，降临在我们身上的命运会不会同样也在等待着你们？我能想象得出平衡的趋势不仅仅是我们这个宇宙才有的特征，而是所有宇宙的内在性质。也许我的目光短浅，而你们的人已经发现了一个真正永恒的压力之源。然而我的思索已经是异想天开，我会假设你们的思维有一天也会停止，不过我无法弄清那将是在多远的未来。你们的生命将和我们的一样终结，没有人能逃脱。不管需要多久，最终的平衡一定会达成。

我希望你不要因为知道了这样的结局就感到悲哀，希望你们的探险不仅仅是搜索充当储气槽的其它宇宙，还希望你们是在求知欲的激发下，渴望见识宇宙呼出一口气能产生什么。因为即使一座宇宙的寿命可以预测出来，宇宙中生命的多样性却无法统计。我们盖起的建筑，我们创作的美术、音乐和诗句，我们各自的生命：没有一个可以预测，因为这些都不是必然的。我们的宇宙在滑向平衡点的过程中也许只能静静地呼气，而它繁衍出我们这个丰富多彩的世界却是个奇迹，只有诞生了你们的宇宙才能与之媲美。

探险者，尽管你读到这里的时候我去世已久，但我还是要送你一句临别赠言。仔细想想，得以存在便是一个奇迹，能够思考就是一件乐事。我觉得我有权告诉你这一点，因为在刻下这些文字的同时，我就是这样想的。

（耿辉译）

原载于《科幻世界译文版》2009年11期

Exhalation

by Ted Chiang

It has long been said that air (which others call argon) is the source of life. This is not in fact the case, and I engrave these words to describe how I came to understand the true source of life and, as a corollary, the means by which life will one day end.

For most of history, the proposition that we drew life from air was so obvious that there was no need to assert it. Every day we consume two lungs heavy with air; every day we remove the empty ones from our chest and replace them with full ones. If a person is careless and lets his air level run too low, he feels the heaviness of his limbs and the growing need for replenishment. It is exceedingly rare that a person is unable to get at least one replacement lung before his installed pair runs empty; on those unfortunate occasions where this has happened—when a person is trapped and unable to move, with no one nearby to assist him—he dies within seconds of his air running out.

But in the normal course of life, our need for air is far from our thoughts, and indeed many would say that satisfying that need is the least important part of going to the filling stations. For the filling stations are the primary venue for social conversation, the places from which we draw emotional sustenance as well as physical. We all keep spare sets of full lungs in our homes, but when one is alone, the act of opening one’s chest and replacing one’s lungs can seem little better than a chore. In the company of others, however, it becomes a communal activity, a shared pleasure.

If one is exceedingly busy, or feeling unsociable, one might simply pick up a pair of full lungs, install them, and leave one’s emptied lungs on the other side of the room. If one has a few minutes to spare, it’s simple courtesy to connect the empty lungs to an air dispenser and refill them for the next person. But by far the most common practice is to linger and enjoy the company of others, to discuss the news of the day with friends or acquaintances and, in passing, offer newly filled lungs to one’s interlocutor. While this perhaps does not constitute air sharing in the strictest sense, there is camaraderie derived from the awareness that all our air comes from the same source, for the dispensers are but the exposed terminals of pipes extending from the reservoir of air deep underground, the great lung of the world, the source of all our nourishment.

Many lungs are returned to the same filling station the next day, but just as many circulate to other stations when people visit neighboring districts; the lungs are all identical in appearance, smooth cylinders of aluminum, so one cannot tell whether a given lung has always stayed close to home or whether it has traveled long distances. And just as lungs are passed between persons and districts, so are news and gossip. In this way one can receive news from remote districts, even those at the very edge of the world, without needing to leave home, although I myself enjoy traveling. I have journeyed all the way to the edge of the world, and seen the solid chromium wall that extends from the ground up into the infinite sky.

It was at one of the filling stations that I first heard the rumors that prompted my investigation and led to my eventual enlightenment. It began innocently enough, with a remark from our district’s public crier. At noon of the first day of every year, it is traditional for the crier to recite a passage of verse, an ode composed long ago for this annual celebration, which takes exactly one hour to deliver. The crier mentioned that on his most recent performance, the turret clock struck the hour before he had finished, something that had never happened before. Another person remarked that this was a coincidence, because he had just returned from a nearby district where the public crier had complained of the same incongruity.

No one gave the matter much thought beyond the simple acknowledgement that seemed warranted. It was only some days later, when there arrived word of a similar deviation between the crier and the clock of a third district, that the suggestion was made that these discrepancies might be evidence of a defect in the mechanism common to all the turret clocks, albeit a curious one to cause the clocks to run faster rather than slower. Horologists investigated the turret clocks in question, but on inspection they could discern no imperfection. In fact, when compared against the timepieces normally employed for such calibration purposes, the turret clocks were all found to have resumed keeping perfect time.

I myself found the question somewhat intriguing, but I was too focused on my own studies to devote much thought to other matters. I was and am a student of anatomy, and to provide context for my subsequent actions, I now offer a brief account of my relationship with the field.

Death is uncommon, fortunately, because we are durable and fatal mishaps are rare, but it makes difficult the study of anatomy, especially since many of the accidents serious enough to cause death leave the deceased’s remains too damaged for study. If lungs are ruptured when full, the explosive force can tear a body asunder, ripping the titanium as easily as if it were tin. In the past, anatomists focused their attention on the limbs, which were the most likely to survive intact. During the very first anatomy lecture I attended a century ago, the lecturer showed us a severed arm, the casing removed to reveal the dense column of rods and pistons within. I can vividly recall the way, after he had connected its arterial hoses to a wall-mounted lung he kept in the laboratory, he was able to manipulate the actuating rods that protruded from the arm’s ragged base, and in response the hand would open and close fitfully.

In the intervening years, our field has advanced to the point where anatomists are able to repair damaged limbs and, on occasion, attach a severed limb. At the same time we have become capable of studying the physiology of the living; I have given a version of that first lecture I saw, during which I opened the casing of my own arm and directed my students’ attention to the rods that contracted and extended when I wiggled my fingers.

Despite these advances, the field of anatomy still had a great unsolved mystery at its core: the question of memory. While we knew a little about the structure of the brain, its physiology is notoriously hard to study because of the brain’s extreme delicacy. It is typically the case in fatal accidents that, when the skull is breached, the brain erupts in a cloud of gold, leaving little besides shredded filament and leaf from which nothing useful can be discerned. For decades the prevailing theory of memory was that all of a person’s experiences were engraved on sheets of gold foil; it was these sheets, torn apart by the force of the blast, that was the source of the tiny flakes found after accidents. Anatomists would collect the bits of gold leaf—so thin that light passes greenly through them—and spend years trying to reconstruct the original sheets, with the hope of eventually deciphering the symbols in which the deceased’s recent experiences were inscribed.

I did not subscribe to this theory, known as the inscription hypothesis, for the simple reason that if all our experiences are in fact recorded, why is it that our memories are incomplete? Advocates of the inscription hypothesis offered an explanation for forgetfulness—suggesting that over time the foil sheets become misaligned from the stylus which reads the memories, until the oldest sheets shift out of contact with it altogether—but I never found it convincing. The appeal of the theory was easy for me to appreciate, though; I too had devoted many an hour to examining flakes of gold through a microscope, and can imagine how gratifying it would be to turn the fine adjustment knob and see legible symbols come into focus.

More than that, how wonderful would it be to decipher the very oldest of a deceased person’s memories, ones that he himself had forgotten? None of us can remember much more than a hundred years in the past, and written records—accounts that we ourselves inscribed but have scant memory of doing so—extend only a few hundred years before that. How many years did we live before the beginning of written history? Where did we come from? It is the promise of finding the answers within our own brains that makes the inscription hypothesis so seductive.

I was a proponent of the competing school of thought, which held that our memories were stored in some medium in which the process of erasure was no more difficult than recording: perhaps in the rotation of gears, or the positions of a series of switches. This theory implied that everything we had forgotten was indeed lost, and our brains contained no histories older than those found in our libraries. One advantage of this theory was that it better explained why, when lungs are installed in those who have died from lack of air, the revived have no memories and are all but mindless: somehow the shock of death had reset all the gears or switches. The inscriptionists claimed the shock had merely misaligned the foil sheets, but no one was willing to kill a living person, even an imbecile, in order to resolve the debate. I had envisioned an experiment which might allow me to determine the truth conclusively, but it was a risky one, and deserved careful consideration before it was undertaken. I remained undecided for the longest time, until I heard more news about the clock anomaly.

Word arrived from a more distant district that its public crier had likewise observed the turret clock striking the hour before he had finished his new year’s recital. What made this notable was that his district’s clock employed a different mechanism, one in which the hours were marked by the flow of mercury into a bowl. Here the discrepancy could not be explained by a common mechanical fault. Most people suspected fraud, a practical joke perpetrated by mischief makers. I had a different suspicion, a darker one that I dared not voice, but it decided my course of action; I would proceed with my experiment.

The first tool I constructed was the simplest: in my laboratory I fixed four prisms on mounting brackets and carefully aligned them so that their apexes formed the corners of a rectangle. When arranged thus, a beam of light directed at one of the lower prisms was reflected up, then backward, then down, and then forward again in a quadrilateral loop. Accordingly, when I sat with my eyes at the level of the first prism, I obtained a clear view of the back of my own head. This solipsistic periscope formed the basis of all that was to come.

A similarly rectangular arrangement of actuating rods allowed a displacement of action to accompany the displacement of vision afforded by the prisms. The bank of actuating rods was much larger than the periscope, but still relatively straightforward in design; by contrast, what was attached to the end of these respective mechanisms was far more intricate. To the periscope I added a binocular microscope mounted on an armature capable of swiveling side to side or up and down. To the actuating rods I added an array of precision manipulators, although that description hardly does justice to those pinnacles of the mechanician’s art. Combining the ingenuity of anatomists and the inspiration provided by the bodily structures they studied, the manipulators enabled their operator to accomplish any task he might normally perform with his own hands, but on a much smaller scale.

Assembling all of this equipment took months, but I could not afford to be anything less than meticulous. Once the preparations were complete, I was able to place each of my hands on a nest of knobs and levers and control a pair of manipulators situated behind my head, and use the periscope to see what they worked on. I would then be able to dissect my own brain.

The very idea must sound like pure madness, I know, and had I told any of my colleagues, they would surely have tried to stop me. But I could not ask anyone else to risk themselves for the sake of anatomical inquiry, and because I wished to conduct the dissection myself, I would not be satisfied by merely being the passive subject of such an operation. Auto-dissection was the only option.

I brought in a dozen full lungs and connected them with a manifold. I mounted this assembly beneath the worktable that I would sit at, and positioned a dispenser to connect directly to the bronchial inlets within my chest. This would supply me with six days’ worth of air. To provide for the possibility that I might not have completed my experiment within that period, I had scheduled a visit from a colleague at the end of that time. My presumption, however, was that the only way I would not have finished the operation in that period would be if I had caused my own death.

I began by removing the deeply curved plate that formed the back and top of my head; then the two, more shallowly curved plates that formed the sides. Only my faceplate remained, but it was locked into a restraining bracket, and I could not see its inner surface from the vantage point of my periscope; what I saw exposed was my own brain. It consisted of a dozen or more subassemblies, whose exteriors were covered by intricately molded shells; by positioning the periscope near the fissures that separated them, I gained a tantalizing glimpse at the fabulous mechanisms within their interiors. Even with what little I could see, I could tell it was the most beautifully complex engine I had ever beheld, so far beyond any device man had constructed that it was incontrovertibly of divine origin. The sight was both exhilarating and dizzying, and I savored it on a strictly aesthetic basis for several minutes before proceeding with my explorations.

It was generally hypothesized that the brain was divided into an engine located in the center of the head which performed the actual cognition, surrounded by an array of components in which memories were stored. What I observed was consistent with this theory, since the peripheral subassemblies seemed to resemble one another, while the subassembly in the center appeared to be different, more heterogenous and with more moving parts. However the components were packed too closely for me to see much of their operation; if I intended to learn anything more, I would require a more intimate vantage point.

Each subassembly had a local reservoir of air, fed by a hose extending from the regulator at the base of my brain. I focused my periscope on the rearmost subassembly and, using the remote manipulators, I quickly disconnected the outlet hose and installed a longer one in its place. I had practiced this maneuver countless times so that I could perform it in a matter of moments; even so, I was not certain I could complete the connection before the subassembly had depleted its local reservoir. Only after I was satisfied that the component’s operation had not been interrupted did I continue; I rearranged the longer hose to gain a better view of what lay in the fissure behind it: other hoses that connected it to its neighboring components. Using the most slender pair of manipulators to reach into the narrow crevice, I replaced the hoses one by one with longer substitutes. Eventually, I had worked my way around the entire subassembly and replaced every connection it had to the rest of my brain. I was now able to unmount this subassembly from the frame that supported it, and pull the entire section outside of what was once the back of my head.

I knew it was possible I had impaired my capacity to think and was unable to recognize it, but performing some basic arithmetic tests suggested that I was uninjured. With one subassembly hanging from a scaffold above, I now had a better view of the cognition engine at the center of my brain, but there was not enough room to bring the microscope attachment itself in for a close inspection. In order for me to really examine the workings of my brain, I would have to displace at least half a dozen subassemblies.

Laboriously, painstakingly, I repeated the procedure of substituting hoses for other subassemblies, repositioning another one farther back, two more higher up, and two others out to the sides, suspending all six from the scaffold above my head. When I was done, my brain looked like an explosion frozen an infinitesimal fraction of a second after the detonation, and again I felt dizzy when I thought about it. But at last the cognition engine itself was exposed, supported on a pillar of hoses and actuating rods leading down into my torso. I now also had room to rotate my microscope around a full three hundred and sixty degrees, and pass my gaze across the inner faces of the subassemblies I had moved. What I saw was a microcosm of auric machinery, a landscape of tiny spinning rotors and miniature reciprocating cylinders.

As I contemplated this vista, I wondered, where was my body? The conduits which displaced my vision and action around the room were in principle no different from those which connected my original eyes and hands to my brain. For the duration of this experiment, were these manipulators not essentially my hands? Were the magnifying lenses at the end of my periscope not essentially my eyes? I was an everted person, with my tiny, fragmented body situated at the center of my own distended brain. It was in this unlikely configuration that I began to explore myself.

I turned my microscope to one of the memory subassemblies, and began examining its design. I had no expectation that I would be able to decipher my memories, only that I might divine the means by which they were recorded. As I had predicted, there were no reams of foil pages visible, but to my surprise neither did I see banks of gearwheels or switches. Instead, the subassembly seemed to consist almost entirely of a bank of air tubules. Through the interstices between the tubules I was able to glimpse ripples passing through the bank’s interior.

With careful inspection and increasing magnification, I discerned that the tubules ramified into tiny air capillaries, which were interwoven with a dense latticework of wires on which gold leaves were hinged. Under the influence of air escaping from the capillaries, the leaves were held in a variety of positions. These were not switches in the conventional sense, for they did not retain their position without a current of air to support them, but I hypothesized that these were the switches I had sought, the medium in which my memories were recorded. The ripples I saw must have been acts of recall, as an arrangement of leaves was read and sent back to the cognition engine.

Armed with this new understanding, I then turned my microscope to the cognition engine. Here too I observed a latticework of wires, but they did not bear leaves suspended in position; instead the leaves flipped back and forth almost too rapidly to see. Indeed, almost the entire engine appeared to be in motion, consisting more of lattice than of air capillaries, and I wondered how air could reach all the gold leaves in a coherent manner. For many hours I scrutinized the leaves, until I realized that they themselves were playing the role of capillaries; the leaves formed temporary conduits and valves that existed just long enough to redirect air at other leaves in turn, and then disappeared as a result. This was an engine undergoing continuous transformation, indeed modifying itself as part of its operation. The lattice was not so much a machine as it was a page on which the machine was written, and on which the machine itself ceaselessly wrote.

My consciousness could be said to be encoded in the position of these tiny leaves, but it would be more accurate to say that it was encoded in the ever-shifting pattern of air driving these leaves. Watching the oscillations of these flakes of gold, I saw that air does not, as we had always assumed, simply provide power to the engine that realizes our thoughts. Air is in fact the very medium of our thoughts. All that we are is a pattern of air flow. My memories were inscribed, not as grooves on foil or even the position of switches, but as persistent currents of argon.

In the moments after I grasped the nature of this lattice mechanism, a cascade of insights penetrated my consciousness in rapid succession. The first and most trivial was understanding why gold, the most malleable and ductile of metals, was the only material out of which our brains could be made. Only the thinnest of foil leaves could move rapidly enough for such a mechanism, and only the most delicate of filaments could act as hinges for them. By comparison, the copper burr raised by my stylus as I engrave these words and brushed from the sheet when I finish each page is as coarse and heavy as scrap. This truly was a medium where erasing and recording could be performed rapidly, far more so than any arrangement of switches or gears.

What next became clear was why installing full lungs into a person who has died from lack of air does not bring him back to life. These leaves within the lattice remain balanced between continuous cushions of air. This arrangement lets them flit back and forth swiftly, but it also means that if the flow of air ever ceases, everything is lost; the leaves all collapse into identical pendent states, erasing the patterns and the consciousness they represent. Restoring the air supply cannot recreate what has evanesced. This was the price of speed; a more stable medium for storing patterns would mean that our consciousnesses would operate far more slowly.

It was then that I perceived the solution to the clock anomaly. I saw that the speed of these leaves’ movements depended on their being supported by air; with sufficient air flow, the leaves could move nearly frictionlessly. If they were moving more slowly, it was because they were being subjected to more friction, which could occur only if the cushions of air that supported them were thinner, and the air flowing through the lattice was moving with less force.

It is not that the turret clocks are running faster. What is happening is that our brains are running slower. The turret clocks are driven by pendulums, whose tempo never varies, or by the flow of mercury through a pipe, which does not change. But our brains rely on the passage of air, and when that air flows more slowly, our thoughts slow down, making the clocks seem to us to run faster.

I had feared that our brains might be growing slower, and it was this prospect that had spurred me to pursue my auto-dissection. But I had assumed that our cognition engines—while powered by air—were ultimately mechanical in nature, and some aspect of the mechanism was gradually becoming deformed through fatigue, and thus responsible for the slowing. That would have been dire, but there was at least the hope that we might be able to repair the mechanism, and restore our brains to their original speed of operation.

But if our thoughts were purely patterns of air rather than the movement of toothed gears, the problem was much more serious, for what could cause the air flowing through every person’s brain to move less rapidly? It could not be a decrease in the pressure from our filling stations’ dispensers; the air pressure in our lungs is so high that it must be stepped down by a series of regulators before reaching our brains. The diminution in force, I saw, must arise from the opposite direction: the pressure of our surrounding atmosphere was increasing.

How could this be? As soon as the question formed, the only possible answer became apparent: our sky must not be infinite in height. Somewhere above the limits of our vision, the chromium walls surrounding our world must curve inward to form a dome; our universe is a sealed chamber rather than an open well. And air is gradually accumulating within that chamber, until it equals the pressure in the reservoir below.

This is why, at the beginning of this engraving, I said that air is not the source of life. Air can neither be created nor destroyed; the total amount of air in the universe remains constant, and if air were all that we needed to live, we would never die. But in truth the source of life is a difference in air pressure, the flow of air from spaces where it is thick to those where it is thin. The activity of our brains, the motion of our bodies, the action of every machine we have ever built is driven by the movement of air, the force exerted as differing pressures seek to balance each other out. When the pressure everywhere in the universe is the same, all air will be motionless, and useless; one day we will be surrounded by motionless air and unable to derive any benefit from it.

We are not really consuming air at all. The amount of air that I draw from each day’s new pair of lungs is exactly as much as seeps out through the joints of my limbs and the seams of my casing, exactly as much as I am adding to the atmosphere around me; all I am doing is converting air at high pressure to air at low. With every movement of my body, I contribute to the equalization of pressure in our universe. With every thought that I have, I hasten the arrival of that fatal equilibrium.

Had I come to this realization under any other circumstance, I would have leapt up from my chair and ran into the streets, but in my current situation—body locked in a restraining bracket, brain suspended across my laboratory—doing so was impossible. I could see the leaves of my brain flitting faster from the tumult of my thoughts, which in turn increased my agitation at being so restrained and immobile. Panic at that moment might have led to my death, a nightmarish paroxysm of simultaneously being trapped and spiraling out of control, struggling against my restraints until my air ran out. It was by chance as much as by intention that my hands adjusted the controls to avert my periscopic gaze from the latticework, so all I could see was the plain surface of my worktable. Thus freed from having to see and magnify my own apprehensions, I was able to calm down. When I had regained sufficient composure, I began the lengthy process of reassembling myself. Eventually I restored my brain to its original compact configuration, reattached the plates of my head, and released myself from the restraining bracket.

At first the other anatomists did not believe me when I told them what I had discovered, but in the months that followed my initial auto-dissection, more and more of them became convinced. More examinations of people’s brains were performed, more measurements of atmospheric pressure were taken, and the results were all found to confirm my claims. The background air pressure of our universe was indeed increasing, and slowing our thoughts as a result.

There was widespread panic in the days after the truth first became widely know, as people contemplated for the first time the idea that death was inevitable. Many called for the strict curtailment of activities in order to minimize the thickening of our atmosphere; accusations of wasted air escalated into furious brawls and, in some districts, deaths. It was the shame of having caused these deaths, together with the reminder that it would be many centuries yet before our atmosphere’s pressure became equal to that of the reservoir underground, that caused the panic to subside. We are not sure precisely how many centuries it will take; additional measurements and calculations are being performed and debated. In the meantime, there is much discussion over how we should spend the time that remains to us.

One sect has dedicated itself to the goal of reversing the equalization of pressure, and found many adherents. The mechanicians among them constructed an engine that takes air from our atmosphere and forces it into a smaller volume, a process they called “compression.” Their engine restores air to the pressure it originally had in the reservoir, and these Reversalists excitedly announced that it would form the basis of a new kind of filling station, one that would—with each lung it refilled—revitalize not only individuals but the universe itself. Alas, closer examination of the engine revealed its fatal flaw. The engine itself is powered by air from the reservoir, and for every lungful of air that it produces, the engine consumes not just a lungful, but slightly more. It does not reverse the process of equalization, but like everything else in the world, exacerbates it.

Although some of their adherents left in disillusionment after this setback, the Reversalists as a group were undeterred, and began drawing up alternate designs in which the compressor was powered instead by the uncoiling of springs or the descent of weights. These mechanisms fared no better. Every spring that is wound tight represents air released by the person who did the winding; every weight that rests higher than ground level represents air released by the person who did the lifting. There is no source of power in the universe that does not ultimately derive from a difference in air pressure, and there can be no engine whose operation will not, on balance, reduce that difference.

The Reversalists continue their labors, confident that they will one day construct an engine that generates more compression than it uses, a perpetual power source that will restore to the universe its lost vigor. I do not share their optimism; I believe that the process of equalization is inexorable. Eventually, all the air in our universe will be evenly distributed, no denser or more rarefied in one spot than in any other, unable to drive a piston, turn a rotor, or flip a leaf of gold foil. It will be the end of pressure, the end of motive power, the end of thought. The universe will have reached perfect equilibrium.

Some find irony in the fact that a study of our brains revealed to us not the secrets of the past, but what ultimately awaits us in the future. However, I maintain that we have indeed learned something important about the past. The universe began as an enormous breath being held. Who knows why, but whatever the reason, I am glad that it did, because I owe my existence to that fact. All my desires and ruminations are no more and no less than eddy currents generated by the gradual exhalation of our universe. And until this great exhalation is finished, my thoughts live on.

So that our thoughts may continue as long as possible, anatomists and mechanicians are designing replacements for our cerebral regulators, capable of gradually increasing the air pressure within our brains and keeping it just higher than the surrounding atmospheric pressure. Once these are installed, our thoughts will continue at roughly the same speed even as the air thickens around us. But this does not mean that life will continue unchanged. Eventually the pressure differential will fall to such a level that our limbs will weaken and our movements will grow sluggish. We may then try to slow our thoughts so that our physical torpor is less conspicuous to us, but that will also cause external processes to appear to accelerate. The ticking of clocks will rise to a chatter as their pendulums wave frantically; falling objects will slam to the ground as if propelled by springs; undulations will race down cables like the crack of a whip.

At some point our limbs will cease moving altogether. I cannot be certain of the precise sequence of events near the end, but I imagine a scenario in which our thoughts will continue to operate, so that we remain conscious but frozen, immobile as statues. Perhaps we’ll be able to speak for a while longer, because our voice boxes operate on a smaller pressure differential than our limbs, but without the ability to visit a filling station, every utterance will reduce the amount of air left for thought, and bring us closer to the moment that our thoughts cease altogether. Will it be preferable to remain mute to prolong our ability to think, or to talk until the very end? I don’t know.

Perhaps a few of us, in the days before we cease moving, will be able to connect our cerebral regulators directly to the dispensers in the filling stations, in effect replacing our lungs with the mighty lung of the world. If so, those few will be able to remain conscious right up to the final moments before all pressure is equalized. The last bit of air pressure left in our universe will be expended driving a person’s conscious thought.

And then, our universe will be in a state of absolute equilibrium. All life and thought will cease, and with them, time itself.

But I maintain a slender hope.

Even though our universe is enclosed, perhaps it is not the only air chamber in the infinite expanse of solid chromium. I speculate that there could be another pocket of air elsewhere, another universe besides our own that is even larger in volume. It is possible that this hypothetical universe has the same or higher air pressure as ours, but suppose that it had a much lower air pressure than ours, perhaps even a true vacuum?

The chromium that separates us from this supposed universe is too thick and too hard for us to drill through, so there is no way we could reach it ourselves, no way to bleed off the excess atmosphere from our universe and regain motive power that way. But I fantasize that this neighboring universe has its own inhabitants, ones with capabilities beyond our own. What if they were able to create a conduit between the two universes, and install valves to release air from ours? They might use our universe as a reservoir, running dispensers with which they could fill their own lungs, and use our air as a way to drive their own civilization.

It cheers me to imagine that the air that once powered me could power others, to believe that the breath that enables me to engrave these words could one day flow through someone else’s body. I do not delude myself into thinking that this would be a way for me to live again, because I am not that air, I am the pattern that it assumed, temporarily. The pattern that is me, the patterns that are the entire world in which I live, would be gone.

But I have an even fainter hope: that those inhabitants not only use our universe as a reservoir, but that once they have emptied it of its air, they might one day be able to open a passage and actually enter our universe as explorers. They might wander our streets, see our frozen bodies, look through our possessions, and wonder about the lives we led.

Which is why I have written this account. You, I hope, are one of those explorers. You, I hope, found these sheets of copper and deciphered the words engraved on their surfaces. And whether or not your brain is impelled by the air that once impelled mine, through the act of reading my words, the patterns that form your thoughts become an imitation of the patterns that once formed mine. And in that way I live again, through you.

Your fellow explorers will have found and read the other books that we left behind, and through the collaborative action of your imaginations, my entire civilization lives again. As you walk through our silent districts, imagine them as they were; with the turret clocks striking the hours, the filling stations crowded with gossiping neighbors, criers reciting verse in the public squares and anatomists giving lectures in the classrooms. Visualize all of these the next time you look at the frozen world around you, and it will become, in your minds, animated and vital again.

I wish you well, explorer, but I wonder: Does the same fate that befell me await you? I can only imagine that it must, that the tendency toward equilibrium is not a trait peculiar to our universe but inherent in all universes. Perhaps that is just a limitation of my thinking, and your people have discovered a source of pressure that is truly eternal. But my speculations are fanciful enough already. I will assume that one day your thoughts too will cease, although I cannot fathom how far in the future that might be. Your lives will end just as ours did, just as everyone’s must. No matter how long it takes, eventually equilibrium will be reached.

I hope you are not saddened by that awareness. I hope that your expedition was more than a search for other universes to use as reservoirs. I hope that you were motivated by a desire for knowledge, a yearning to see what can arise from a universe’s exhalation. Because even if a universe’s lifespan is calculable, the variety of life that is generated within it is not. The buildings we have erected, the art and music and verse we have composed, the very lives we’ve led: none of them could have been predicted, because none of them were inevitable. Our universe might have slid into equilibrium emitting nothing more than a quiet hiss. The fact that it spawned such plenitude is a miracle, one that is matched only by your universe giving rise to you.

Though I am long dead as you read this, explorer, I offer to you a valediction. Contemplate the marvel that is existence, and rejoice that you are able to do so. I feel I have the right to tell you this because, as I am inscribing these words, I am doing the same.

软件体的生命周期

第一章

她的名字是安娜·奥瓦拉多，对她而言今天不是个好日子。一星期以来她一直在为一次工作面试做准备——这是几个月里头一回入围到视频面试的阶段——可是主考官的脸刚一出现在屏幕上，就告诉她公司已经决定录用另一个人。因此她只能空坐在电脑面前，精心准备的打扮派不上一点用场。她不抱什么希望地试着向其它公司发出了应征问询，立即就收到了系统自动回复的拒绝信。这样过去了一个小时后，安娜觉得她需要放松一下：她打开了一个“下一维度”的窗口，开始玩她现在最喜欢的游戏：《铱金时代》［１］。

滩头阵地上人山人海，但她的角色身着令人艳羡的珍珠之母战斗装甲，因此没过多久就有玩家问她是否愿意加入他们的火力组。战斗区里四处散布着熊熊燃烧的车辆，他们穿越弥漫的烟雾，冲进一座螳螂人的要塞，花了一小时把它扫荡干净。这个任务很适合安娜当下的心情：不那么困难，足以让她有胜利的信心；但也没那么简单，足以让她体会到成就感。正当她的队友准备接受下一个任务时，安娜的屏幕角落里弹出了一个通讯窗口。是她的朋友罗宾打来的语音呼叫，于是安娜把麦克风调成通讯状态，接起电话。

“嗨，罗宾。”

“嗨，安娜。面试怎么样了啊？”

“这样说吧，我正在玩《铱金时代》。”

罗宾微微一笑，“看来早上不太顺利啊？”

“可以这么说吧。”安娜告诉他面试被取消了。

“嗯，我有一些消息要告诉你，也许能让你打起精神。在数据地球见面成吗？”

“行。等我两分钟，我先注销。”

“我在家里等你。”

“嗯，待会儿见。”安娜退出了火力组，关上下一维度的窗口。她登录数据地球，画面缩进到她上一次登出点处：一个舞会俱乐部。俱乐部蚀刻在一面巨大的悬崖之中。数据地球也有自己的游戏大陆——“上古王座”［２］和“第三寰宇”［３］——但这些都不合安娜的口味，因此她大部分时间都花在了社交大陆上。她的角色还穿着上次来访时的舞会服装，现在她换成平日着装，打开一扇通向罗宾住处的传送门。她一步就迈入了罗宾的虚拟起居室，这间起居室坐落在一只高空气球里，气球则悬浮在一座长达一公里的半圆形瀑布之上。

两人的虚拟角色互相拥抱了一下。“是什么好消息啊？”安娜问。

“‘蓝色伽马’要开张了，”罗宾说，“我们刚拿到新一轮融资，所以又开始招新人了。我把你的履历传给他们看了，他们都很兴奋，想见见你。”

“我？因为我阅历丰富？”安娜才刚刚拿到软件测试的结业证书。罗宾教过其中一门基础课程，她俩就是在课堂上认识的。

“不瞒你说，正是这个原因。他们对你从事的上——份工作很感兴趣。”

安娜在一座动物园工作了六年，她回到学校的唯一原因是它关闭了。“我知道，新公司一开始总是百废待兴，可再怎么疯狂也不至于用到动物园饲养员吧。”

罗宾呵呵笑起来，“给你看看我们都在做些什么吧。他们说我可以在遵守ＮＤＡ保密协议［４］的前提下让你瞥一眼。”

看来这是件严肃的事，到现在为止罗宾还没告诉她在蓝色伽马工作的任何细节。安娜在保密协定上签了字，罗宾随后打开一扇传送门。“我们有个私用小岛，看看吧。”他们的虚拟角色走进门中。

窗口刷新时，安娜期待着能看到美妙神奇的风景，可她的虚拟角色出现的地方第一眼看上去像个幼儿园。再看下去，更像是童话书里的场景：一只小小的人形虎宝宝正在拨弄铁丝框上的几串彩色珠子，一只熊猫打量着一辆玩具小车，还有一只卡通版的黑猩猩在玩泡沫橡胶球。

屏幕上注释显示，它们是“数码体”，生活在虚拟环境中的生物。安娜从没有见过这样的数码体，这些不是理想化的宠物，卖给没法全心全意去养真正宠物的人的那种；它们没有那些宠物的可爱劲儿，一举一动都很笨拙，看上去也不像是数据地球生物圈里的那些生物。安娜拜访过盘古群岛［５］，见过在各式各样温床［６］中演化出来的独脚袋鼠和首尾蛇，但这些数码体明显不是从那里来的。

“蓝色伽马就是做这个的？数码体？”

“是的，但不是做普通的数码体，你看。”罗宾的虚拟角色走到正在滚球的黑猩猩旁边，蹲下来面对它。“嗨，星儿，玩啥呢？”

“星儿弯筹［７］。”数码体说，吓了安娜一跳。

“在和球玩吗？真棒呀。我也能来玩玩吗？”

“不。星儿筹。”

“求求你啦？”

小黑猩猩抬头向周围望望，然后起身蹒跚着走向一堆散落的木块，手里依然紧紧抓着球。它用胳膊把——个木块推向罗宾的方向，“罗宾弯木坏。”它背朝罗宾坐下，“星儿弯筹。”

“那好吧。”罗宾走回安娜身边，“有何感想？”

“太让我吃惊了。我不知道数码体已经进化到这个程度了。”

“这都是最近的事。我们的研发团队去年看了几个博士的会议展示，然后就雇了他们。现在我们搞出了个基因组引擎，我们管它叫‘神经源’，就认知功能的发育而言，它比现在市面上其他引擎都强得多。而这些小家伙——一”他指了指幼儿园的居民们——一“就是我们迄今为止产出的最聪明的——些。”

“而你们打算把它们当宠物卖？”

“就是这样。我们的广告里会说，你可以和这些宠物谈话，还可以教它们许多很酷的小把戏。我们内部有个非官方宣传口号：‘像猴子一样好玩至极，还不用给它擦屁屁。’”

安娜笑了，“我有点明白了，为什么你们想要有动物训练经验的人。”

“就是这样。我们并非总能让这些家伙听我们的话，而且我们不知道这情况有多少是因为基因的问题，又有多少是因为我们的方法不对。”

她看着那只熊猫形状的数据体用一只爪子捡起玩具小车，打量着车底，另一只爪子小心翼翼地拍打着车轮。“这些数据体初生的时候知道多少东西？”

“相当于一无所知。给你看看吧。”罗宾在幼儿园的一面墙上激活了一个视频窗口，视频播放的是一间屋子里的景象，房间涂成三原色，一些数码体躺在地面上。外表看来它们和幼儿园里的数码体别无二致，可是它们的举动散漫无章，时断时续。“这些是新生的小家伙。它们原本要花上几个月的时间去学习基本能力：如何理解视觉刺激，如何移动四肢，等等。但在这个阶段，我们会把它们放在特殊的环境中，因此实际上只用花一星期。当它们准备好学习语言和社会交往之后，我们就切换到实时运行状态，这时候就得靠你来了。”

熊猫把玩具小车放在地面上来回推了几次，然后发出几声“哞哞哞”低沉的声音。安娜意识到这个数码体是在笑呢。罗宾接着说：“我知道你在学校的时候学过灵长类的交流。现在有个让你实际应用的机会，怎么样？有兴趣没？”

安娜犹豫了一下，当初她上大学时设想的未来可不是这样。小时候她梦想着追随弗塞［８］和古道尔［９］的足迹，前往非洲；但等到她研究生毕业时，野外的猿类已所剩无几，她的最佳选择就是在动物园工作。而她现在面对的是——份虚拟宠物训练师的工作，从她的职业轨迹中可以察觉到现实世界的存在在逐渐淡化，影响越来越小。

要振作，她对自己说。这也许不是她梦想的工作，可这毕竟属于软件行业，而她之所以回到学校，就是为了转到这一行。训练虚拟猴子没准儿比做测试员更有趣。只要蓝色伽马能提供不错的薪水，为啥不试试呢？

他的名字是德雷克·布鲁克斯，他不喜欢眼下的任务。德雷克负责为蓝色伽马的数码体设计虚拟角色，平常他都很喜欢这份工作，可昨天产品经理让他做的事在他看来不是个好主意。他试过把自己的观点告诉别人，可决定权不在他，因此他不得不仔细考虑怎么把这件事做得像样些。

德雷克是学动画设计的，一方面创造数码形象是他的专长，另一方面他的工作却又和传统的动画设计师大相径庭。正常情况下，他应该设计好角色的步态和举止，可对于数码体而言，这些特征都是从基因组里涌现［１０］出来的属性；他的任务是设计一具躯体，该躯体可以凭借让人识别理解的方式去展现行为举止。因为这点差异，许多动画设计师一一包括他的妻子温迪——不愿为数字生命体设计形象，但德雷克很喜欢这类工作。他觉得，身为一个动画人，能帮助一个新生命体去表达自我，是最让人激动的事情了。

他很认同蓝色伽马的人工智能设计思想：经验是最好的老师，因此与其把你想让人工智能知道的东西编进程序里面，还不如让它们掌握学习能力，然后卖给用户，让用户自己去教。与之相对，为了让用户乐意付出这种努力，数码体的每一个方面都必须讨人喜欢。它们必须有迷人的个性（软件开发者们还在为此努力），外貌也必须可爱（这就是德雷克的工作了）。可德雷克不能简单地给数码体装上大眼睛和小鼻子，要是它们看起来像卡通人物，别人就不会严肃地对待它们了。要是它们看起来太像真实的动物，面部表情和说话动作又会显得不协调。这需要达成一个精巧的平衡，而他已经为此花了数不清的时间去观看各种幼兽的视频。他努力设计了许多不同的混合面容，既可爱可亲，又不过分夸张。

他当下的任务又有所不同。产品经理已经不满足于小猫小狗小猴子什么的了，他们认定虚拟形象除了小动物之外还需要有更多的种类。他们提议做机器人。

这个想法在德雷克看来毫无道理。蓝色伽马的整个经营策略都建立在人们对动物的天然亲和感之上。数码体的学习是一个正强化［１１］的过程，正如动物学习的方式一样，它们获得的奖赏也是轻轻挠头或获得虚拟食品这样的互动。对于动物角色而言，这些都合情合理，可放在机器人身上就显得滑稽做作了。如果他们销售的是实体玩具，那么机器人比起像样的动物还有成本低这个优势，可虚拟世界里的产品是不用考虑造价的，而动物脸孔明显更有表现力。增加机器人角色，就像是在卖正品的同时又在卖粗糙的模仿物。

他的思绪被一阵敲门声打断了，来者是测试团队的新成员，安娜。

“嗨，德雷克。你看了今早训练的视频没？很好玩的。”

“谢谢，我会看的。”

她转身要离开，又停下脚步，“看起来你今天不大高兴啊。”

德雷克觉得雇一个前任动物饲养员是个很不错的主意，她不但设计了一整套数码体的训练程序，还对改善它们的饮食提出了极好的建议。

其他的数码体经销商只为数码体提供了很有限的食物种类，但安娜认为，蓝色伽马应该大胆开创数码体饮食的新模式，她指出多样化的饮食不仅能让动物园里的动物更开心，还能让参观者在喂食过程中获得更多的乐趣。管理层采纳了这个建议，于是研发团队重新编辑了数码体的基本奖惩映射图，使它们能够识别各种不同的虚拟食物。他们目前还无法模拟各种化合物的不同刺激——数据地球的物理模拟远没有达到这个精度一一但他们给食物的味道和质感添加了参数，还为食物发放程序设计了一个界面，让用户可以调配自己的食谱。事实证明这一策略极其成功，每个数码体现在都有它们最喜爱的食物了，而内测人员也报告说他们很享受根据数码体的喜好来准备食物的过程。

“管理层觉得现有动物角色不够，”德雷克说，“他们居然想要机器人。你能相信吗？”

“这个主意听起来挺好啊。”安娜说。

他吃了一惊，“你真这么想？我还以为你更喜欢小动物呢。”

“这里每一个人都把数码体想象成动物，”她说，“可事实是，这些数码体的行为根本不像真正的动物，它们天生就带上了某种非动物的特质。这就像是我们硬要给它们穿上马戏团的戏服，好让它们看起来像猴子或熊猫。”

听到别人将他精心打造的虚拟角色比作戏服，他心里终归是有些不舒服。安娜肯定察觉到了对方脸色的变化，又补充道：“不过一般人应该注意不到吧。我只是和动物相处的时间比较久而已。”

“没关系，”他说，“你能提出不同视角的见解，我很感激。”

“抱歉。说真的，那些虚拟角色看起来棒极了。我尤其喜欢那只小虎仔。”

“没关系，真的。”

她歉意地挥了挥手，然后走向大厅，德雷克则在回味她刚才的话。

也许他只是太沉迷于动物角色这个想法了，以至于把数码体想象成了它们无法成为的某些东西。安娜当然是对的，数码体不是动物，正如它们不是传统意义上的机器人一样；谁能说把它们比作动物就一定比机器人好呢？反之亦然。如果他先假定，对于这种新的生命形式而言，机器人和动物形体都能同样出色地表达自我的话，也许他最后就能设计出让自己满意的虚拟角色了。

一年后，距离蓝色伽马的产品发布大会只有几天了。安娜正在她的小隔间内工作，过道对面是罗宾的隔间。虽然她们背对背，但屏幕上现在显示的都是数据地球，而她们的虚拟角色正坐在一起。不远处，一群数码体在操场上嬉戏，围着一座小桥互相追逐，时而跑上桥，时而从桥底爬过。这些数码体就是将要发布的候选品，再过几天，它们（或者和它们相差无几的数码体）就可供那些同时身处真实世界和数据地球的顾客购买了。

在这最后时刻，安娜和罗宾不再教授数码体新的行为，而是让数码体不断练习已经学会的东西。正当她俩进行一项练习时，麦黑什（蓝色伽马的建立者之一）路过了她们的隔间。他停下脚步观看，“不用管我，接着做就是了。今天训练的技能是什么？”

“形状辨识，”罗宾说。她的角色面前凭空出现了一堆各种颜色的积木，散落一地。她对一只数码体说，“洛莉，到这边来。”一头小狮子从操场那边摇摇晃晃地走了过来。

与此同时，安娜叫来了贾克斯，这是一个新维多利亚风格［１２］的机器人，全身紫铜打造，闪闪发光。德雷克的设计相当出彩，无论肢体比例还是脸部形状，在安娜看来都极其可爱。和罗宾一样，她也让自己的角色面前浮现出一堆不同形状和颜色的木块，把贾克斯的注意力吸引过来。

“贾克斯，看到积木了吗？蓝色的积木是什么形状？”

“山角。”贾克斯说。

“很好。红色的是什么形状呢？”

“正翻。”

“好。那绿色的呢？”

“圆形。”

“棒极了，贾克斯。”安娜给了他一块食物，他狼吞虎咽地吃了下去。

“贾克斯聪米。”他说。

“洛莉也聪米！”洛莉不肯示弱。

安娜笑着摸摸他俩的头，“没错，你们俩都很聪明。”

“都聪米。”贾克斯说。

“这正是我希望看到的。”麦黑什说。

这些即将发布的候选品是经过无数次尝试才最终筛选出来的，可以说是最拔尖的可塑之才。筛选固然是对智力的选拔，同样也是对脾性的选拔，寻找那些不会让顾客觉得沮丧的个性；其中最重要的一项是与人和睦相处的能力。研发团队努力弱化了数码体的划分等级行为——蓝色伽马可不希望顾客买到宠物后还得时不时重申自己的主人地位——但这并不代表不会有竞争行为。数码体喜欢被关注，如果有一个数码体看到安娜夸奖另一个数码体，它就想得到表扬，多数时候这没什么大不了的，但当一个数码体对它的同类或者安娜产生强烈愤恨感的时候，她就会记录这个数码体然后剥夺它后代的特殊基因组（即产生意识和智力的基因组），这有点像是为狗选种，但不妨说更像是在一个测试厨房里工作：不断地烘烤出蛋糕，然后一一品尝，以求找出最完美的烘烤方法。

现在这些将要发行的数码体样品将作为吉祥物保留下来，要出售的是它们的复制品。但大多数人都期望能买到比较年幼、还不会说话的数码体，毕竟能教导数码体说话也蛮有趣的。吉祥物们主要是作为实例，告诉顾客这些数码体将来会变成什么样子。况且出售这些尚不会说话的数码体能打开非英语国家的市场，尽管蓝色伽马只有足够的员工在英语环境中抚育这些吉祥物。

安娜把贾克斯送回操场，然后叫来一只名叫马可的熊猫宝宝。她正要开始测试其形状识别能力的时候，麦黑什指向屏幕的一角，“嘿，快看！”几只数码体正在操场边的小山上，沿着山坡滚下来。

“嘿，真酷啊，以前从没见它们玩过这个。”她的虚拟角色向小山走去，贾克斯和马可跟在她身后。贾克斯的第一次尝试几乎立刻就失败了，但练习了一小会儿之后，他就能一路滚到山脚下了。这样滚了几次之后，他跑回了安娜身边。

“安娜看了？”贾克斯说，“贾克斯转着躺下去！”

“是的，我看见了！你刚才滚下了小山坡！”

“管下山坡！”

“你真是太棒了。”她又摸了摸他的后脑勺。贾克斯跑回去接着打滚。洛莉也热情十足地参与到这个新活动里面来。她滚下山脚之后，继续沿平地打滚，结果撞到了操场上的——座小桥。

“咿，咿，咿，”洛莉说，“操！”突然间所有人的注意力都落在了她身上。“她从哪儿学来这一句的？”麦黑什问。

安娜关掉了话筒，让她的角色走向前去安慰洛莉。“我不知道，”她说，“她肯定是从哪儿偷听到的。”

“我们可不能把会说‘操’的数码体卖出去。”

“已经在查了。”罗宾说。她在自己的屏幕上打开另一个窗口，拿起训练课程的档案，然后对其进行声音检验。“看起来这是头一次有数码体说这个字。至于是谁不小心说过这个字……”三个人注视着窗口里的搜索结果不断增加；看起来罪魁祸首是斯蒂芬，蓝色伽马澳洲分部的一位训练师。当美国西海岸办公室晚上下班之后，蓝色伽马还有员工在澳洲和英国继续工作。数码体不需要睡眠——或者更准确地说，它们的整合处理进程（相当于它们的睡觉）可以高速运行。因此，它们实际上在接受着二十四小时连续训练。他们把斯蒂芬每次在训练过程中说到“操”这个字的视频片段都审查了一遍。最引入注目的一次发生在三天以前；只看他的数据地球虚拟人物很难确定具体发生了什么，但听起来他好像是在真实世界中膝盖不小心撞到了桌子。好几个星期前也有些类似的例子，但没有这次这么响亮持久。

“我们怎么办？”罗宾问。

利弊权衡是显而易见的。发布日期已经如此之近，没时间去重复好几个星期的训练了；他们敢冒着风险认定更早的那几句骂人话没有给数码体们留下印象吗？麦黑什想了一会儿，下定决心。“好吧，让它们回到三天以前的状态，从那里开始。”

“全部？”安娜问，“不只是洛莉吗？”

“我们不能冒这个险，全部调回。还有，从现在开始，每一次训练都要运行关键词标记程序。如果下次哪个人再说脏话，就把它们的记忆调回到最近的标记点。”

就这样，数码体失去了三天的经历，包括它们第——次从小山上滚下来的记忆。

［１］这应该是在向经典游戏《帝国时代》致意。

［２］暗指经典游戏《上古卷轴》。该游戏以完整的架空世界和巨大的自由度而著称。

［３］暗指豪尔赫·博尔赫斯写于１９４０年的短篇小说《特隆，乌克巴尔和第三寰宇》。在这篇小说里，一群神秘的学者创立了代号为“第三寰宇”（可能暗指地球是太阳系第三颗行星）的计划，构想出一个不存在的“特隆”世界的百科全书，“乌克巴尔”是其中一个国度。

［４］双方协定交换信息，保证不泄露给第三方。

［５］通译泛古陆，是指古生代晚期到中生代早期，全部地球陆块聚集到一起所形成的超级大陆。字面上与群岛矛盾，实则暗地向同为模拟整个世界的经典游戏《文明》致敬——“泛古陆”和“群岛”都是文明中常见的世界地图模式。

［６］本意是温度高于周围环境的土壤，这里指加速运行下的模拟环境，允许虚拟生物在较短的时间内发生演化。

［７］这里的意思是“星儿玩球”，此时的数码体就像婴儿一样，吐字不清，后文也有类似的情况。

［８］迪安·弗塞（１９３２——１９８５），美国动物学家，曾经对卢旺达大猩猩的群体进行过长达ｌ８年的研究。

［９］珍妮·古道尔（１９３４——），英国动物学家，因对坦桑尼亚黑猩猩的研究而闻名于世。

［１０］指的是从大量的简单的相互作用中产生出复杂体系的现象。

［１１］“正强化”是心理学术语，指在一种行为发生之后施加刺激（通常为奖赏），从而增加这种行为发生频率。

［１２］是将维多利亚时代繁复华丽的艺术风格与现代理念与技术相结合的一种艺术流派，和所谓“蒸汽朋克”颇为接近。

第二章

蓝色伽马的数码体大受欢迎。产品发布的第一年里，便有十万名顾客购买了他们的数码体——更重要的是，顾客一直让它们运行着。蓝色伽马的营销策略是“铒钩模式”［１］，因为只卖数码体是没法收回研发成本的；相反，现在顾客每次制作数码体食物的时候，公司都会收取一定费用，因此，只要顾客还觉得数码体好玩儿，公司就会有稳定的利润流入。迄今为止，顾客从数码体那里得到了巨大的乐趣，常常整天整天地让它们运行着。虽然有的顾客把它们的整合处理进程调慢，让数码体睡上一整夜，但也有许多人让整合进程高速运行，他们的数码体几乎一直是醒着的，这样他们就可以和其他时区的人合作抚育数码体，让它们成长得更快。几十家数码体游乐场和托儿所在数据地球的社交大陆上涌现，公众事件日历上现在满是团队出游、训练课程以及天赋测试等内容。有些主人甚至把他们的数码体带到赛车区，让它们搭乘自己的车辆。虚拟世界就是数码体的地球村，数码体则在其中化身为——条条社会纤维，编织出全新的宠物类型。

蓝色伽马出售的数码体中，有一半是独一无二的，它们的基因组是随机生成，公司只确保其参数落在培育过程中选定的范围之内；另一半则是现有吉祥物的复制品，不过公司也在反复提醒买家，在不同的环境中，这些复制品的发育过程会完全不同。营销团队常常以马可和波罗作为范例：这两只吉祥物来自完全相同的基因组，都具有熊猫型的外表，但它们的性格却截然不同。波罗成型时，马可已经两岁了，因此波罗总是把马可当成哥哥一样粘住不放。现在它俩已经形影不离，但马可的性格更加外向活泼，而波罗则较为谨小慎微，没人觉得波罗将来会变成马可的样子。

蓝色伽马的所有“神经源”数码体里面，这些吉祥物是运行得最久的。管理层起先希望，这些吉祥物能赶在发售之前让测试团队预测出数码体的大体行为模式，可实际情况却不尽人意——不同环境下成长起来的数码体，行为千差万别，根本没法预测。不夸张地说，每一只数码体的主人都是在探索一个全新的领域，他们也会互相寻求帮助。关于数码体的在线论坛如雨后春笋般涌现，充满了各种奇闻逸事和经验交流。

蓝色伽马有一位专职的顾客联络员，他的工作就是整理论坛反馈。德雷克下班后也常会去各个论坛上逛几圈。有时顾客会讨论数码体的面部表情，就算没有，关于数码体的各种小故事也让他觉得很有趣。

来自：佐伊·阿姆斯特朗

你绝不会相信我的娜塔莎今天干了什么！我们在游乐场，另一只数码体摔了一跤，哭了起来。娜塔莎拥抱了他一下，给他点安慰。我对她好一番夸奖啊。结果一转眼，她就把另一只数码体推倒在地上让他哭起来，再抱抱他，然后看看我，想得到表扬！

下——个帖子引起了他的注意：

来自：安德鲁·阮

有的数码体是不是天生就比别的笨？我的数码体不像我看到的别的数码体那样遵守命令。

他查看了一下这位顾客的公共资料，发现他的虚拟角色是一场无尽的金币雨，金币互相碰撞，形成的轨迹似乎是一个人形，极其抽象。这的确是很炫目的动画，但德雷克怀疑这个用户没读过蓝色伽马关于抚育数码体的建议，于是他回了——帖：

来自：德雷克·布鲁克斯

当你和数码体玩耍的时候，你使用的虚拟角色是你档案里的那个吗？如果是的话，问题出在你的虚拟角色没有脸。把你的摄像头调成面部表情追踪模式，然后换用一个可以显示表情的角色，你一定会从你的数码体那儿得到更好的回应。

他继续浏览。一分钟后，他发现了另一个让他感兴趣的帖子：

来自：娜塔莉·万斯

我的数码体“可可”是洛莉的克隆，今年一岁半。最近她超级调皮，一点都不听我的话，快把我搞疯了，而几个星期前她还是个绝对的乖宝宝。我曾试着把她恢复到最近的标记点，可是好景不长，我试过两次，每次最后她都变成一个捣蛋鬼（虽然第二次变化的时间要长一些）。有人遇到类似的情况吗？特别是如果你的宝贝也是只洛莉的话。到底要把时间调回多久才能解决这个问题呢？

后面好几条回帖都建议说，应该把引发“可可”情绪变化的因素找出来，再对症下药。他正准备自己回一贴，说数码体不是一盘电子游戏，不能反复从头玩起直到打出完美结局为止，这时他看到安娜回了一帖。

来自：安娜·奥瓦拉多

我理解你的感受，因为我看过完全相同的事情。不只是洛莉，很多数码体都要经过这个阶段。你可以继续尝试绕开这段历程，但我怀疑这也许是无法避免的，结果可能只是花上好几个月的时间去陪一只永远长不大的数码体；你也可以耐心挺过这段困难期，一旦熬过去之后，你就会拥有一只更成熟的数码体。

这条信息让他欣慰不已，太多的人把有意识的生命当成玩具来对待了。德雷克有一次去姐夫家参加生日宴会，聚会上有一对夫妇带着一个八岁大的克隆男孩。他每次看到这个男孩的时候心里都会感到一丝难过，这孩子浑身上下都散发出焦虑紧张，显然是因为他的父亲太过自恋，把自己的意志强加在他身上。即使是一只数码体也应该得到比那更多的尊重。

他给安娜发了一封私信，对她这篇回帖表示感谢。然后他注意到那个身着无脸角色的顾客给他的建议回了一帖。

来自：安德鲁·阮

见鬼去吧。这个虚拟角色可花了我一大笔钱，是我特意买来在社交大陆上穿的，我才不会为了一只数码体就不穿。

德雷克叹了口气。看来没办法改变这人的想法了，他只希望这人能就此中止他的数码体，而非用错误的方式去抚养。蓝色伽马已经尽其所能去减少虐待行为了：所有的神经源数码体都装有痛感阻隔器，让他们对虐待免疫，从而对施虐狂也没有吸引力。不幸的是，面对有些伤害，没有任何办法能保护他们——比如忽略。

接下来的一年里，其他公司也开始向市场推出支持语言学习的基因组引擎。在数据地球上，没有哪一家能够与神经源并驾齐驱，但是在其他平台上情况就不同了。在下一维度，千纸引擎成了主流；而在任意之所，主导市场的是花百姿。蓝色伽马不但启发了其他公司推出竞争产品，也迫使它们推出了相配套的产品。

今天公司里一半的员工都挤在了前台区：经理、研发人员、测试人员、设计人员，一个不缺。大家聚在这里，是因为一个众人期待已久的包裹终于抵达了，一只大号手提箱大小的包裹此刻就放在接待员的桌子上。

“咱们开箱吧。”麦黑什说。

安娜和罗宾拉开箱子上的拉环，把箱子分解成八块相互铰合的泡沫塑料。这具定制的“棺材”里面是一具机器人的身躯，刚从生产车间送来。这个机器人有人形躯体，但是个头很小，身高还不足一米，这是为了让四肢惯性降低，让它具有一定程度的灵活性。它的皮肤黑亮，头部大得不成比例，其表面大部分被一块环绕显示屏占据了。

这个机器人是“灵猴机甲”玩具公司的作品。市面上已经涌现出许多针对数码体的主人提供服务的公司，但灵猴机甲是第一家做硬件而非软件的公司。他们把样品送来蓝色伽马，就是希望能得到该公司的认证。

“哪个吉祥物得分最高？”麦黑什问。他指的是灵活性测试。上个星期，所有的数码体都得到了一套测试用的虚拟身体，这套身体的重量分布和动作幅度都和机器人相匹配；它们每天都要花一段时间穿着这具身体，练习四处活动。昨天，安娜为数码体们的运动能力评了分，项目包括仰卧起坐、上下台阶和单腿站立。这就像是给一群蹒跚学步的小孩子做醉酒测试一样。

“贾克斯最高。”安娜回答。

“那好，让他做好准备。”

接待员把工作台让给安娜，安娜从这里登录进数据地球，把贾克斯叫了过来。贾克斯这次是走运了，因为测试用的躯体和他自己本身的躯体没什么本质区别；这具躯体更笨重，但是肢体和躯干的比例差不多。相比之下，那些用熊猫和小老虎的身体长大的数码体，麻烦就更多了。

罗宾检查了一下机器人身上的诊断板，“看起来一切就绪。”

安娜在屏幕上的健身房里打开一扇传送门，向贾克斯比了个手势。“好了，贾克斯，过来吧。”

屏幕上的贾克斯迈进传送门中，接待区的小机器人立刻活过来了，机器人头部的显示屏亮起，显示出贾克斯的脸，巨大的脑袋看起来就像他戴上了鼓鼓的头盔。这个设计是为了让数码体和原来虚拟角色看起来尽量相同，而不需再专门定制躯体。贾克斯现在看起来像是个紫铜机器人穿着黑曜石的铠甲。

贾克斯转过身，视线扫过整间屋子。“哇哦，”他停了下来，“哇哦，声音不——样了啊，哇哦……”

“没事的，贾克斯，”安娜说，“别忘了我告诉过你，外面的世界里声音听起来可能不一样。”灵猴机甲发来的信息包提到过这一点；金属和塑料质地的底座传导声音的方式和数据地球里的虚拟身体不同。

贾克斯抬头面对着安娜，安娜则回以一个惊奇的眼神。她知道他并非真的在这具躯体里——贾克斯的代码还在网络上运行，这个机器人只是个华丽的外设而已——但是眼前的幻觉却无懈可击。哪怕在数据地球上交往了这么久，能亲眼看到贾克斯站在面前看着她还是让她激动不已。

“嗨，贾克斯，”她说，“是我，安娜。”

“你穿不——样的角色。”要克斯说。

“在外面世界，我们叫它‘躯体’，不是‘虚拟角色’。而且人们在这儿不能换躯体，我们只在数据地球才能换。在这里我们一直用同一具躯体。”

贾克斯沉默了一会儿，思考着什么。“你一直这样子？”

“呃，我可以换穿不同的衣服。但是没错，我就是这个模样。”

贾克斯走到安娜身边，靠近观看；而安娜则蹲下来，让他俩差不多一样高。贾克斯看着她的手，然后是手臂；她穿的是短袖。他的头离得更近了，安娜可以听到他的电子眼对焦时微弱的旋转声音。“很多细毛在你手臂上。”他说。

她笑了；她的虚拟角色的胳膊像婴儿一样光滑。“没错，是有。”

贾克斯抬起一只手，伸出拇指和食指想抓起那些毛发。他试了几次，但就像是售货机里机械臂的钳子一样，他的指头总是滑下来。接着，他掐住了她的皮肤试图抓起来。

“啊呦！贾克斯，这样很疼的。”

“对不起。”贾克斯检视着安娜的脸庞，“很小很小的洞在你脸上，到处有。”

安娜感觉到房间里其他人都在偷笑，“这些小洞叫‘毛孔’，”她边说边站起来，“咱们待会儿再谈我的皮肤吧，现在你可以参观——下这个房间。”

贾克斯转过身，缓缓地走过大厅，犹如一个小小的宇航员在探索未知的世界。他注意到一扇面朝停车场的窗户，便径直走了过去。

午后的阳光透过玻璃斜射进来。贾克斯迈入光束之中，又一下子退了出来。“那什么？”

“那是太阳，就跟数据地球里那个——样。”

贾克斯小心地再次走到阳光中，“不像。这个太阳太亮，太亮，太亮。”

“没错。”

“太阳不需要太亮，太亮，太亮。”

安娜大笑，“我想你是对的。”

贾克斯转身向她走来，看着她裤子上的纤维。她试着轻抚他的后脑勺，他则顺势让身体倚靠着她的手——显然机器人体内的触觉传感器运转良好。她能感觉到他的重量，还有他体内元件的动态阻力。接着贾克斯拥抱住她的腿。

“让我留着他好不好？”她问其他人，“是他自己跟着我回来的呀。”大家全都笑了。

“你现在是这么说，”麦黑什道，“等他把你的毛巾冲到厕所里，看你怎么办。”

“知道啦，知道啦。”安娜说。蓝色伽马之所以把自身定位在虚拟世界而非现实世界有很多原因：比如成本低廉，容易建立社交网络等等，其中有个原因就是财产损坏的风险。他们可不能卖给顾客一个能把现实里的百叶窗帘扯下来的宠物，或者能在你现实里的地毯上浇起蛋黄酱城堡。“我就是觉得这样看到贾克斯真好。”

“没错，确实很棒。为灵猴机甲着想的话，我希望这些体验到了录像里仍然能表现出来。”灵猴机甲玩具公司不准备销售这些机器人身体，而是打算出租，一次几小时。数码体会在大阪城郊外的一座设施里接入现实的身体，然后踏上一次现实世界的野外旅行；而主人可以从搭载在迷你飞艇上的摄像头中观看宠物的举动。安娜心中涌起一阵强烈的冲动——这样看着贾克斯让她意识到，自己是多么怀念抚养动物时的现实接触，那种感受和通过屏幕抚养数码体又是何等的不同。

罗宾问麦黑什：“你打算让所有的吉祥物都在机器人身体里试一圈吗？”

“没错，但要等它们都通过灵活性测试之后。我们要是把这个弄坏了，灵猴机甲可不会再免费给我们——个。”

贾克斯现在在玩她的帆布鞋，扯着鞋带末端。平日里安娜并不那么在乎金钱，可是现在，感受着自己的鞋带被贾克斯扯紧，她真希望自己是个有钱人。付得起的话，她会毫不犹豫地买下这样——个机器人。

不同的员工轮流带领吉祥物们参观现实世界；德雷克通常会带上马可或者波罗。他最开始的想法是把他们带到室外，环游蓝色伽马总部所在的写字楼园区，给他们看停车场之间的花草和灌木。他把那个螃蟹模样的园丁机器人指给他们看，那是一次把数码体带到现实世界的更早的尝试。那个机器人装备有一把细长的园丁手铲，用于除杂草，而它的辛劳出自本能，是数据地球的温床里无数代园艺竞赛的成果——每一代的获胜者产生下一代继续参赛，最后产生了它。德雷克很想知道，吉祥物们在听到这个除草机器人的故事后会作何反应，会不会因为这也是来自数据地球的“出逃者”而产生认同感呢？但他们好像对此没有一点兴趣。

真正令吉祥物们着迷的却是各种物体的质感。在数据地球，虽然物体表面的视觉效果相当精细，但是除了摩擦力之外，就再没有触觉质地了，毕竟大部分玩家的手柄都没有触感传递功能，因此大部分商家也不愿费事为他们的环境界面植入触觉质感。而现在，数码体在真实世界里感受到了这些表面，它们在这最简单的事物里发现了全新的体验。马可从那具机器人躯体回来之后，整天喋喋不休地说着地毯和家具覆料；而波罗穿着这具躯体的时候，把所有时间都花在了抚摸台阶的砂质防滑层上。这样顺理成章的，手指上的传感垫成了最先需要替换的零件。马可接着又注意到德雷克的嘴和他自己的如何不同。数码体的嘴和人类只是看起来相似；尽管它们说话时嘴唇也在动，但数码体的语音发声器并非基于物理结构。马可很想了解声音产生的机理，德雷克每次说话时，他都要把手指放到德雷克的嘴唇上去感觉。而波罗惊讶地发现，当德雷克吞咽时，食物真的从他的喉咙中通过，而不是像数码体食物那样直接消失。

德雷克曾经担心，数码体在懂得它们自身躯体的局限性后可能会感到苦恼；但实际上，它们只是觉得这——切非常好玩儿。

数码体穿上机器人躯体还带来了一个意想不到的好处，就是人们能在比数据地球里更近的距离去观察他们的脸孔，这样，德雷克在数码体面部表情上下的工夫也更容易被欣赏到。

有——天安娜来到他的工作间，激动地说：“你真了不起！”

“呃……谢谢。”

“我刚看到马可做了一个好笑到极点的表情。你真应该看看。我可以用一下吗？”安娜指着他的键盘，德雷克把椅子向后挪去给安娜让位。她在他的屏幕上打开两个视频窗口：一个来自机器人身上的摄像头，显示的是数码体的视角；另一个来自机器人头盔屏幕上显示的内容。从前者来看，他们又到停车场去玩儿了。

“他上星期去了野外旅行，”安娜解释道，“让他着迷得不行。现在他觉得写字楼园区一点意思都没有了。”

屏幕上的马可说：“想去公园我们野外旅行。”

“你在这里也可以玩得一样开心啊。”屏幕上，安娜示意马可跟她走。

图像晃来晃去，因为马可正在摇头。“不一样，公园更开心。让我展示给你看。”

“我们去不了那个公园。那里非常非常远；我们要走很长时间才能到那里。”

“开传送门。”

“对不起马可，外面的世界里我开不了传送门。”

“注意看他的脸。”安娜说。

“你试试。好好试试，求你啦，求你啦。”马可的熊猫脸上现出一副乞求的表情，这表情连德雷克自己以前都没见过。他忍不住大笑起来。

安娜也笑了，然后说：“继续看。”

屏幕上她说：“马可呀，我再努力也没有用；外面世界没有传送门，只有数据地球才有。”

“那我们去数据地球，那里开通道。”

“如果那边有一具身体给你穿的话，你是可以这样做，但我没法换另一具身体，只能移动这一个。这要花很长的时间。”

马可想了想，德雷克很高兴看到数码体的脸真的能够显示出他的怀疑。“外面世界真无趣。”他大声说。

德雷克和安娜哈哈大笑起来。她关了窗口说：“你的工作做得棒极了。”

“谢谢，谢谢你给我看这些，我可以开心一整天了。”

“不用谢。”

得知早先的工作已经结出硕果，这让他很开心，因为他最近的任务大多很无趣。千纸和花百姿的数码体已经开始推出更加多样的虚拟角色，比如小龙、小狮鹫，还有其他神话中的生物；因此蓝色伽马也打算为神经源的数码体提供类似的躯体。新的虚拟角色是在已有角色的基础上直接改装而成，对于它们的面部表情没有什么新要求。

事实上，他最新的任务是去创造一个根本没有面部表情的角色。有一群人工生命的狂热爱好者为神经源基因组的潜力所震撼，等不及真正的智能从现有的虚拟生物圈里演化出来，而是委托蓝色伽马为他们设计出一种外星智能物种。研发团队设计出了一种新的个性群，和蓝色伽马销售的那些品系有天壤之别。德雷克设计的新躯体有三条腿，有一对触手但没有胳膊，还有一条可以缠卷的尾巴。有些爱好者想要更奇特的身体造型，环境也要换用另一套物理定律，但是德雷克提醒他们，抚养数码体的时候他们自己也得穿着类似的虚拟角色，而光是控制触手就已经难如登天了。

这些狂热者将他们的新物种命名为“陌兽”，并且创立了一个名为“数据火星”的私人大陆，他们打算在这里从零开始创造一套外星文化。德雷克对此非常好奇，却无法参与，因为在数码体面前获准使用的语言只有人工语言“逻辑语”［２］的——种变体方言。他很好奇这些爱好者在这个项目上能走多远，且不说创造世界的障碍是如此巨大，抚养异体兽恐怕也不会带给他们像德雷克和安娜刚才欣赏马可时的那种乐趣。他们所能获得的只是一些纯理性的东西，长此以往，他们能受得了吗？

［１］一种商业模式，以极低的价格销售基本产品（饵），但相关耗材或服务（钩）却极其昂贵，从而盈利。

［２］一种基于一阶逻辑构建的人工语言，具有严格的无歧义性。

第三章

接下来的一年里，蓝色伽马的前景预报从阳光灿烂变成了乌云密布。新顾客的购买量已经下滑，更糟的是，食品发放软件带来的收益也已经下跌了：越来越多的现有顾客停止了数码体的运行。

问题在于，神经源数码体度过了婴儿期，它们的要求变得越来越高。蓝色伽马原先的计划是把它们培育成既聪明又温顺的宠物，但是任何基因组——哪怕是数字基因组——都有内在的不可预知性，现在看来设计者没能达成目标。数码体变成了一场难度过大的游戏，他们提供的挑战——奖赏的平衡已经偏离了最佳状态，在大多数人的眼中已不再是乐趣，因此他们停止了运行。你可以责怪狗的主人没做好准备就买下它，却没法责怪蓝色伽马的顾客事先没做准备工作。毕竟连公司自己也没想到数码体会发育成这个样子。

一些志愿者开始维持一些救助点，收养被人类抛弃的数码体，希望能为它们找到新主人。这些志愿者尝试了许多不同的方法：有些让数码体不受干扰地运行，有些则每过几天就把数码体恢复到上一个记录点，以免它们因被抛弃而产生心理隐患，从而难以被人认领。这两种策略都没能有效地吸引潜在的顾客。偶尔会有人想尝试一下成熟的数码体而不愿意从婴儿期开始养大，但这样的领养大都不会维持很久，最后收养所实际上变成了数码体的仓库。

安娜不愿看到这样的趋势，但她懂得动物福利的现实就是如此：永远不可能挽救每一个动物。她能做的只有保护蓝色伽马的吉祥物免受冲击，可这种现象蔓延得如此之快，连做到这一点都显得不现实了。一次又一次，当她把吉祥物们带到游乐场时，总有一只数码体会意识到，某个一直以来的玩伴突然不见了。

今天的游乐场之行和以往不同，今天有个惊喜在等着他们。吉祥物们甚至还没有全都走出传送门，贾克斯和马克就注意到了一只穿着机器人角色的数码体。他们同时喊着：“提波！”然后向他跑去。

提波是除了吉祥物之外最早的数码体之一，他的主人是一个测试员，名叫卡尔顿。他在一个月前停用了提波，安娜很高兴看到这不是一次永久停用。趁数码体在聊天的时候，她走到卡尔顿身边和他攀谈起来。他解释说之前只想要休息一下，现在已经准备好再次给予提波应有的关注。

晚些时候，当她把吉祥物们从游乐场带回蓝色伽马的小岛之后，贾克斯给她讲了自己和提波的谈话。“把他不在的那段时间里发生的那些趣事告诉他。告诉他野外旅行动物园很有趣，很好玩。”

“他有没有因为错过了这些事情而伤心呢？”

“没，他反而争论说旅行去的是商场不是动物园，但那是我们上个月去的啊。”

“那是因为他不在的那段时间一直处于停用状态，”安娜解释道，“所以上个月的旅行在他看来就像在昨天——样。”

“我说那个，”贾克斯说，安娜为他的理解能力而大吃一惊。“但他不信。他争论直到马可和洛莉也告诉他。然后他伤心。”

“嗯，我很确定还有别的机会去动物园的。”

“不因为错过动物园。伤心错过一月。”

“哦。”

“我不要被挂起。不要错过一月。”

安娜竭尽全力让自己的声音听起来让人安心。“你不需要担心那个，贾克斯。”

“你不挂起我，是吧？”

“是的。”

贾克斯似乎对这回答很满意，这让她松了一口气；他好像还没意识到自己可以向别人索取承诺，而她不得不尴尬地承认，她很高兴自己不用向他做出这番承诺。还好她清楚，不管什么时候公司需要挂起吉祥物的时候，不会只是一只，几乎肯定是全部，这样至少在群体内部不会出现经历上的差异。假如公司什么时候想要把吉祥物回到之前的时间点，情况也是如此。当顾客发现自己的数码体要求过高时，公司提出的建议里就包括恢复到较早的记录点；有人议论说，公司也应该对自己的吉祥物这样做，以表示对这项策略的支持。

安娜看了看时间，开始启动一些游戏，让吉祥物自己去玩儿：现在是训练蓝色伽马新生产线上的数码体的时间了。从神经源基因组诞生到现在这几年里，研发团队已经开发出一些更高级的工具来分析基因组中不同基因之间的相互作用，他们对基因组的种种特征也有了更深入的了解。最近他们创造的一类个性群，在认知能力的可塑性方面较低，这样子产生的数码体应该会更快地稳定下来，永远温顺下去。真正能检验他们工作成效的办法是让顾客们抚养它们几年，看看会发生什么事；但是研发者对此很有信心。这与公司最早的目标——一创造出一直在成长的数码体——相比已经有了很大的差距，可非常时期就得使用非常手段。蓝色伽马指望这些新的数码体能够帮公司止住利润下滑，因此安娜和测试团队的其他人员都在加紧训练它们。

她的吉祥物们被训练得很好，只有得到她的许可，他们才会开始玩游戏。“大家听好了，开始吧。”她说，接着所有的数码体都冲向他们最喜欢的游戏。“回头见。”

“不。”贾克斯说，他停了下来，走回她的角色身边。“不想玩儿。”

“什么？你肯定想玩儿。”

“不玩。想工作。”

安娜笑了，“啊？为什么你想要工作呢？”

“得到钱。”

她意识到贾克斯说话的时候并不高兴，他的情绪很阴郁。因此她更郑重地问：“你干什么事情需要钱啊？”

“不需要。给你。”

“你为什么想要给我钱呢？”

“你需要。”他一字一句地说。

“我说过我需要钱吗？什么时候？”

“上周问为什么你和别的数码体玩儿而不和我，你说你和他们玩时人们给你钱。如果有钱，可以给你。这样你和我玩得更多。”

“哦，贾克斯。”她一时间失语了，“你真好。”

又一年过去了，形势逐渐变得明朗起来：蓝色伽马正在逐渐关闭它的各项业务。没有足够的顾客愿意尝试永远温顺如一的数码体。公司内部讨论过很多提案，比如可以听懂语言但不能说话的数码体品系，但是为时已晚。顾客群体已经缩减成一个小小的核心用户群，而他们带来的收益并不足以维持蓝色伽马的运作。此后，公司将会发布一个免费版的食品发放软件，让那些仍然想养数码体的顾客能永远养下去，但是其他的问题就只能靠顾客自己解决了。

对于大多数雇员来说，这不是第一次经历公司倒闭了，因此他们虽然很伤心，但这不过是软件行业里又一个人生阶段的落幕而已。可是对于安娜而言，蓝色伽马的倒闭让她想起了动物园的关闭，那是一生中最让她心碎的时刻。每当她想起最后一次和她的猩猩们见面的那一天——幻想自己能够给它们解释明白为什么它们将会再也看不见她，希望它们能够适应新的家庭——她的眼睛仍然会湿润。当她决心转行接受软件业的培训时，她曾经庆幸自己在新的行业里不必再一次面对那样的别离。可出乎意料地，现在她在这里，却面对着一幕似曾相识的场景。

似曾相识，但并不全然一样。蓝色伽马无需为它的几十只吉祥物寻找新家，只需挂起它们就可以了，这不会像动物安乐死那样招来非议。安娜自己在培育期里已经亲手挂起了成千上万的数码体，而它们并没有死去，也不会感觉到被抛弃。如果要挂起吉祥物的话，唯一的痛苦是训练人员的；过去五年里，安娜每一天都和这些吉祥物待在一起，她不希望对它们说再见。幸好，还有另一种选择：在数据地球里，任何雇员都可以承担起养一只吉祥物做宠物的费用，而养一只猩猩在公寓里则是完全不可能的事情。

哪怕这件事如此容易，安娜依然惊讶地发现大多数雇员并不想去收养一只吉祥物。她知道德雷克肯定能收养一只——他和她一样关爱着数码体——可是训练人员大都出乎意料地不愿收养它们。他们喜欢数码体，可大部分人觉得现在这种情况下养一只数码体就好像为公司无偿工作一样。安娜本来确信罗宾肯定会领养一只的，可是午餐时间罗宾抢先告诉了她一个消息。

“我们还不打算告诉别人，”罗宾对她说，“但是……我怀孕了。”

“真的吗？恭喜！”

罗宾咧嘴一笑，“谢谢！”她一口气向安娜吐露了一大堆压在心头已久的事情：她和自己的爱伴琳达所想的种种可能，他们试着赌了一把卵子融合技术，以及幸运地中了头彩。安娜和罗宾讨论了找工作和休产假的问题，话题最后转到了领养吉祥物。

“很明显你要忙得不可开交了，”安娜说，“但你考虑过收养洛莉吗？”洛莉对于怀孕的反应一定很有趣。

“不。”罗宾摇头说，“我已经过了数码体那个阶段了。”

“过了阶段？”

“我已经做好准备去迎接真东西了。你明白我的意思吗？”

安娜小心翼翼地说：“恐怕我不清楚。”

“人们总是说，是演化决定了我们总会想要孩子。我曾以为那是瞎说，可我现在改主意了。”罗宾的表情变得沉醉起来，她好像是在自言自语，“小猫，小狗，数码体，这些都不过是我们真正应该关心的东西的替代品。到头来你会明白一个孩子意味着什么——然后一切都变了。你会意识到，你过去的一切感受都不是——”罗宾停了下来，“我是说，对我而言，这让我看问题更全面了。”

和动物打交道的女性总是能听到这种言论：她们对动物的爱一定是来自于她们对于抚养孩子的冲动的升华。安娜早就对这种把人脸谱化的言论厌烦了。她确实喜欢孩子，可孩子并不是唯一的标准，不应该把一切成就都用孩子来衡量。照顾动物这件事本身是非常有意义的，干这一行不需要任何借口或辩解。

当她刚开始在蓝色伽马工作时，她对于数码体不会说类似的话；但现在她意识到，这对它们而言可能是成立的。

第四章

蓝色伽马倒闭后的一年里，德雷克的生活发生了许多变化。他在妻子温蒂的公司找到一份工作，为电视制作虚拟动画演员。他很幸运，接手的这部连续剧有个好剧本，剧中的对话听起来机智灵巧，每一个字和每一个音调全都经过了煞费苦心的编排。动画制作期间，这些对话他要听成百上千次，到最后的表现哪怕再完美，在他听来也只剩下浮华和乏味。

相比之下，有马可与波罗相伴的生活却充满了连续不断的惊喜。他把他俩都收养了，因为他俩不想分开。虽然现在他不能像为蓝色伽马工作时那样陪他们玩儿那么长时间，但现在其实比以前更有趣了：那些还在养着数码体的顾客组成了一个神经源用户小组，保持联络；虽然这比以前的圈子要小，成员却更加活跃和热心，而他们的努力也结出了成果。

今天是周末，德雷克正开车驶向公园，后面坐的是马可，穿着机器人的身体。他就站在座位上——身上系着安全带——这样可以看到窗户外面的景色。他在找寻着一切他只在视频里看过的东西，在数据地球见不到的东西。

“敲防川。”马可指向窗外。

“消防栓。”

“消防栓。”

“对啦。”

马可所穿的这个机器人身体就是蓝色伽马曾经拥有的那一具。集体野外旅行已经不复存在，蓝色伽马关闭之后不久，灵猴机甲也关门了，因此安娜在找到——份为碳埋存［１］站点测试软件的工作之后，就折价买下了这具躯体，给贾克斯用。她上周把躯体借给了德雷克，让马可和波罗也可以玩一玩；现在他就是来归还的。她今天一天都会待在公园里，让其他数码体的主人都有机会用——下。

“下次手工课我做消防栓，”马可说，“用圆柱，用圆锥，用圆柱。”

“好主意。”德雷克说。

马可所说的手工课是现在数码体每天都要进行的项目：这课程始于几个月之前，有个数码体主人写了一款软件，允许从数据地球环境内部来操作某些在屏编辑工具。通过操纵一个由滑杆和按钮组成的界面，数码体现在可以生成不同形状的实体，改变它们的颜色，以及用各种各样的方式组合和编辑。现在的数码体感觉自己仿佛在天堂，似乎被赋予了魔力；考虑到编辑软件绕过了数据地球自身的物理模拟，某种意义上讲这确实是魔力。每天下班后德雷克登人数据地球时，马可和波罗都会向他展示他们做出的小物件。

“然后绐波罗看如何？公园！已经公园了？”

“没有，我们还没到呢。”

“牌子写着‘公园２０２０’。”马可指向他们刚驶过的一块标牌。

“那是‘公元２０２０’，是年份，不是用来玩的公园。我们还有一小段路呢。”

“公元。”马可说，看着标牌向远方退去。数码体的另——项新活动是认字。

马可和波罗以前很少注意到文字一一在数据地球，除了屏幕注释外没有多少别的文字，而数码体是看不到这些注释的。但有一位主人成功地教会了他的数码体认出写在卡片上的命令，这促使很多人都开始尝试。总的来说，神经源数码体在识别文字方面的表现相当不错，但把字母与读音联系起来对它们而言则有些困难。这似乎是神经源基因组特有的一种症状。其他的用户组表明，千纸的数码体很容易就能学会字母，但花百姿的数码体怎么教都学不会。

马可、波罗、贾克斯还有其他一些数码体在上同一堂阅读课，他们似乎很喜欢这门课程。数码体并不是从小听着床边故事长大的，因此他们不像人类的小孩那样对文字有特殊的痴迷。但他们普遍的好奇心——还有主人的夸奖——却促使他们去探索文字的种种可能用途。德雷克为这个过程激动不已，也时常叹息蓝色伽马过早倒闭而没能见证这一切的发生。

他们抵达了公园；德雷克停车时，安娜向他们走了过来。德雷克刚把马可从车里放下来，他就给了安娜——个拥抱。

“嗨，安娜。”

“嗨，马可，”安娜轻抚着机器人的后脑勺，“你还待在机器人身体里？已经一个整星期了。还没玩儿够吗？”

“想坐车。”

“你们想在公园里玩——会儿吗？”

“不，我们现在就走。温蒂不想我们留下。再见安娜。”德雷克已经从汽车后座拿出了机器人的充电平台。数码体们经过训练，已经学会了在回到数据地球之前先把身体留在充电平台上面。马可踏上了充电平台，然后机器人的头盔暗了下来。

安娜取出手持电脑，让另一只数码体做好准备进入机器人的身体。“这么说你也得上路了？”她问德雷克。

“不，我哪儿都不去。”

“那马可刚才那句话是什么意思？”

“呃……”

“让我猜猜，是温蒂觉得你和数码体在一起的时间太多了，对吧？”

“没错。”德雷克回答。让温蒂同样不高兴的是他和安娜在一起的时间，但是这个不必向安娜提及，他一再向温蒂保证，安娜和他之间没有什么，他们只是朋友，都喜欢数码体而已。

机器人的头盔亮了起来，显示出一只小豹子的脸，德雷克认出那是扎弗，他的主人是一位测试人员。“嗨，安娜，嗨，德雷克。”扎弗说，然后立刻向附近的一棵树跑去，德雷克和安娜跟在后面。

“这么说就算让她看到数码体在机器人的身体里，也改变不了她的看法吗？”安娜问道。

德雷克一边拦住扎弗，不让他去捡一堆狗粪，一边对安娜说：“是的。她依然不明白，为什么我不找个机会把他们挂起。”

“想找个理解你的人并不容易，”安娜说，“就跟我在动物园工作时一样。那时，每个跟我约会的人都觉得好像动物才是我心中第一位的，而他只能排第二。现在如果我告诉哪个人，我在付钱给我的数码体上阅读课，他看我的眼神就像我疯了——样。”

“花钱上课也是温蒂不喜欢的事情之一。”

他们看着扎弗从一堆枯枝败叶中挑出一张朽烂到近乎透明的叶子，然后贴在脸上露出眼睛，就像是一副蔬菜面具。“不过我想这不能怪他们，”安娜说，“我自己都花了不少时间才明白数码体的可爱之处。”

“我可不是这样，”德雷克说，“我一开始就觉得这些数码体太神奇了。”

“是啊，”安娜表示赞同，“你这样的人难得一见。”

德雷克看着她陪扎弗玩儿，很钦佩她引导扎弗时表现出的耐心细致。上一次他如此深切地感到和一位女性的共通还是在他遇到温蒂的时候，他俩对于用动画赋予角色以生命都抱有极大的热情。要不是他已经结婚，也许他会邀请安娜出去约会，但现在考虑这件事情已经没有意义了。他们只能止于朋友阶段，这样已经很好了。

又一年过去了，这天晚上安娜待在她的公寓里。电脑上一个窗口显示的是数据地球，贾克斯和另外几只数码体结成小组约好在这个时间一起出来玩儿，而安娜的角色则站在一旁照看着他们。来玩儿的数码体越来越少——比方说提波就好几个月没出现过了——不过贾克斯的小组最近和另一个小组合并了，所以他依然有机会结交新朋友。有几只数码体身穿装备正在攀岩，有的在游乐场上玩玩具，还有两三只在看虚拟电视。

在另一个窗口里，安娜浏览着数码体的用户组论坛。今日的热点是“信息自由阵线”的最新行动。这个组织致力于消灭私有数据，让一切信息都成为公有财产。前一周他们公布了破解数据地球访问控制机制［２］的技术，最近几天里人们常常能看到自己游戏背包里稀有而昂贵的装备被别人像发传单一样扔得遍地都是。自从这个问题出现以来，安娜就再没去过数据地球的游戏大陆。

游乐场上，贾克斯和马可决定玩一个新游戏。他俩趴下身去手脚着地，然后开始四处爬行。贾克斯向安娜招手，于是她走了过去。“安娜，”他说，“你知道蚂蚁能互相说话吗？”

贾克斯和马可看了一些自然生态的纪录片。“嗯，我听说过。”安娜答道。

“你知道吗？我们懂得它们所说的话。”

“你们懂？”

“我们说蚂蚁话。像这样：唧咕噼噗嘀哞哔卟。”

马可紧接着回答：“哔哒啼嗒噜噗唔啪。”

“这是什么意思啊？”

“不告诉你。只有我们知道。”

“我们和蚂蚁。”马可补充道。

接着贾克斯和马可都“哞哞哞”地大笑起来，安娜也笑了。他俩跑开去玩别的东西了，而她则继续浏览论坛。

来自：海伦·柯斯塔丝

你觉得我们有必要担心我们的数码体被别人复制吗？

来自：斯图亚特·格思特

谁会费那个劲呢？要是数码体的需求还旺盛的话，蓝色伽马也不至于关门了。记得救助点的事吗？那些数码体白送都送不出去。从那以后，数码体就很少有人问津了。

游乐场上，贾克斯大喊：“我赢了！”他和马可在玩某种看不太明白的游戏。他高兴得摇来晃去。

“好了，”马可说，“该你啦。”他从旁边的玩具堆中翻出——支口笛，然后递给贾克斯。

贾克斯把笛子的一头衔在嘴里，跪在地上，然后用笛子很有节奏地一下下戳着马可的腰部，大概在他肚脐眼的部位——如果他有肚脐的话。

安娜问：“贾克斯，你在做什么？”

贾克斯把笛子从嘴里拿出来。“给马可口交。”

“什么？你在哪里看见口交了？”

“昨天电视上。”

她转身看了看电视，现在上面播的是儿童动画。电视的内容本来应该是全部来自一个儿童节目数据库的，很可能是有人利用了信息自由阵线的黑客技术恶意插进了一段成人视频。当着数码体的面，她决定装成没什么大不了的样子。“知道了。”她说，贾克斯和马可又开始玩他们的哑剧。然后她在论坛上发了一个帖子告诉大家有人在窜改视频，继续浏览。

几分钟后，安娜听到一阵不寻常的嘁喳响声，她看到贾克斯已经跑去看电视了，所有的数码体都在看。她的角色也走过去，看看到底是什么吸引了他们的兴趣。

虚拟电视上，一个穿着小丑虚拟角色的人正把一只小狗形状的数码体压在地上，用一把锤子不停地狠砸数码体的腿。数码体的腿不会被砸断，因为它的身躯设计时并没有考虑这样的重伤，同样道理它也很可能没法叫喊呼救；可这只数码体一定很痛苦，而那嘁碴声是它表达自己痛苦的唯一方式。

安娜关上了虚拟电视。

“怎么了？”贾克斯问。另外几只数码体也重复问了这个问题。她没有回答。她只是在现实里的屏幕上另外打开了一个窗口，观看这段视频的描述。这不是动画，而是某个恶意玩家使用自由阵线的技术黑掉了数码体身体里的痛感阻隔器。更糟的是，那只数码体并不是随便造出来的，而是借用了某个人的宠物，用自由阵线的技术非法克隆的。原始的数码体名叫奈缇，安娜想起来他是贾克斯阅读课上的同学。

不管是谁克隆了奈缇，他很可能也拥有贾克斯的克隆体，或者他可能正在克隆贾克斯。考虑到数据地球的分布式架构［３］，只要那个恶意玩家和游乐场同处一片大陆，贾克斯就有危险。

贾克斯还在问电视上是怎么回事。安娜打开一个新窗口，上面列出在她账号下所有的数据地球进程列表，她找到代表贾克斯的那个进程，然后把它挂起了。游乐场上，贾克斯话说到一半突然停住，接着就消失了。

“贾克斯怎么了？”马可问。

安娜打开了德雷克的进程管理器——他们两人都互相给了对方最高账户权限——然后关掉了马可和波罗。但她没有关掉其他数码体的权限，她不知道接下来该怎么办。她看出了他们的不安和困惑。他们并没有动物那样的“战或逃”［４］的应激反应机制，也不会因闻到信息素［５］或听到呼救信号而作出反应，但他们确实有类似于镜像神经元［６］的结构。这种结构有助于他们的学习和社交，但也意味着他们看到电视上的场景后会感到痛苦。

让安娜带数码体一起来玩儿的主人们都给了安娜一定的权限，允许数码体打个盹儿，但是哪怕他们睡觉时进程都仍然在运行，这意味着他们仍然有被克隆的危险。她决定把数码体们转移到一座远离主要大陆的小岛上，希望可以减小被恶意玩家扫描到的可能性。

“大家听好啦，”安娜宣布，“我们要去动物园了。”她打开了一扇通往盘古群岛游客中心的传送门，并领着数码体走了进去。游客中心看起来没人，但她不敢冒任何风险。她强行让数码体全部入睡，然后给他们的主人发去讯息，告诉他们在哪里接他们回去。她让虚拟角色看着他们，然后在论坛上发帖警告所有人。

接下来的一小时里主人们陆续赶到，接走了数码体，安娜则在论坛上目睹了狂风暴雨般的讨论。愤怒的呼喊和层出不穷的诉诸法律的威胁，指向每一可能的有责任者。有些玩家认为，数码体的主人们管好自己的宠物就是了，没必要多管别人的事情，反正数码体又不值什么钱，这种态度引发了一场大对喷。安娜忽略了大部分的帖子，而是专心寻找瑞山数码对此事件的回应——那是负责运营数据地球平台的公司。最后终于有了正式消息：

来自：恩里克·贝尔川

瑞山已经有了一个数据地球安全架构的升级包，他们声称这能够补上这个漏洞。这本来是作为明年更新的一部分的，但是由于近来发生的一系列事件，他们正在匆忙赶工。他们无法给出更新完成的时间表。在更新完毕之前，大家最好把自己的数码体全部挂起。

来自：玛丽亚·郑

还有一个选择。莉丝玛·吴在架设一个私人小岛，只有经她许可的代码才可以在上面运行。你新买的一切东西都用不成，但是神经源数码体在上面运行一切正常。如果你想进入访客名单的话，请联系她。

安娜给莉丝玛发去一个请求，收到一封自动回复说小岛架设完成时会通知大家的。安娜的电脑还没有做好设置，没法在本地运行一套数据地球环境的程序；但她有一个备选方案。她花了一小时设定系统，让它能够完全在本地运行神经源引擎的进程。没有了数据地球的传送门系统，她只能手动载入贾克斯的存储状态，最后她终于让贾克斯在机器人的身体里运行起来。

“关掉电视？”他停下了，意识到他周围的环境全变了，“怎么回事？”

“没事的，贾克斯。”

他看到自己穿着的身体。“我在外面世界。”他向她望去。

“你把我挂起了？”

“是的，我很抱歉，我知道我说过我不会的，可我真的迫不得已。”

他哀伤地问：“为什么？”

安娜不知怎么就紧紧地抱住了机器人的身体。她的拥抱是那样的紧，让她自己都有点不好意思。“我只是想保护你而已。”

一个月之后，数据地球的安全系统完成了升级。信息自由阵线声称，他们不为恶意玩家利用他们公布的信息而负责，他们的说法是任何自由都有被滥用的潜在可能。好在他们的注意力转移到了其他项目。数据地球上的公共大陆对于数码体来说，起码暂时是安全了，但伤害业已造成，无法消弭。没有什么办法能追踪到那些私下运行的非法克隆体，就算不再有人放出虐待数码体的视频，很多神经源用户一想起这种事情可能还在进行就难过不已。他们选择了永久性挂起自己的数码体，然后离开用户组。

与此同时，另一些人则非常兴奋地看到了利用数码体副本的可能性，特别是利用那些学会识字的数码体。有一家人工智能机构的研究人员想研究温室里的数码体能否在没有外界干预下形成自己的文化，但他们找不到能识字的数码体，也没兴趣自己养。现在这些研究者在努力收集尽可能多的识字的数码体，其中大多是千纸的数码体（因为它们的阅读能力最强），其中也混有少数的神经源。他们把这些数码体放置在私人小岛里，岛上备有文字和软件图书馆，然后将小岛加速运行，以促进进化。论坛上全是对结局的各种猜测：瓶中之城［７］，或者桌面的微宇宙。

德雷克则认为这个想法荒谬至极，一群被抛弃的孩子不可能主动地去自学东西，不管留给他们多少书也没用。因此他对结果毫不惊讶：每一个测试种群最后都完全变野了。数码体天生没有多少侵略性，还不至于沦落到《蝇王》［８］那种野蛮程度，他们只是分化成了散乱的、没有等级区分的小圈子。一开始，每个小圈子还能靠习惯的力量维持每天的日常行为——到了上课时间他们就读书和使用教育软件，下课了就去游乐场一起玩耍。可是，没了强化过程，这些仪式很快就分崩离析了。每一个物件都成了玩具，每一处空地都成了游乐场，渐渐地，他们连原有的技能都丢掉了。某种意义上他们倒是发展出了一套自己的文化，可如果把野生数码体放进生物圈里让它们自由演化，得到的无非也就是如此。

尽管这也很有趣，但和研究人员所期待的新生文明还是相距甚远，于是，他们尝试对岛屿进行重新设计。首先是尝试增加测试种群的多样性，请求那些识字数码体的主人捐赠一些副本；出乎德雷克预料的是，有几个主人真的向他们寄来了副本。这些人已经厌倦了花钱给数码体上阅读课，只要这些未经养育的数码体没有遭受什么痛苦他们就满足了。研究者还设计了各式各样的奖惩措施——一都是全自动化的，不需要和外界实时交互——以此激励数码体，而懒惰也会付出相应的代价。虽然改进后的测试里确有几个种群没有野化，但也没有——个种群开始攀登技术的高峰。

研究者的结论是千纸基因组中缺少了一些东西，但在德雷克看来，错在研究者自己。他们忽略了一个简单的事实：复杂心智不可能自动产生，不然也不会有狼孩了。而且心智也不像野草，无人照看也能茂盛生长，不然孤儿院里的每一个儿童都应该能茁壮成长。只有接受了其他心智的栽培，一个心智的潜力才可能被完全开发出来。而这种栽培正是他一直努力带给马可和波罗的东西。

马可和波罗偶尔也会吵架，但每次很快就和好了。可前几天他俩争论马可比波罗早出生是否公平，不知怎么的就越吵越凶。自那天起，两只数码体之间就没怎么说过话。因此，现在看到他俩一起走过来，德雷克不禁松了一口气。

“看你俩又在——起了，真好。和解了吗？”

“没！”波罗说，“还气着。”

“那真遗憾。”

“我们都要你帮忙。”马可说。

“好啊，我能帮什么忙？”

“想要你把我们回滚到上周，大吵架之前。”

“什么？”这是他头一回听到数码体主动要求把自己恢复到记录点。“你们为什么想要这样呢？”

“我不想记得大吵架。”马可说。

“我想高兴，不想生气。”波罗说，“你希望我们高兴，对吧？”

德雷克决定不要和他们讨论恢复前后他们将有何不同。“当然希望，但总不能每次你们一吵架，我就把你们恢复到上一个点吧。静下心来等一阵子，你们就不会这么生气了。”

“等过了，还是生气。”波罗说，“吵得凶凶。想让这事从没发生过。”

德雷克尽可能用安抚的语调说：“可它已经发生了，你们应该学会如何处理它。”

“不！”波罗喊道，“我生气生气！要你修好！”

“为什么你想我们永远生气呢？”马可问。

“我不是想让你们一直生气，我想让你们互相宽恕。但如果你们做不到的话，我们大家就都必须面对这个事实，这也包括我。”

“现在对你也生气！”马可说。

两只数码体各自朝不同的方向离开，都气鼓鼓的。德雷克不知道自己是否作出了正确的决定。抚养马可和波罗并不轻松，但他从来没有做过标记点回滚。这个策略迄今为止很好用，但他不确定将来是否依然有效。

抚养数码体并没有现成的指南。把养宠物或养孩子的技巧用在他们身上有时能成功，有时会失败。数码体的身体很简单，他们走向成熟的旅程中不会像有机躯体那样因为激素而遭遇青春的心情风雨，但这并不意味着他们不会有心境起伏，也不代表说他们的性格永不改变。在神经源基因组所能提供的相空间［９］之内，他们的心智在不断探索新的领域。其实，数码体甚至有可能永远也达不到所谓的“成熟”；所谓“发育平台期”的概念是基于生物模型建立的，对于数码体未必适用。他们的性格可能会一直以同样的速度演化下去，直到他们被挂起为止。只有时间能回答一切。

德雷克想找个人聊聊刚刚在马可和波罗身上发生的事，不幸的是，他想找的那个人不是他的妻子。温蒂能理解数码体具有不断成长的可能性，也懂得马可和波罗得到的关爱越多，他们就会越懂事，但她就是无法对这种前景产生半点热情。她一直对德雷克为数码体付出的时间和关注耿耿于怀，要是她知道他们在主动请求回滚，一定会觉得这是个绝好的时机来永远停用他们。

他想要倾谈的人，毫无疑问，是安娜。温蒂的担忧从前看似毫无依据，现在却已成真；他已经对安娜产生了一种超越友谊的情感，这是确凿无疑的。其实这并不是他与温蒂之间不和的原因，如果非要定义的话，这是结果。他和安娜一起度过的时光对他而言是种慰藉，在安娜这里，他可以毫无愧疚地享受数码体的陪伴。他生气的时候觉得完全是因为温蒂的态度才导致了两人的疏选，可冷静下来后，他又觉得这样想是不公平的。

重要的是，他并没有因为这份情感而做出任何实际行动，他也不准备这么做。他应该关心的是怎样和温蒂在对待数码体这件事上达成一致，如果他能做到这一点，安娜的吸引力应该就会逐渐消散。在此之前，他应该减少和安娜共处的时间。这并非易事，数码体主人的社群本来就非常小，和安娜的交往是不可避免的，他也不想让马可和波罗因为知道这件事而难过。他不知道该怎么做，但现在，他抑制住想给安娜打电话咨询建议的想法，只是在论坛上发了一个求助帖。

［１］为解决全球变暖危机而衍生的将二氧化碳捕获后埋存至地下或海中的技术，执行时需要大量的计算模拟。

［２］信息安全术语，指限制未授权用户访问某些内容的技术，比如加密。

［３］指的是由大量分散的计算机而非单一的中央服务器进行运算的网络结构。由于其分散性，很难拦截来自内部的有针对性的恶意攻击。

［４］指当遭遇威胁时，动物体内的交感神经系统会迅速兴奋起来，由此带来的一系列反应使动物进入高度兴奋和紧张状态，准备根据威胁的严重程度决定战斗或逃跑。这是动物神经系统最重要的反应模式之一。

［５］同种个体之间相互作用的化学物质，能影响彼此的行为、习性乃至发育和生理活动。信息素由体内腺体制造，直接排出散发到体外，信息素依靠空气、水等传导媒介传给其他个体。

［６］动物大脑中某一类神经元。当某些动物自己做出某一行为或者看到其他个体做出同样行为时。这一类神经元都会兴奋。学界猜想它们的存在对于动物的学习、模仿、同情、利他主义等等行为都有重要作用。

［７］这可能是在向超人系列漫画致敬。超人漫画中有一座城市名为“坎多”，被缩小后装入了瓶中。

［８］１９５４年出版的长篇小说，作者威廉·戈尔丁，他凭借该作品荣膺１９８３年诺贝尔文学奖。这本小说描写了一群小孩在二战期间流落孤岛试图自治，最后却陷入了彻底的野蛮之中。

［９］指的是一个系统的所有可能状态的集合构成的数学空间，其中每一点代表系统的一个状态。

第五章

又一年过去了。市场地幔之下的岩浆流已经转向，虚拟世界也随之经历了板块变迁：一个叫做“真实空间”的新平台因为运用了最新的分布式处理架构技术，成了数字地貌架设的热点。与此同时，任意之所和下一维度停止了扩张的步伐，地形逐渐稳定下来。数据地球向来是虚拟宇宙之中的一个不动点，不见大起大落，可是现在它的版图开始被侵蚀消失了。它的虚拟陆块像真实的岛屿一样，一个又一个地淹没在消费者的冷漠之中，消失在上涨的潮水里。

与此同时，随着用温室实验产生微型文明的尝试失败，人们对数码体生命体的总体兴趣也减退了。人们偶尔能在虚拟生物圈里发现有趣的新动物群，也许是某个物种产生出了奇特的躯体模式或者全新的生殖策略；但是一般认为，虚拟生物圈还不足以演化出真正的智能。生产千纸和花百姿引擎的公司也陷入了衰退中。许多技术评论员声称数码体技术已经式微，并据此认为实体化人工智能除了娱乐之外，别无用途；但——种新的基因组引擎——名为“玄思”［１］——的出现却使局势有所改观。

玄思的设计者希望开发能用软件进行教育的数码体，从而免去和人交流的需要，为此，他们制造出了一个能够生成孤僻和痴迷性格的基因组引擎。由这个引擎生成的绝大部分数码体都因为心理畸形而被抛弃了，但是也有少数几只获得了学习自觉性：只要有合适的教学软件，它们就能开开心心地连续学上几星期，这样就算是以温室速度运行也不会野化。有些热心者已经向人们展示了几只玄思数码体样本，它们在数学测试中足以胜过神经源、千纸和花百姿的数码体，不过所需的实时互动训练却远远少于这三者。有人设想，如果能把玄思数码体的能量导向某些实际用途，它们几个月之内就能被训练成有用的工人；问题是和它们打交道是如此无聊，就算它们需要的人类互动是如此之少，也没几个人愿意去做。

安娜带着贾克斯来到了“天国围攻”，这是数据地球一年来出现的第一个新的游戏大陆。她带着他在银色广场上参观，玩家在任务间隙时大都聚在这里聊天。这片宽广的庭院位于一朵积雨云的顶端，放眼望去，皆是汉白玉、天青石和金丝镶花。在这里，安娜必须穿她的游戏角色，智天使［２］隼，而贾克斯则保留着他——直以来的紫铜机器人形象。

在其他玩家之间闲逛时，安娜看到了一只数码体的在屏标识。它的形象是一个头大得不成比例的矮人，这是一个德雷塔的标准形象。所谓德雷塔，是一类玄思数码体，专长在于解决游戏大陆上的各种逻辑谜题。德雷塔起初的主人从真实空间平台上的“五大王朝”大陆里偷出了一个谜题生成器，训练了德雷塔，然后把它的副本发布到了公共领域。现在已经有相当多的玩家完成游戏任务时带上一只德雷塔，导致各大游戏公司都在考虑对谜题设计做出重大调整。

安娜把那只数码体指给贾克斯看，“看到那边那家伙没？它是只德雷塔。”

“真的？”贾克斯听说过德雷塔，但这还是他第一次亲眼看到。他走向那个矮人，“嗨，”他说，“我是贾克斯。”

“想解谜。”德雷塔说。

“你喜欢什么样的谜题呢？”

“想解谜。”德雷塔有点焦虑了，他在等待区里绕着圈子跑。

“想解谜。”

旁边——个身穿炽天使［３］鹗角色的玩家停下了谈话，向德雷塔伸出一根手指；德雷塔脚还没落地就停住了，然后缩成一个图标，跳进了一个玩家的物品栏里，就像是被——根皮筋牵进去了——样。

“德雷塔好奇怪。”贾克斯说。

“是挺奇怪的。”

“所有的德拉塔都那样？”

“我想是的。”

炽天使走向安娜，“你这是只什么数码体？没见过这样的。”

“他叫贾克斯。他是基于神经源基因组的。”

“没听说过这基因组。是新出的吗？”

炽天使的——位队友走了过来，他身穿尼弗巨人［４］的角色。“不是，老玩意儿了。上——代的。”

炽天使点点头，“他擅长解谜不？”

“不太擅长。”安娜说。

“那他能干些啥？”

“我喜欢唱歌。”贾克斯抢先答道。

“真的？那给咱唱支歌听听。”

这些鼓励对贾克斯而言已经足够了，他立马唱起了他喜欢的一首歌：《三分钱歌剧》［５］选段，“快刀麦克”。他词都记得，但唱出来的调子顶多只能算和原曲差得不太多。唱的时候他还来了段自编自排的伴舞，基本上就是一连串的摆姿态和手势；这是他从一部喜欢的印尼嘻哈音乐视频里看来的。

其他玩家看着他的表演从头笑到尾。贾克斯的表演以一个屈膝礼结束，大家都鼓起掌来。“这太赞了。”炽天使说。

安娜告诉贾克斯：“他的意思是他很喜欢。快说谢谢。”

“谢谢。”

炽天使转向安娜，“但是在迷宫里派不上啥用场，是吧？”

“他能给我们带来乐趣。”她回答。

“那肯定的。啥时候他学会解谜了给我发个消息，我要买一份。”他看到他的小队已经全部集合完毕。“好了，向下一个任务进发。祝你好运。”

“好运。”贾克斯回答。炽天使和他的队友们展翅起飞，排成阵形然后俯冲向一座遥远的山谷，贾克斯在后面挥手告别。

几天后，安娜看到用户组上的一个帖子，又想起了这件事。

来自：斯图亚特·格思特

昨天晚上我玩天国围攻的时候有队友带了一只德雷塔去完成任务，虽然这家伙一点都不好玩儿，但它确实是很管用。我由此想起，这两件事是不是鱼与熊掌不可兼得？那些玄思数码体其实没比咱们的好到哪儿去。咱们的数码体难道就不能既好玩又管用吗？

来自：玛利亚·郑

你是想出售你的数码体的副本吗？你觉得你能做得比安绰要好？

玛丽亚指的是一只名叫安绰的玄思数码体，它的主人布莱斯·塔博特把它训练成了个人助理。塔博特曾把安绰展示给“虚拟星期五”——这是一家专门设计行程安排软件的公司——并成功引起了公司决策层的兴趣。可是决策层收到样品副本后不久，合作就夭折了；塔博特没有意识到，安绰其实和德雷塔一样有强迫症，只是表现形式不同罢了。就像一条狗会永远忠于它的主人一样，安绰根本不肯为别人工作，除非塔博特在现场对他发出指令。

虚拟星期五试过安装感觉输入过滤器，让每个新的安绰出生后都会把他主人的角色和声音当成是塔博特的，可这种伪装最多只能维持几个小时。没过多久，所有的决策层理事都不得不关掉他们那一直在找寻主人塔博特的绝望的安绰。

结果是，安绰的版权卖得的钱远远没达到塔博特所希望的数目。虚拟星期五倒确实是买下了安绰的基因组，还有他所有记录点的完整档案，而且把塔博特也雇来干活了。现在他是一个训练小组的成员，负责提取安绰早先时候的标记点然后重新训练，希望最终能创造出一个版本，拥有同样的个人助理技能，同时又愿意接受新主人。

来自：斯图亚特·格思特

不，我的意思不是卖副本赚钱。我只是在想，扎弗可以做些类似于导盲犬或者毒品探测犬一类的工作。我的目标不是赚钱，但是要数码体做一些有价值的事情，让人愿意掏腰包。那足以向所有的怀疑论者表明，数码体不仅仅是用来娱乐的。

安娜回了一帖：

来自：安娜·奥瓦拉多

我想确认一下我们都明白自己抚养数码体的动机。要是我们的数码体能学会实用的技巧，那当然好极了；但假如他们学不会，我们也不应该觉得这是失败。也许贾克斯确实能挣钱，可他并非为挣钱而生的。他和那些德雷塔、那些除草机器人都不一样。不管他能解决多少谜题、能做多少工作，这都不是我把他养大的原因。

来自：斯图亚特·格思特

是的，我完全同意这一点。我只是想说，我们的数码体也许还有尚未开发的潜能。如果有些工作他们做起来得心应手，那试着让他们去做一下不是很好吗？

来自：玛丽亚·郑

但他们能做什么呢？狗擅长做某些事情是经过了特别的训练，玄思数码体是死心眼只想做一件事情，不管它们擅不擅长。而这两点神经源数码体都不具备。

来自：斯图亚特·格思特

我们可以让他们接触各种各样的事物，看他们对哪一样感兴趣。我们可以给他们人文教育，而不是职业培训。（我不完全是在开玩笑）来自：安娜·奥瓦拉多

这听起来很可笑，但其实不是。只要有机会，倭黑猩猩能学会几乎任何技能，不管是切石器还是玩电子游戏。我们的数码体可能擅长某些事情，而我们对那种事情想都没想过，更谈不上训练了。

来自：玛丽亚·郑

我们到底在讨论什么啊？我们已经教他们识字了。难道我们还要给他们上物理上历史课吗？我们还要教他们批判性思维技巧吗？

来自：安娜·奥瓦拉多

我真的不知道。但我想如果我们要这么做的话，一定要视野开阔，不能抱着怀疑论。取法其中，得乎其下。如果一开始就定下远大目标的话，结果就会好得多。

大多数用户组成员都对他们的数码体现在的教育状况表示满意，即一个由家庭教育、集体辅导和教育软件临时拼凑而成的大杂烩式教育。但还是有些人兴致勃勃地希望走得更远。这些人和数码体的辅导员们展开了关于新开课程的讨论。接下来的几个月里，许多主人都在阅读教育理论，并尝试着判断数码体的学习模式与黑猩猩和人类婴儿有何不同，又怎样据此设计课程。大多数时候这些人都很愿意接纳别人的建议，直到有人间起如果辅导员布置家庭作业的话，数码体会不会进步得更快。

安娜希望他们能找到一项活动既可以发展技能，又让数码体喜欢，从而驱使他们自觉地去完成。但其他人说辅导员应该给他们规定具体的任务。她很惊讶地在论坛上看到德雷克发帖支持后者的想法。下次两人见面时她问起了此事。

“为什么你想让他们做作业呢？”

“这有什么问题吗？”德雷克说，“莫非你小时候有个凶神恶煞的老师？”

“这不好笑。严肃些。我是认真的。”

“好吧，严肃些。作业有什么不好的？”

她一下子不知道从何说起。“贾克斯在课外如果能从学习中得到乐趣，这很好。可是给他布置作业限时完成，如果他不喜欢做呢？他没做的话就让他难堪？这违反了动物训练的每一条原则。”

“很久以前，是你告诉我数码体和动物不一样的。”

“没错，我是说过，”她承认，“但它们也不是工具。我知道你很清楚这点，可照你现在的观点，听起来你已经打算让他们去做他们不喜欢做的工作了。”

他摇摇头，“重点不是迫使他们去工作，而是让他们学会一些责任感。他们或许已经很坚强，能够承受偶尔的心情低落。要想知道结果，唯一的办法是试试看。”

“为什么一定要冒让他们难过的风险呢？”

“我是和我姐姐谈话时想到这些的。”他说。德雷克的姐姐是老师，专门教那些患有唐氏综合征［６］的孩子。“她提到，有些家长不愿给孩子太大的压力，因为他们害怕孩子遭遇失败而丧失信心。家长的本意是好的，可这样娇惯他们却阻挠了他们发挥全部的潜能。”

她花了好一会儿才想明白这个观点。安娜已经习惯于把数码体当成是天赋异禀的类人猿了；虽然过去人们也曾把类人猿比作智力有缺陷的幼儿，但这只是个粗略的比喻而已。要把数码体真正地看做有特殊需求的儿童，确实需要换一个视角。“你觉得数码体能担当多大的责任？”

德雷克一摊手，“我不知道。其实这和唐氏综合征有一点很像——它的影响是因人而异的。每当我的姐姐和一个新孩子接触时，她都得依具体情况来做出决定。我们所能依赖的信息比她还少，因为从没有人把数码体养到过这么大。假如最后我们发现，布置作业的唯一后果是让他们难受，那我们当然应该停止。可就因为不敢给马可和波罗一点压力，任凭他们的潜能荒废？这种事我可不愿做。”

她意识到，德雷克心目中的“远大目标”和她所想象的完全不同。不仅如此，她还意识到德雷克的目标其实要更好。她沉默了一会儿，说：“你是对的。我们应该试试看能不能让他们做点作业。”

一年过去了。这是一个周六，德雷克赶在和安娜见面吃午饭前忙完了一些活儿。刚才的几小时里，他一直在测试一个角色相貌修正程序，这个程序能够改变数码体躯体和面部的比例，让他们看起来更成熟。有些主人选择了给他们的数码体提供更深层的教育，而他们中越来越多的人觉得，数码体永远可爱的外表和他们愈发成熟的心智之间有点不协调。这个插件就是打算修正这一点，让主人们更清晰地知道他们的数码体已经长大了。

离开之前，他查了一下邮件。让他困惑的是，有两封来自陌生人的邮件，指责他在从事某种诈骗活动。这看起来不像是垃圾邮件，于是他仔细读了一下。发信者抱怨说，在数据地球时，有一只数码体走近他们，问他们要钱。

德雷克马上意识到出了什么事。他最近开始给马可和波罗一些零花钱，他们一般都把钱花在了订阅游戏和虚拟玩具上；他们也曾经提出要更多的钱，但他没有同意。他们肯定是在数据地球里随便找人要钱，却被拒绝了；因为这些数码体都运行在德雷克的数据地球账户之下，人们以为是他训练数码体去讨钱的。

以后他会给这些人发一封完整的道歉信，但现在他命令马可和波罗马上进入他们的机器人身体。纤维制造技术的发展已经让他订得起两具机器人躯体，并且按照马可和波罗的角色体型加以定制。一分钟后，他们的熊猫脸就出现在了机器人的头盔上面。德雷克狠狠斥责了他们一顿。“我还以为你们比以前懂事了呢。”他说。

波罗显得很愧疚。“是，懂事了。”他说。

“那你们为什么还这么做？”

“我的主意，不是波罗的，”马可说，“早知道他们不会给钱。早知道他们给你发邮件。”

德雷克大吃——惊，“你们想让别人对我发火？”

“这事发生是因为我们在你的账号上，”马可说，“要是我们像沃尔那样有自己的账号就不会了。”

现在他明白了。他们肯定是听说了那个叫沃尔的玄思数码体。沃尔的主人是一名律师，名叫杰拉德·海克特，他办了相关手续，注册了沃尔公司，并以这个公司的身份注册了另一个数据地球账户，而沃尔现在就运行在这个账户之下。现在沃尔缴税，能够拥有私有财产，可以签署合同、提起诉讼或被人起诉。在许多方面他已经算得上是一个法人了，虽然严格说来海克特仍然是他的经理。

这个想法已经流传了一些时间。人工生命爱好者一致认为，数码体永远不可能作为一个阶层得到法律的保护。就拿狗来说吧，不管人类对狗的感情有多么深厚，宠物收养所里对狗施行的安乐死数目依然不断攀升，甚至称之为大屠杀也不为过。如果法庭对这种行为都不制止，显然更不可能去保护那些连心跳都没有的生命。有鉴于此，一些用户认为，最可行的办法是对每一个个体进行单独的法律保护：已经有堆积如山的判例法［７］为非人类的实体确立了权利，因此只要申请让某个数码体成为法人，主人就可以援引这些法律保护他。而海克特是第——个将此想法付诸实施的人。

“这么说，你其实并不是想要钱。”德雷克说。

“人们说当法人好，”马可说，“想做什么都能。”

好些青少年抱怨说，沃尔比他们拥有的权利还多，这些数码体显然是看到了这些评论。“可你们还不是法人，而且你们肯定不能想做什么就做什么。”

“我们抱歉，”马可说，突然意识到自己陷入了多大的麻烦。“只想当法人。”

“我早就告诉过你们了，你们年龄还不够大。”

“我们比沃尔大啊。”波罗说

“特别我。”马可说。

“沃尔年纪也不够。他的主人犯了个错误。”

“那么你永远不让我们当法人？”

德雷克严厉地瞪了他们一眼，“也许等你们再大一些的时候，咱们可以考虑一下。但如果你俩再敢玩这种花招，后果可是很严重的。你们明白？”

他们显得闷闷不乐。“明白。”马可说。

“明白。”波罗接着说。

“很好。我得走了，晚些时候我们再谈。”德雷克紧绷着脸，“你们俩回数据地球去，现在。”

开车前往餐厅的路上，德雷克又想起了马可的要求。很多人都对数码体成为法人这件事持怀疑态度，他们觉得海克特的所作所为不过是个噱头而已；而海克特不停地召开新闻发布会宣布他对沃尔将来的打算，这又进一步加深了人们的怀疑。现在沃尔公司实际上还是完全由海克特掌管的，但他在训练沃尔学习《商业法》，且坚持认为总有一天沃尔可以全权做主；到那时，公司经理这个职位不管是由海克尔还是别人来当，都仅仅是走形式而已。与此同时，海克特还邀请大家对沃尔的法人身份提出挑战。他有足够的资源来应对一场官司，实际上他都有点等不及了。虽然迄今为止无人应战，但德雷克一直盼望着有人站出来，只有这样，在马可和波罗成为法人的时候才有先例可循。

至于马可和波罗的心智是否足够成熟来成为法人，则是另一个问题；对德雷克来说，这个问题更难回答。神经源数码体已经证明，他们可以自己做作业；德雷克相信随着时间推移，他们独立完成任务时的注意周期［８］也会不断增加。但就算他们可以不需督促地完成规模可观的任务，这和对自己的将来做出决定并负责的能力依然有很大的差距。他甚至不知道自己到底该不该鼓励马可和波罗去追求那种程度的独立自主。把马可和波罗变成法人，就可能让他们在德雷克去世之后仍然继续运行，而这个前景让人担忧。有些组织可以提供支持来帮助那些唐氏综合征的患者独自生活，可还没有组织来帮助那些成为法人的数码体。也许等到德雷克没法照料他们的时候，挂起他们是更好的办法。

不管他最后决定怎么办，都得一个人担当。他和温蒂已经决意离婚，原因当然很复杂，但有一点毫无疑问：温蒂想要的不是抚养一对数码体的生活。如果德雷克想要一个人陪他一起努力，那他只能去找别人。他们的婚姻顾问解释说，问题不在于数码体本身，而是德雷克和温蒂找不到办法来协调双方的兴趣分歧。德雷克明白，顾问说的没错；但是如果两人对数码体兴趣相同的话，也不至于落到如此地步。

他总是忍不住去想，离婚或许给了他一个机会，能和安娜超越朋友关系，哪怕他明白现在这么想有些不合时宜。她肯定也有过类似的想法，毕竟都认识这么久了，她怎么可能没有一点感觉呢？他们俩将会成为绝佳的队友，为数码体的福祉而一起奋斗。

他当然不准备在午餐时就把这想法和盘托出；现在还为时过早，而且他知道安娜现在正在和一个叫凯尔的人交往。但他们的关系很快就要抵达六个月的门槛了，通常男方到这个时候就会意识到，贾克斯对于安娜而言并不是业余爱好，而是她生命中最重要的部分之一。大概过不了多久，分手就会到来。德雷克想，如果把离婚的消息告诉安娜，也许能让她意识到还有其他的可能——并不是每一个男人都觉得，她关注数码体的时候忽视了他的存在。

他走进餐馆四处张望，看到了安娜，便向她挥挥手，她回以一个灿烂的笑容。他在桌边坐下之后说：“你绝不会相信马可和波罗刚刚做了什么。”他把事情的来龙去脉告诉了安娜，她惊讶得合不拢嘴。

“真让我吃惊，”她说道，“天哪，我想贾克斯肯定也听到了同样的消息。”

“没错，回家的时候你最好跟他谈谈。”顺着话题他们又讨论了让数码体接触社会上的论坛都有哪些好处和坏处。比起主人自己，论坛能提供丰富得多的社会交际，可是它所带来的影响并不都是正面的。

两人谈了一会儿数码体，接着安娜问道：“说点别的吧，有什么新情况？”

德雷克叹了口气，“还是告诉你吧，我和温蒂要离婚了。”

“不会吧，德雷克。我很抱歉。”她的同情是真诚而温暖的。

“我知道这——天终究会来的。”他说。

她点点头，“但我还是很抱歉。”

“谢谢。”他说了说他和温蒂目前所达成的协议，怎样卖掉公寓房，怎样分财产，还好双方都比较心平气和。

“至少她没想要马可和波罗的副本。”安娜说。

“是啊，谢天谢地。”德雷克表示同意。配偶通常总是能得到数码体的一份副本，如果离婚的时候闹翻了，很容易把副本当做撒气的对象。他们在论坛上见过这种事情发生很多次了。

“不说这个了，”德雷克说，“谈点别的吧。你最近怎么样？”

“没什么，真的。”

“在我提到温蒂之前，你看上去心情很好。”

“呃，啊，是的。”她承认。

“是什么事情让你这么高兴啊？”

“没什么。”

“就是没来由的好心情？”

“呃，是有些新消息，但我们不用现在就说吧。”

“别傻了，没关系的。有什么好消息，让我听听。”

安娜顿了顿，几乎是带着歉意地说：“凯尔和我决定要住在一起了。”

德雷克愣住了。“恭喜啊。”他说。

［１］本意指智能的最高级别。这种智能不但能够思考和解决问题（智力，Ｓａｐｉｅｎｃｅ）、能够感知苦乐并对未来做出预期（知觉，Ｓｅｎｔｉｅｎｃｅ），而且具有自我意识，能够反思自己的思想。

［２］中世纪天使学中第二阶天使。

［３］中世纪天使学第一阶天使。

［４］《创世纪》中描述的在洪水灭世之前统治陆地的巨人，可能是天使和人类生出的后代。

［５］著名诗人和剧作家贝尔托·布莱希特创作的一部音乐剧，１９２８年于柏林首映。

［６］又名“先天愚型”，因２１号染色体突变为三条所致，是新生儿最常见的染色体遗传病。主要症状为智力低下、体格发育迟缓、面容异常。

［７］在英美法系中，如果某次判决对已有的法律做出了新的诠释，在今后的其他审判里，这次的判决结果就可以作为法律依据。

［８］指一个人专注于一项任务而不会分心的时间长度。

第六章

又过了两年。生活依旧继续。

安娜、德雷克还有其他一些愿意教育数码体的人们偶尔会让数码体去参加一些标准化测试，看看他们和人类儿童相比达到了怎样的阶段。结果不尽相同。花百姿数码体因为不识字，做不了书面测试，但是他们的其他指标发展得都很好。千纸数码体的测试结果出现了奇怪的两极分化，其中一半随着时间推移继续发展，另一半却抵达了瓶颈期，停滞不前。这可能是由于基因组内部某个隐蔽缺陷所致。至于神经源数码体，如果像对待人类失读症患者那样给他们以一些特殊照顾，那他们的表现可谓相当不错。虽然个体间仍然存在差异，但整体而言他们的智力水平进展飞速。

更难测量的是他们的人际交往能力。一个好的迹象是，数码体们现在正通过许多在线社区和人类的青少年交流。贾克斯喜欢上了“四元霹雳”，这个亚文化圈子热衷于为四只手臂的虚拟角色编排舞蹈；马可和波罗则各自加入了一部游戏系列剧的粉丝俱乐部，而且整天都在努力说服对方自己的俱乐部更好。虽然安娜和德雷克都不怎么明白这些社群究竟哪里吸引人，但他们还是很高兴看到自己的数码体能成为它们中的一员。社群成员大部分都是青少年，他们似乎并不在乎数码体并非真人的问题，只是把他们当成又一批不太可能线下碰面的网友。

安娜和凯尔的关系起起伏伏，但总体而言还算不错。他们有时也会和德雷克及他的女友一起出去吃个饭什么的。德雷克谈过很多女朋友，但没一个真正有进展。他告诉安娜说，那是因为他的女朋友都不明白他对数码体的热情；但真正的原因是，他一直对安娜无法忘怀。

最新一次流感疫情过后，经济陷入了衰退，虚拟世界也随之发生变迁。数据地球平台的创建公司瑞山数码和真实空间的母公司维萨传媒发表了一份联合声明：数据地球即将并入真实空间。原先属于数据地球的各大陆将被完全相同的真实空间版本取代，并添加入后者的宇宙之中。他们管这叫两个世界的合并，但这只是婉辞而已，实际上是说：在年复一年的升级和改版之后，瑞山已经无力把虚拟平台战争继续下去了。

对大多数用户来说，这不过意味着他们可以不用登入登出就能往返于更多的虚拟地点了。在过去的几年里，几乎所有在数据地球平台上发行过软件的公司都发布了真实空间的对应版本。玩天国围攻和上吉王座的人只需运行一个转换包，他们的物品和装备就会出现在真实空间的游戏大陆。

然而神经源引擎却是个例外，它没有对应的真实空间版本，因为蓝色伽马在真实空间平台出现以前就倒闭了。换言之，神经源基因组下的数码体是没有办法进入真实空间的环境中的。对千纸和花百姿数码体而言，迁往真实空间意味着全新的开始；可是对贾克斯和其他神经源数码体来说，瑞山的声明却等于是宣告了世界末日。

安娜正准备睡觉时，忽然听到什么东西“咣当”——声摔在地上，她赶忙来到客厅看看怎么回事。

贾克斯穿着机器人的躯体，正在检查他的手腕。他身旁屏幕墙上的一块显示屏裂开了一道缝痕。看到安娜进来，他说：“我对不起。”

“你刚才在干什么？”她问。

“很抱歉。”

“告诉我你刚才在干什么。”

贾克斯很不情愿地答道：“侧空翻。”

“然后你的手腕支撑不住了，你撞到了墙。”安娜看了看机器人的手腕。跟她担心的一样，得换零件了。“我给你定规矩不是故意不让你开心，是你在机器人身子里跳舞就是这个下场。”

“我知道你说过。但我试了一点小舞，身体很好。我又多试了——点，身体还很好。”

“然后你又多试了一点，现在我们得买一副新手腕加一块新显示屏了。”她想了一下，要花多长时间才能装好一块新显示屏，能不能瞒住出差在外的凯尔。几个月前贾克斯才弄坏了凯尔喜欢的一座雕像，最好是别让他想起那次事故。

“我非常非常对不起。”贾克斯说。

“好吧，回数据地球去。”安娜指向充电板。

“我认错了……”

“给我走。”

贾克斯乖乖地走了过去。就在踏上平台之前，他轻轻说了一句：“那不是数据地球。”机器人的头盔暗了下去。

贾克斯抱怨的就是神经源用户组建立的数据地球私服，它从原版复制了很多大陆。一方面来讲，这比他们当初用来躲避信息自由阵线黑客的私人避难小岛要好很多，因为现在处理器很便宜，他们可以运行很多大陆，但另一方面又糟糕得多，因为那些大陆几乎完全无人居住。

问题不仅在于所有的人都搬到了真实空间，而是千纸和花百姿数码体也搬走了。安娜没法怪罪他们的主人；换成她，她也会这么做的。更让人伤心的是，大部分神经源数码体也不见了，其中有很多是贾克斯的朋友。数据地球倒闭的时候一些人就退出了，另一些则持观望态度，但是看到这个私人的数据地球是何等空旷之后，他们也逐渐失去了信心，选择停用数码体，而不是让他们在一座“鬼城”中长大。“鬼城”这个词用来形容现在的数据地球是再合适不过了，一座行星大小的鬼城。广阔的大地任人游荡，虽然地形地貌极其精细，可除了来上课的老师之外，就再也找不到人可以说话。没有任务的地牢，没有店家的商铺，没有赛事的球场；这就是数字世界里末世之后的景象。

贾克斯在四元霹雳认识的朋友们之前也常登录到数据地球的私服来看望贾克斯，但这种探访已经变得越来越少；现在四元霹雳的活动都是在真实空间里进行了。虽然贾克斯可以发送和接收编舞的录像，但是主要活动就是大家相约碰面然后现场即兴演出，而他现在已经没法参与这一块了。贾克斯失去了虚拟世界中大部分的社交生活，而他在现实世界中也找不到补偿——他的机器人身体被归类为无人驾驶的可自由移动机器，所以如果没有安娜或者凯尔陪同，他没法进入公共场所。整天关在公寓里，他渐渐烦躁不安起来。

几个星期以来，安娜都试图让贾克斯穿着机器人的身体，用她的电脑登入真实空间，但他现在已经不愿这么做了。用户界面确实带来了一定的困难——他对使用真正的电脑还缺乏经验，何况摄像头捕捉机器人身体姿态的能力也不是很理想。她觉得这些问题还是可以克服的，更大的问题在于，贾克斯不愿意远程控制虚拟角色，他想让自己成为那个角色。对他而言，键盘和屏幕只不过是不能身临其境、因此退而求其次的可悲替代品，这就像是让一只刚果黑猩猩去玩丛林探险游戏一样不过瘾。

所有剩下的神经源数码体都一样沮丧，很明显，给数据地球建私服只是权宜之计。大家真正需要的是一种让数码体能在真实空间中运行的方法，能让他们自由往来，和其中的物体及居民打交道。换言之，唯一的解决方案是重写神经源引擎，把它移植到真实空间平台上。安娜已经说服蓝色伽马之前的拥有者放出了神经源引擎的源代码，但是，重写移植只有经验丰富的研发人员才能完成。用户组已经在开源论坛上贴出了公告，以吸引志愿者加入。

数据地球的过时作废只带来了一个好处：其上的数码体可以避免接触社会的阴暗面。一个名为“边缘玩家”的公司正在真实世界平台上推销一款数码体刑讯室：为避免涉及盗版拷贝的指控，他们只把公共领域［１］的数码体作为受害者。用户组已经达成一致，一旦他们成功移植了神经源引擎，转换程序里一定要包括完整的所有权认证。如果没有人承诺照管，任何一只神经源数码体都不会独自进入真实空间。

两个月过去了。这天，德雷克正在浏览用户组的论坛，看看他先前发的关于神经源引擎移植进展的帖子有了哪些回复。可惜，进展没有多少——招募程序员的计划进行得很不顺利。用户组在他们的数据地球私服上举办了好几次开放日活动，让人们来参观数码体，但真正对此感兴趣的没有几个。

问题在于，基因组引擎早就不是什么新玩意儿了。只有那些全新的、激动人心的项目才会吸引软件开发者——眼下时兴的是脑机接口和纳米医学软件。开源代码库里半死不活地挂着几十个进度不一的基因组引擎，全都没完工，全都在等待着志愿者；而把十几年前的老引擎移植到新平台上面，这大概是其中最没意思的一项了。现在只有几个学生在做神经源引擎的移植，而考虑到他们实在是没有多少时间，等到移植完成的时候，估计真实空间平台自己都得过时。

另一个办法是去雇佣专业的程序员。德雷克已经和一些有过开发基因组引擎经验的人谈过，请他们估算移植神经源引擎所需的花费。考虑到整个项目的复杂程度，对方的估价其实还算合理；要是一家拥有几十万顾客的公司的话，毫无疑问会立刻开展工作。可是对于一个不断缩减、现在只剩下大概二十人的小小用户组来说，这个开价足以让人望而却步。德雷克读完了最近的评论，然后给安娜打了个电话。他的数码体被困在了数据地球的私服里，确实很让人难受；但是往好处看的话，起码他现在可以每天和安娜说话了，讨论引擎移植的进度或者为数码体组织活动。过去几年里，大家逐渐养成了各自的兴趣，马可波罗两兄弟和贾克斯的往来也渐渐减少。可现在神经源数码体已经没了其他伙伴，因此，他和安娜正设法寻找一些能让大家都感兴趣的活动。他已经没有对此抱怨连连的老婆，而安娜的男友凯尔好像也不介意，因此他给安娜打电话时不会感到自责。花这么多时间和她在一起，对德雷克而言一半是欢乐，一半是痛苦；也许少来往一些的话对他更好，可他不愿停下。

安娜的脸孔出现在电话窗口。“你看了斯图亚特的帖子没？”德雷克问。斯图亚特算了一下，如果大家平摊费用的话每个人要花多少钱，然后问有多少人能承担得起这笔费用。

“刚看到，”安娜说，“也许他自己觉得是在帮忙解决问题，可实际上他只是让大家焦虑而已。”

“我同意，”他说，“但在我们想到别的好办法之前，反正都会去盘算要花多少钱的。你和那个募捐人谈过了没？”安娜之前说她要和一个朋友的朋友见一面，那个人一直在为自然保护区做募捐宣传。

“说实话，我刚刚和她吃完午饭。”

“太好了！她说了些什么？”

“坏消息是，她不认为我们的情况满足非营利的标准，因为我们只想为一小群特定的个体筹钱。”

“但任何人都可以用这个新引擎……”他停住了。诚然，全世界大概有几百万神经源数码体储存在档案库中，可用户组没法声称自己能够代表他们。如果没人愿意领养，这些数码体就没法从引擎移植中得到半点利益。真正获益的数码体恐怕只有用户组自己的那些。

安娜点点头，他则沉默不语。她早些时候肯定也想过这个问题了。“好吧，”德雷克说，“我们算不上非营利。那好消息是什么？”

“她说，即使不能归入非营利模式，我们还是可以募到捐款的。我们只需想办法唤起人们对数码体的同情心。有的动物园遇上为大象动手术之类的事情，就是用这种办法募捐的。”

他考虑了一会儿，“我想我们可以贴出一些数码体的录像，试试用情感打动人们。”

“没错。如果我们能够成功地触动大家的感情，也许就能得到捐献。任何能够提升数码体形象的东西都会有助于我们从开源社区招募到志愿者。”

“我会浏览一遍我手头关于马可和波罗的视频片段，”他说，“他们小时候有一大堆可爱的画面，最近的我就不敢保证了。或者我们该用些让人伤感的片段？”

“我们应该好好讨论一下哪种比较好，”安娜说，“我会在论坛发个帖，问一下大家的意见。”

德雷克想起一件事，“对了，昨天有人给我打了个电话，也许对咱们的事情有帮助。不过这事不怎么靠谱。”

“谁打来的？”

“还记得陌兽吗？”

“那些外星人数码体？那个项目还在进行？”

“算是吧。”他解释说，一个叫菲利克斯·拉德克里夫的年轻人联系了他，他是陌兽项目最后一批参与者之一。最早那一批爱好者大多在好些年前就放弃了——从零开始创造出一个外星文明，其难度确实能让人灰心丧气；但还剩下一小批狂热分子近乎痴迷地坚持着。从他所了解到的情况来看，这批人大多没有·工作，成天宅在父母家的卧室里不出来；他们的生命全都投入在数据火星上了。菲利克斯是这个团体中唯——个愿意和外界接触的人。

“人们还管我们叫痴人呢，瞧瞧他们，”安娜说，“那他为什么要联系你？”

“他听说我们正在尝试移植神经源引擎，想看看能不能帮上忙。他记得我的名字，因为是我给他们设计了陌兽的虚拟角色。”

“真走运啊你，”她笑着说，德雷克做了个鬼脸。“为什么他要关心神经源的移植呢？我以为数据火星的意义就是要陌兽与外界隔绝。”

“起初是这样的，但他认为现在是时候让它们去见一见人类了。他想做一个第一次接触［２］的实验。假如数据地球没关闭的话，他会让陌兽派一支远征队去各个主要大陆，但现在这已经不可能了。因此菲利克斯的处境和我们一样，他也希望神经源引擎能够顺利移植，让他的数码体能够进入真实空间。”

“哦……我大概理解了。你说他也许能帮我们筹些资金？”

“他正在努力激发人类学家和太空生物学家的兴趣。他认为这些人会对陌兽研究很有兴趣，从而为移植买单。”

安娜看起来不太相信，“他们真的会为这种东西付钱吗？”

“我很怀疑，”德雷克说，“陌兽又不是真的外星人。我想他还不如去找个游戏公司更有把握，那帮人没准儿需要一些外星人数码体居住在他们的世界里呢。但这是他个人的决定，我觉得，只要他别去找那些我们正在联系的人，对我们就没什么损害。何况，他毕竟有可能帮上忙。”

“可听起来他不像是个巧舌如簧的家伙，估计他说服不了几个人吧。”

“啊，咱不用指望他的口才。他做了个陌兽的视频，拿给人类学家去看，希望能激发他们的兴趣。他让我稍微看了点片段。”

“感觉如何？”

他耸耸肩，两手一摊，“就我能看懂的部分来说，跟一大窝乱糟糟的除草机器人没什么两样。”

安娜笑了，“嗯，没准儿这是好事。也许他们越是让人不可理解，就越有意思。”

德雷克也笑了，想象着这里面的讽刺意味：蓝色伽马做了这么多工作让数码体能够吸引人，如果到头来反而不如外星数码体让人感兴趣，这算什么事啊。

［１］指不受知识产权保护的所有作品。

［２］人类学上特指两种不同文化的首次相遇。注意这与ＵＦＯ事件六级分类体系中的“第一类接触”（ＣｌｏｓｅＥｎｃｏｕｎｔｅｒｏｆｆｉｒｓｔｋｉｎｄ）不同。

第七章

又过了两个月。用户组募集资金的努力并不怎么成功。那些打算把资金投给慈善事业的人早就听厌了自然界里濒危物种的故事，更不要说人造生命了，何况数码体又远远不如海豚上相。募得的款项只能算是涓滴细流。

困在数据地球里的压力已经明显影响到了数码体们。他们的主人想方设法多花时间和他们相处，不让他们感到无聊，可是任何努力都不能代替一个生机勃勃的虚拟世界。安娜想对贾克斯隐瞒神经源引擎移植遭遇到的种种困难，但他到底还是知道了。有一天她下班回来，登入后发现他明显生气了。

“想问你移植的事。”他开门见山。

“怎么了？”

“原来以为只另一次升级，像以前那样。现在觉得大得多。更像上载，只不过把人换成了数码体，对吗？”

“嗯，我想是的。”

“你看了老鼠的视频？”

安娜知道贾克斯指的是什么。一个上载研究小组刚刚发布了一段视频，内容是一只小鼠先被瞬间冷冻，然后被扫描电子束一点一点蒸发成几缕青烟。随后，小鼠出现在一处测试虚拟景观里，被解冻，然后苏醒。小鼠立刻表现出中风症状，在可怜地抽搐几分钟之后死去。目前，这是哺乳动物上载存活时间的最长纪录。

“这种事情不会发生在你身上的。”她向他保证。

“你意思说如果发生我不记得，”贾克斯说，“只有转换成功我才记得。”

“引擎测试之前，没人会让你或者任何人在上面运行的。当神经源移植完成之后，我们会在上面先运行全套的测试，修正全部的漏洞，然后才会运行数码体。那些测试品是没有感觉的。”

“研究者上载老鼠前运行了测试？”

贾克斯很擅长问尖锐的问题。“老鼠本身就是测试品，”安娜承认，“但那是因为没人拥有生物大脑的源代码，因此他们写不出比真的老鼠更简单的测试品。而我们有神经源的源代码，所以不存在那个问题。”

“但你们没钱移植。”

“是的，现在没有，但早晚总会有的。”她希望自己的声音比她的真实感受更自信。

“我怎帮忙？我怎挣钱？”

“谢谢，贾克斯，但现在你没办法挣钱，”她说，“现在你的任务就是努力学习，在班上取得好成绩。”

“是的，知道这个：现在学习，以后做别的事。但如果现在我贷款，以后挣钱了还呢？”

“这不需要你来操心，贾克斯。”

贾克斯看起来不太高兴，“好吧。”

实际上，贾克斯所建议的几乎正是用户组近来在做的努力：寻找企业方的投资。这条道路是虚拟星期五开拓的——他们把数码体当做个人助理来销售的想法取得了成功。塔博特前后花了好几年时间，终于成功培养出一个愿意为任何人工作的安绰，而虚拟星期五已经卖出了几十万份拷贝。这是数码体也可以盈利的第一个证据，已经有好几家公司希望能效仿塔博特。

其中一家公司名叫“多维体”，他们公布了一个计划，准备开展一项巨大的繁育工程，创造出第二代安绰。用户组联系了这家公司，邀请他们为神经源的未来下赌注：多维体将出资完成神经源引擎的移植，而作为回报，今后这些数码体产生的任何收入，他们都将获得其中的一定比例，且没有限期。用户组对此抱有极大的希望，已经很长时间没有这么好的机会了；可公司的答复是不行。多维体只对玄思数码体感兴趣——如果数码体想取代传统软件的话，它们必须得专注执迷。

用户组已经简单地讨论过自己支付移植费用的可能性了，但这显然行不通。因此，一些成员开始考虑更出格的办法：

来自：斯图亚特·格思特

我真的不希望是由我来提起这事，但总得有人来说。是否可以先暂时把数码体挂起一两年，直到我们为移植募集到钱为止？

来自：德雷克·布鲁克斯

你知道挂起数码体的结果是什么，暂时变成了不定期，不定期变成了永久。

来自：安娜·奥瓦拉多

我非常赞同。陷入永久拖延模式实在是太容易了。你听过哪个人在挂起超过六个月之后又重启数码体吗？我是没听说过。

来自：斯图亚特·格思特

但我们和那些人不一样。他们挂起数码体是因为他们厌倦了。但我们即使挂起数码体，仍然会每天怀念他们，这将成为我们筹集资金的动力。

来自：安娜·奥瓦拉多

如果你觉得挂起扎弗能给你带来动力的话，那请便。我的动力是让贾克斯保持清醒。

安娜发布这个回复的时候心中没有疑虑，可当几天之后贾克斯自己提起这件事时，她就不再那么自信了。那时他俩正在数据地球的私服里，她带着他游览一片新的游戏大陆。这是一部经典之作，好多年前安娜玩过，最近放出了免费版本，因此用户组为数码体开辟了一份游戏的副本。她努力让这个游戏给自己带来的热情也能感染他，指出这片大地和其他游戏大陆有何不同，数码体们对那些大陆已经玩厌了。可贾克斯心里明白这片大陆的本质，这不过是另一次尝试，想让他在等待神经源移植期间有点事情可做而已。

他们走过一个废弃的中世纪城镇广场，贾克斯说：“有时候真希望我被挂起来，不用再等。到能进入真实空间时再重启，不会感觉到时间过去。”

这句话让安娜一下不知所措。数码体都没有权限浏览用户组的论坛，因此贾克斯一定是自己想到了这件事。“你真的愿意？”她问。

“不真的。想醒着，知道发生什么。但有时很灰心。”接着他问，“你有时希望你没照料过我吗？”

她看到贾克斯正看着她的脸，然后才回答：“如果我没有照顾过你，我的生活会更简单，但不会像现在这样快乐。我爱你，贾克斯。”

“也爱你。”

德雷克开车回家的路上收到了一条来自安娜的消息，说多维体的人联系了她，因此他一回到家就给她打了个电话。“是什么事？”他问。

安娜看起来有些困惑，“很奇怪的电话。”

“怎么个奇怪法？”

“他们给了我——份工作。”

“真的？干什么的工作？”

“训练他们的玄思数码体，”她说，“因为我拥有过去那些训练经验，他们想让我当训练小组的负责人，开出了很高的薪水，三年雇佣合同保证，还有一笔签约奖金——数目大得让人难以置信，但是有个条件。”

“说吧，别卖关子了。”

“所有的训练人员都要使用‘捷立亲’。”

德雷克的眼睛瞪大了，“你开玩笑吧。”他说。捷立亲是一种智能透皮贴剂，每当某个特定的人在场时，就会释放出一定剂量的催产素［１］和阿片类试剂［２］的混合物。这通常是用来挽救濒临崩溃的婚姻还有父母与子女关系的，最近进入了非处方药领域。“天哪，这是要干什么？”

“他们认为，爱意能让训练效果更好，而要让训练员喜欢上玄思数码体，唯一的办法就是药物干预。”

“哦，我明白了，是个提升雇员效率的办法。”他知道很多人会服用益智药［３］或使用透颅磁刺激［４］让自己工作时表现更出色，但迄今为止还从来没有哪家公司对此作出硬性规定。他摇摇头，觉得难以置信。“如果他们的数码体这么不讨人喜欢的话，照理说他们就该明白，干脆换用神经源数码体算了。”

“我给他们提过类似的意见，但他们一点都不感兴趣。不过我有个主意。”安娜身体前倾，“如果我去给他们工作的话，也许能改变他们的主意。”

“你怎么打算的？”

“这样我就有机会逐渐地给多维体的管理层展示贾克斯了。我可以在工作时登录到我们的数据地球服务器，甚至可以让他穿着机器人的身体跟我来。还有什么更好的办法能展示神经源引擎的灵活性呢？一旦他们意识到这一点，他们就会把神经源移植到真实空间的。”

德雷克考虑了一下，“前提是他们不会禁止你在上班时去找贾克斯……”

“给我点信心，好吧？我肯定不会像推销员似的上来就给他们讲，这事要潜移默化。”

“也许能成，”他说，“但他们会让你戴上捷立亲贴片的。这样值得吗？”

安娜沮丧地耸了耸肩，“我不知道。要有别的出路的话，我肯定不干。但有时我们必须冒一下险，对吧？做些大胆的举动。”

他不知道说什么好。“凯尔对此怎么想？”

她叹了口气，“他坚决反对。他一点都不想让我戴那个贴片，而且也丝毫不觉得这件事成功的把握有那么大。他觉得不值得。”她停了一会儿，“但关于数码体，他的感受和你我是不一样的。对他来说，回报肯定没那么多。”

安娜显然在期待他表示支持，于是他照办了，但他内心里依然有许多相互矛盾的念头。对于她的提议，他其实还是有些犹豫，但又不愿意明说出来。

他厌恶自己的这些想法，可每当安娜提及她和凯尔的摩擦时，他总是幻想着两人会分手。他对自己说，他绝不会做任何事情去拆散两人；但如果凯尔不能理解安娜对数码体的心意，而德雷克显示出他懂得的话，他实际上并没有做任何错事。如果这让安娜觉得他比起凯尔要更配得上她，这也不是他的错。

问题是，他真的觉得安娜应该接受多维体的工作吗？他不知道。但在他确定之前，他一定会支持她的选择。

挂断电话之后，德雷克登录上数据地球的私服，去陪马可和波罗。他们正在打零重力壁球，但一看到德雷克来了就从球场里降落下来。

“今天遇见了些好访客。”马可说。

“真的？你知道他们是谁吗？”

“叫珍妮弗的人，和叫罗兰德的人。”

德雷克查了下访客记录，沮丧地意识到，珍妮弗·蔡斯和罗兰德·迈克尔是一家名为“零一欲望”的公司的员工，这家公司专门生产现实的和虚拟的充气娃娃。

这不是用户组第一次遇到人来询问能否把数码体用在性领域了。现在绝大部分的性玩具运行的仍然是传统的软件，只能表演预先写好的脚本和情节；但是人们和数码体发生性关系的尝试，也几乎和数码体本身的历史一样长了。最典型的做法是，复制一份处于公共领域的数码体，重写它的奖惩映射图，让它喜欢上主人觉得能引起自己性趣的东西。有人批评说，这和在外生殖器上抹花生酱然后让狗去舔没有什么区别——这个比喻还算公平，毕竟数码体无论是智力还是所受的训练都和狗有一定可比性。当然了，那些被当做性玩具的数码体就和人类的相似程度而言，还远远比不上马可和波罗，因此用户组偶尔会收到来自性玩具制造商的问询，问能否购买他们数码体的副本。组里每个人都同意，这种请求应该直接无视。

但是按照访问记录，蔡斯和迈克尔是由菲利克斯·拉德克里夫陪同的。

德雷克告诉马可和波罗让他们继续玩儿，然后给菲利克斯打了个电话，“见鬼，你到底在想什么？把零一欲望给带进来？”

“他们没试图把数码体用在性上。”

“我看到了。”另一个窗口里，他们的来访录像正在以双倍速度快播。

“他们只是和数码体聊了聊天。”

和菲利克斯谈话有时真的像跟外星人说话一样。“对这些充气娃娃制造商，我们达成过一致。你还记得么？”

。这些人和别人不一样。我喜欢他们的思维方式。“他都不敢问这句话什么意思。”如果你喜欢他们，带他们去数据火星，给他们看陌兽。“”我给他们看了，“菲利克斯说，”他们不感兴趣。“他们当然不感兴趣，德雷克想，没几个人会愿意和说逻辑语的三脚生物做爱吧。但他看出来菲利克斯是诚实的，假如能帮助他的第一次接触实验筹到经费的话，他不会在乎让自己的陌兽去卖淫。他也许是个怪人，但不是伪君子。

”那么你就应该在那时停下，而非把他们又带来这里。“他说，”我们也许得禁止你再来数据地球。“”你应该和这些人谈谈。“

”不，我们不应该。“

”如果你听他们谈谈，他们会付给你钱的。他们会发来一则消息，包含具体细节。“德雷克差点忍不住笑出来。如果零一欲望竟然要付钱让人去听他们的推销讲座的话，那大概是绝望到一定程度了。”发消息可以。但我会把那些人放到黑名单里，而我不希望你再把任何一家充气娃娃制造商的人带进来。明白了？“”明白。“菲利克斯说，然后挂上电话。

德雷克摇摇头。正常情况下他根本不会考虑去听这种推销讲座，给钱也不会，因为他不想让别人觉得他愿意把马可和波罗当成性玩具卖出去。

可现在用户组需要每一分钱。如果听一家公司的展示能够鼓励其他公司也来付钱做展示的话，没准儿是值得的。于是，他重新打开来访者和数码体见面的录像，用正常速度播放。

［１］一种哺乳动物的多肽激素和大脑神经递质；除在分娩和哺乳过程中发挥重要作用之外，还会影响配偶忠诚和亲子关怀等感情。

［２］指各种能和大脑中阿片受体结合的化合物，如吗啡和可待因。下文提到的内啡肽也属此类。这类药物除了常见的止痛镇咳作用外，还可产生欣快感。

［３］各种能增进人认知能力的药物的统称。

［４］利用颅外快速变换的磁场在颅内引发微弱的感应电流。使神经元去极化的一种手段。

第八章

用户组通过电视会议聚集在一起，来参加零一欲望的展示会。零一欲望已经把钱交付给一家委托交易中介，会议结束后就会转交给用户组。安娜坐在环形屏幕的焦点位置，环顾四周：所有人的视频回馈都经过了整合处理，让全体用户组看起来就像是聚集在一座虚拟讲堂里面，每人一间私人小包厢。德雷克坐在左边的包厢里，菲利克斯坐在他的左边。前方的讲台上，站在演讲席上的是零一欲望的代表，珍妮弗·蔡斯。屏幕上她的形象是金发白肤，美丽动人，穿着讲究。双方事先约定都使用经认证的真实视频，因此安娜知道这就是她本人的现实形象。她在想，也许零一欲望的全部协商任务都是她来完成的，她看起来很擅长取得自己想要的东西。

菲利克斯从座位里站起来，用逻辑语说了些什么，然后才意识到自己的错误。”你们会喜欢她接下来要讲的东西的。“”谢谢，菲利克斯，接下来请交给我就可以了。“蔡斯说。

菲利克斯坐回座位，蔡斯转身面对整个用户组：”谢谢你们同意和我见面。一般来说，当我和某个潜在的生意伙伴面谈时，我会对给们讲零一欲望能如何帮助他们拓宽市场，而这是他们自己办不到的；我不打算和你们讨论那些话题。我这次会面的目的是向你们保证，你们的数码体将会得到尊重。我们想要的不是拥有性特征的宠物，仅仅经过了简单的操作性条件反射［１］处理。我们想要的生物应该能在更高、更人性化的层次上参与性行为。“斯图亚特突然大声说：”可我们的数码体完全是无性的，你打算怎么做到这——点呢？“蔡斯一点没有停顿，”最少两年的训练。“

安娜大吃一惊。”这可是笔很大的投资啊，“她说，”我还以为数码体性娃娃一般只需要训练两三个星期呢。“”那是因为它们通常都是玄思数码体，两个星期就够了；就算花上两年时间训练，它们也不会变成更好的性伴侣。我不知道你是否见过训练成果，但如果你感兴趣的话，我可以告诉你在哪里能找到一个数码体后宫，全是身穿玛丽莲·梦露身体的德雷塔，全都哭着喊着要给人口交，那叫——个恶心。“安娜忍不住大笑起来，组里还有几个人也笑了。”嗯，听起来确实挺恶心的。“”零一欲望想要的不是这种东西。随便哪个人都能拿来一个公共领域的数码体然后重新配置它的奖惩图，但我们希望给顾客提供具有真正人格的性伴侣，为了达成这个目标，我们愿意付出必要的努力。“”那你们的训练是如何进行的呢？“后排的海伦·柯斯塔丝问。

”首先，是发现性和探索性。我们会把符合人体形态和生理需求的身体给予数码体，让他们适应性敏感区域的存在。我们会鼓励数码体互相之间尝试进行性行为，让他们熟悉身为有性生物的体验，然后选择一个自己认为合适的性别。由于这个阶段的大部分学习行为仅仅发生在数码体之间，有些时段可以让数码体加速运行。一旦他们拥有了足够的经验，我们就会让他们和合适的人类伴侣配对，建立感情。“”你们凭什么确信他们会和某一个特定的人建立感情呢？“德雷克问。

”我们的研发人员已经研究过收容所里的一些数码体。他们太年轻了，不适合我们的目的，但他们已经发展出感情上的依附。我们的研发人员做了大量分析之后认为，他们可以在更年长的数码体中诱发出类似的依恋。随着数码体逐渐了解一个人，我们会人工强化他们之间互动的情感维度，包括性的互动，也包括非性的互动。这些强化后的互动就会在数码体中产生爱情。“”就像是捷立亲的神经源版本。“安娜说。

”有些类似，“蔡斯说，”但更加有效，也更具特异性，因为整个过程将会为消费者量身定制。而在数码体看来，这和主动陷入爱河是无法区分的。“”这个定制过程听起来挺复杂，不像是那种能一次搞定的事情吧？“安娜说。

”当然不是，“蔡斯说，”我们预计，一个数码体要花好几个月才会陷入爱河。整段时间里我们都会和顾客协力工作，不断回滚数码体到先前的记录点，尝试各种各样的调节措施，直到感情纽带坚实地建立起来为止。这有点像你们在蓝色伽马时候的育种程序，我们只是为每一个顾客专门定制一套新程序而已。“安娜想说这和蓝色伽马有本质的区别，但最后还是决定保持沉默。她只需要听完这个女人的推销演讲就行了，不需要反驳。”我明白了。“她说。

德雷克说：”但就算你们能让他们爱上一个人，我们的数码体也不可能成为玛丽莲·梦露。“”确实不可能，但那并非我们的目标。我们给他们的角色是人形的，并不是人类。要知道，我们不打算复制真实人类的性体验；我们希望提供非人类的伴侣，但要迷人，有爱心，而且对性有真正的激情。零一欲望相信，这是——个全新的性领域。“”全新的性领域？“斯图亚特说，”你的意思是说，把一种怪癖推广开来，直到它成为主流吧。“”你要这么说也无妨，“蔡斯说，”但是试着换个角度来看，随着时间的推移，所谓‘健康的性’这个观念实际上是在不断拓宽的。人们曾经把同性恋、性虐和多人关系都看作是心理疾病的症状表现，其实这些行为和恋爱关系并没有本质的不相容。实质是，社会把人们的正常欲望定义成了耻辱。我们相信，总有一天，数码体的性也会被人们接受，成为性的一种健康的表现形式。但这需要我们有开放坦诚的心态。“屏幕上显示出一个国标，表明蔡斯给用户组发来了一份文档。”我给你们发送了一份我们所提议的合同的副本，“她说，”请容我简单说一下主要内容。零一欲望将支付移植神经源引擎到真实空间的全部费用，以换取对你们的数码体的非专属使用权。你们依然保留制造和出售你们数码体的副本的权利，只要这些副本不和我们的产品竞争。如果数码体卖得好的话，我们还会支付版税，而且你们的数码体会很喜欢他们的工作。“”好的，谢谢，“安娜说，”我们会看一下合同内容，然后给你答复。就这些了吗？“蔡斯笑了，”还没完。在转交资金给你们之前，我还希望能有机会回答你们的疑虑。问什么都可以，我不会觉得被冒犯的。你们是否对性这方面有所抵触？“安娜犹豫了一下，”不，我担心的是胁迫的问题。“”不会有任何胁迫的。感情建立的全过程已经确保了数码体会和他们的主人——样喜欢这一切。“”但关于他们会喜欢上什么东西，你并没有给他们任何选择。“”人类不也是这样吗？当我还是个小女孩的时候，我对亲吻小男孩这事没有一丁点的兴趣；而假如这事情由我说了算的话，那情况永远不可能改变。“蔡斯微微一笑，有些羞怯，似乎是暗示说她现在有多么喜欢亲吻一样。”我们都会产生性意识，不管我们愿不愿意。零一欲望对数码体所做的改造和这件事并没有本质区别。事实上，我们的改造还要更好。有些人面临着性倾向的问题，因此一生都在痛苦中度过，但这种事不会发生在数码体身上。每一个数码体都会和一位完美相容的性伴侣配对。这不是胁迫，这是最完美的性满足。“”但这不是真实的。“安娜脱口而出，然后立刻后悔了。

蔡斯所期待的正是这句话。”怎么不是呢？“她问，”你对你的数码体的感情是真实的，他们对你的感情也是真实的。如果你和你的数码体之间这种非性的联系是真实的，为什么人类和数码体之间的性联系就不能同样真实呢？“安娜一时无言以对，这时德雷克插了进来。”我们讨论哲学可以没个完，“他说，”但底线是，我们花这么多年养大我们的数码体，不是为了让他们成为性玩具。“”我明白这一点，“蔡斯说，”这笔交易并不阻止你们的数码体的其他副本去从事其他事情。现在你们的数码体虽然让人惊讶，却没有任何可以推向市场的工作技能，而你们也不知道他们什么时候能具备某种技能。除此之外，你们还能怎样募集到你们需要的钱呢？“有多少女人曾经问过自己同样的问题啊，安娜想。”所以就只能是最古老的那个职业了。“”你可以这么说，但请让我再指出一次，数码体并不会遭受任何强迫，哪怕是经济方面的强迫；如果我们只想出售假造的性欲，我们有许多更便宜的办法。但我们企业的目的是提供一些有别于假造的性欲的东西。我们相信，当双方都享受这一过程时，性会变得更美好，不管是作为个人体验还是对社会的影响。“”这听起来很冠冕堂皇。但遇到那些热衷于性虐的人又怎么办呢？“”我们绝不放任任何非双方自愿的性行为，这当然也包括和数码体的性。我发送给你们的合同里对此有所保证：零一欲望将保留蓝色伽马最早安装的阻隔器，辅以目前最顶尖的访问权限加密技术。我说过，我们相信当双方都享受这一过程时，性会变得更美好。我们始终坚持这一立场。“”你们赞同，对吧？“菲利克斯对用户组成员说，”他们考虑了所有的可能。“几个成员对他怒目而视，连蔡斯的表情好像也在说，她宁可不要菲利克斯来帮忙。

”我知道你们开始寻找投资商时希望见到的并不是我们，“蔡斯说，”但如果你们能暂时放下你们的第一反应，仔细想一想，我想你们会同意的，我们所提议的合作计划会使大家都获益。“”我们会考虑一下，然后给你答复。“德雷克说。

”谢谢你们来听我的展示。“蔡斯说。屏幕上跳出一个窗口，表明中介已经把款项汇到用户组的账上。”请让我再说最后一件事：如果有其他公司的人来找你们，一定记得要仔细看合同细则。里面很可能会包含一款条文，我们的律师曾希望我们能在合同里加进这一条：允许对你们的数码体禁用痛感阻隔器之后转卖给另一家公司。我想你们知道这意味着什么。“安娜点点头。这意味着数码体可能会被转卖给像边缘玩家这样的公司，成为虐待的受害者。”是的，我们明白。“”零一欲望否决了我们律师的推荐。我们的合同保证，数码体除了非胁迫的性之外，不会用于任何其他用途，永远不会。你可以看看别人是不是也会对你们做出同样的保证。“”谢谢，“安娜说，”我们会再联系的。“

安娜原本是带着纯粹走过场的态度去听零一欲望的展示会的，听人推销赚点钱而已。但听过之后，她发现自己对这件事想了很多。

她上一次关注虚拟领域的性，还是在大学的时候。那时，她的男朋友在国外做了一个学期的交换生，离开之前两人买了一套这种外设，外面是朴素的硬壳，里面却是硅胶，看起来很滑稽。两人各自用对方的序列码进行了加密，算是保证他们虚拟生殖器的忠贞。开始的几次给他们带来了意想不到的乐趣，但没过多久这种新奇感就消退了，而这种技术的缺点也显露无遗。且不说没了亲吻，性会变得多么残缺不全；两人脸颊近在咫尺，感受着他躯体的重量，闻着他身体的气味，这一切都让她怀念。而只在屏幕上看到对方是无论如何不能取代这一切的，不管摄像机贴得多么近。她的皮肤渴望着与他的皮肤接触，这渴望是任何外设都无法满足的；等到学期结束时，这种感受让她觉得自己快要炸开了。自那以来，这项技术肯定有了很多新进展，但它依然只能算是真正的亲热的可怜替代品。

安娜依然记得，第一次看到贾克斯穿上现实的身体时，那感受是多么的不同。如果让数码体穿上充气娃娃的身体，这会使性更吸引入吗？没用的。她曾经近距离地贴近过贾克斯的脸，为他的棱镜擦去污渍或检查有无划痕，那种感觉和贴近一个人类的脸庞毫无共同之处。面对一个数码体，你不会觉得是进入了别人的个人空间，也不会因此体会到双方的信任感，甚至比不上你给一只小狗挠肚皮时的感受。在蓝色伽马时代，他们决定不把那种保持距离、自我保护的本能赋予数码体，毕竟这对他们的产品没有意义，但如果没有这种自我保护所营造的障碍的话，那最后的肌肤之亲又有什么意义呢？如果数码体的性冲动反应和人类足够相似的话，确实有可能让双方的镜像神经元都活跃起来，对此安娜并不怀疑。但是，零一欲望能让数码体懂得赤身裸体所伴随的脆弱吗？数码体又该如何告诉别人，自己愿意在他们面前宽衣解带呢？

也许这一切都无关紧要。安娜又重放了一遍电视会议的记录，蔡斯说这是一个全新的性领域，和非人类伴侣之间的性。这本来就不应该和正常的性一个样子。这会是另一种类型的性，也许会带来另一种亲密感。

她想起了她在动物园工作时发生的一件事。那时一只雌猩猩死了，每个人都很伤心，它最喜欢的那位驯养员尤其悲痛，任别人如何安慰也无法平静下来。最后他终于忏悔，他一直在和那只雌猩猩发生性行为，没过多久动物园就把他开除了。安娜当然很震惊，不仅因为这件事本身，更因为在她想象中有恋动物癖的人都应该是恶心的变态，而他一点不像一个变态的人。他的悲痛是如此深沉，如此真切，和任何一个失去爱人的人都没有区别。他还结过一次婚，这也让安娜大吃一惊；她原本以为这种人连约会都不会有一次。接着她意识到，她不知不觉陷入了单一的思维——动物饲养员之所以选择每天与动物为伴，是因为他们不懂怎样和人相处。她当时就想过，为什么人和动物之间非性的关系是完全正常的，而性关系就不是呢？为什么动物所能给出的那么一点同意意愿［２］足以让它们成为宠物，却不足以让它们和人类发生性关系？现在她又开始思索这个问题了。和那时一样，她能绐出的所有论证都是基于个人的本能厌恶，而她不知道这个理由够不够充分。

至于数码体之间发生性行为的问题，过去也有过几次讨论论。安娜一直很庆幸，主人们不用担心这个问题，因为很多动物在性成熟时都会变得难以驾驭。甚至在把杰克斯设计成生理中性的时候，安娜也没有感到一丝愧疚，因为她并没有剥夺他的本质属性。现在，论坛上的——个帖子让她开始重新考虑这个问题了：

来自：海伦·柯斯塔丝

让别人和我的数码体发生性关系，这件事我一点也不喜欢；但接着我想起来，当父母的也都不愿考虑自己的孩子和别人发生性关系的可能。

来自：玛丽亚·郑

这个类比并不成立。父母不能阻止孩子们产生性意识，但我们可以。数码体并没有任何内在的需求去模拟人类发育的这个阶段。拟人想象是可以的，但不能过火。

来自：德雷克·布鲁克斯

什么算”内在“？拥有迷人的个性或者可爱的虚拟角色，这些也不是他们的”内在需求“；但这些特征的存在依然有充足的理由——这些特征让人们更愿意和他们相处，而这对数码体是有好处的。

我不是说我们应该接受零一欲望的提议。但我想，我们都应该问自己一个问题：如果我们让数码体成为有性的个体，这会鼓励其他人去爱他们吗？给他们带来快乐的那种爱？

安娜想，贾克斯没有性意识，这是否导致他错过了生命中某些有益的体验。贾克斯有人类的朋友，这让她很高兴；而之所以她希望把神经源移植到真实空间，正是为了让他能维系和增进这些友谊。但这些友谊能增进到什么程度呢？在性成为话题之前，一段关系究竟能有多亲密呢？

那天晚上，她回复了德雷克的帖子。

来自：安娜·奥瓦拉多

德雷克提出了一个好问题。但就算答案是肯定的，也不意味着我们应该接受零一欲望的提议。

如果一个人只是在寻求自慰的幻想，他可以去用普通的软件，但他不应该买一个邮购新娘，然后在她头上贴一打的捷立亲。可是零一欲望想提供给顾客的，本质上就是后者。我们希望我们的数码体去过那种生活吗？我们可以给他们注射一大剂虚拟内啡肽［３］，让他们住在数据地球的小黑屋里也能快快乐乐，但我们之所以不这么做，正是因为我们在乎他们。我认为，我们不可以让任何人对数码体不敬。

我承认，和数码体发生性关系，这个念头开始时也让我不舒服，但我觉得我并非原则上反对它。我无法想象自己去做这种事情，但如果别人想做的话我也不会反对，只要这不是在剥削数码体就行。只要双方达成一定的相互妥协，结果可能就会像德雷克所说的那样，对数码体和人都有好处。但如果人可以自由修改数码体的奖惩映射图，或者不断回滚直到他调出完美的状态，那相互妥协又在哪里呢？零一欲望准备告诉他们的顾客，他们不必以任何方式去迁就数码体的喜好。这已经无关于性，这根本算不得是真正的情谊。

用户组的成员都可以以个人身份接受零一欲望的提议，但安娜的论述很有说服力，因此目前没有人这样做。展示会几天之后，德雷克把零一欲望的提议告诉了马可和波罗，觉得他俩有权知道正在发生的事情。波罗对零一欲望想做的改造很是好奇，他知道自己有一个奖惩图，但从来没想过编辑奖惩图意味着什么。

”编辑我的奖惩图可能很好玩儿。“波罗说。

”给别人干活时不能编辑自己的奖惩图，“马可说，”只有法人之后才能那么做。“波罗转向德雷克，”真的这样？“

”像这种事情，就算你成为了法人，我也不会让你做的。“”喂，“马可抗议道，”你说过我们法人的时候，所有决定我们都自己做。“”我是说过，“德雷克承认，”但我没想过你们编辑自己的奖惩图的问题。这可能会非常危险。“”但人能编辑自己的奖惩图。“

”什么？我们可做不了这种事情。“

”人们为了性吃的药呢？村药？“

”春药。那些只是暂时的而已。“

”捷立亲暂时的？“波罗问。

”不完全是，“德雷克说，”但很多时候，人们用捷立亲是犯了错误。“尤其是某家公司付钱让他们使用的时候，他想。

”我法人的时候，我自由犯自己的错误，“马可说，”那才关键。“”你还没做好成为法人的准备呢。“

”因为你不喜欢我的决定？准备好意味着总同意你？“”如果你盘算着一成为法人就要编辑自己的奖惩图，那你就不算准备好了。“”我没说要，“马可加重语气，”我不要。我说法人的时候我有自由做。这不同。“德雷克沉默了一会儿。他差点忘记了，用户组在论坛上讨论让数码体成为法人的问题时，得出的正是同一个结论：如果法律人格身份不仅仅是文字游戏，那成为法人一定意味着让数码体拥有一定的自主权。”是的，你说得对。当你成为法人时，就算是我认为是错误的事，你也可以自由地去做。“”好，“马可看来满意了，”当你认定我准备好，不因为我同意你。即使我不同意你也可以准备好。“”没错。但是请告诉我，你不会真的要去修改你的奖惩图。“”不会，我知道这危险。可能改出错误，让自己没法改正。“德雷克很欣慰，”谢谢你。“

”但让零一欲望改我的奖惩图，那不危险。“

”确实不危险，但那依然不是个好主意。“

”不同意。“

”什么？我觉得你不理解他们想要做什么。“

马可受挫地望了他一眼，。我理解。他们让我喜欢上他们希望我喜欢的东西，哪怕我现在不喜欢。”

德雷克意识到，马可确实理解了。“而你不觉得这有什么不好？”

“为什么不好？我现在喜欢的一切，都因为蓝色伽马让我喜欢。这没不好。”

“没错，但这两件事不一样。”他想了一会儿应该怎么解释，“蓝色伽马让你喜欢食物，但他们没有决定你应该喜欢具体哪一类的食物。”

“那又怎样？没大区别。”

“但确实不一样。”

“如果他们编辑不想被编辑的数码体就错了。但如果数码体编辑前同意，那就没错。”

德雷克觉得自己开始生气了。“那你到底是想成为法人、自己做决定呢，还是想让别人代替你做决定？到底是哪一个？”

马可想了一会儿，“也许我两个都试。一个副本的我当法人，另——个我给零一欲望干活。”

“你不介意给自己创造副本？”

“波罗我的副本。这没错。”

德雷克有些不知所措。他草草结束了讨论，让数码体去做他们的功课；但马可说的话却在他脑中挥之不去。一方面，马可的有些论述相当有道理，但德雷克还清楚地记得他的大学时光，很明白辩论技巧不等于成熟。他又开始想，如果数码体也有法定成年年龄该多好，这已经不是他第一次想这件事了。而没有法定年龄，判断马可何时能成为法人的责任就全落在了他身上。

因零一欲望的提议而引发争执的人不只德雷克一个。他下一次和安娜交谈的时候，她向他抱怨了最近她和凯尔的一次争吵。

“他觉得我们应该接受零一欲望的提议，”她说，“他说这比起让我去多维体工作要好得多。”

又一个批评凯尔的机会，他该怎么办呢？但他只是说：“那是因为他觉得改造数码体没什么大不了的。”

“正是如此。”她恼火地哼了一声，然后继续道，“这倒不是说，我也觉得戴捷立亲没什么。这当然是件大事。但我自愿地使用捷立亲，和零一欲望把他们的感情建立过程强加于数码体，这两者是有很大区别的。”

“有本质的区别。但你知道吗？这引发了一个有趣的问题。”他把之前和马可波罗的对话告诉了她，“我不知道马可是否只是为了争辩而争辩，但这事让我思考了很多。如果某个数码体自愿接受零一欲望要做的那些改造，这有什么不同吗？”

安娜看上去若有所思，“我不知道。也许吧。”

“当一个成年人选择使用捷立亲的时候，我们没有反对的理由。要怎样的情况下，我们才能同样地尊重贾克斯和马可的决定呢？”

“他们得是成年人才行。”

“但是只要我们愿意，明天就可以去为他们办理成为法人的手续，”他说，“是什么让我们确信，我们不该这样做呢？想象一下，有一天贾克斯对你说，他明白接受零一欲望的提议意味着怎样的后果，正如同你明白多维体的工作意味着什么一样。什么样的情况下你会接受他的决定呢？”

她想了一会儿，“我觉得，我得看看他的决定是否建立在亲身经历之上。贾克斯从来没谈过恋爱，也没有工作过，但接受零一欲望的提议就意味着要从事这两件事情，可能是永久性的。我希望他遇到这种会产生永久性后果的问题时，能在作出决定之前先对这些事有感性认识。等他有了亲身体验之后，我想我就不会真的反对了。”

“哦，”德雷克点点头，“要是我和马可讨论的时候也想到这一点就好了。”这意味着把他们改造成有性的生物，但不准备卖掉他们。这又是一大笔开销，而且得等用户组先完成神经源的移植。“不过这过程会花很长的时间。”

“当然，我们没必要急着让数码体获得性意识。最好等时机成熟再说。”

宁可设一个很晚的成年年龄，也不要冒设得过早的风险。“在那之前，还是得由我们来照顾他们。”

“没错。”看起来安娜对他的赞同很感激，而他也很乐意能提供支持。接着她的脸上又现出了沮丧的神色，“真希望凯尔也能明白这一点。”

他试着找出一句合适的回应，“恐怕没人能明白，除非他们像我们这样在数码体身上投入了那么多时间。”这不是要故意挑凯尔的错，他内心里确实是那么想的。

［１］与经典条件反射（如巴甫洛夫实验）不同，操作性条件反射利用奖惩手段强化或修改原有的自发行为。

［２］法律术语，指当事人自愿进行某种行为，常特指性行为。现行法律认定合法性关系的前提是双方年龄足够大，具有表达同意意愿的能力。

［３］大脑中作为神经递质而存在的一种阿片类多肽。

第九章

零一欲望的展示会已经过去了一个月。安娜正在数据地球私服里，和几只神经源数码体在一起，等待着访客。马可在给洛莉讲他最喜欢的游戏剧的最新一集，而贾克斯在练习他编排的——套舞蹈。

“看。”他说。她看着他灵巧地做完一整套动作，然后又从头开始。

“要记住，等他们来了之后，你得和他们讲你造的东西。”

“我知道，你说过好几遍了。他们来的时候我就不跳。现在只在玩。”

“抱歉，贾克斯，我只是有些紧张。”

“看我跳舞。能觉得好点。”

她笑了，“谢谢，我会试试这个办法的。”她深吸一口气，告诉自己要放松。

一扇传送门开启，里面走出两个虚拟角色。贾克斯立刻停了下来，安娜走过去迎接来访者。在屏注释显示，来者是杰瑞米·布劳厄和弗兰克·皮尔逊。

“进来的时候没遇到什么麻烦吧？”安娜说。

“没，”皮尔逊说，“你给我们的登录口运转良好。”

布劳厄正在四处张望。“老数据地球，真怀念啊。”他的角色扯了扯一丛灌木的枝条，然后松手，看着它摇晃的样子。“我还记得瑞山当初发布它的时候网上有多轰动。当时的顶尖水平啊。”

布劳厄和皮尔逊为“幂级器械”工作，这是一所生产家用机器人的公司。他们的机器人是传统的人工智能，其技能都是事先编好的程序，而不是后天习得的。虽然它们用起来确实很方便，但并没有真正意义上的意识。幂级定期发布新版本，每次都声称新版向消费者心目中的理想人工智能——从启动之时就绝对忠诚、绝对周到的管家一一又近了一步。在安娜看来，这一连串的升级就像是向着地平线奔跑，虽然让人产生不断前进的幻觉，实际上一点都没有离目标更近。但是消费者毕竟买了这些机器人，让幂级器械的资产负债表形势乐观，而安娜就是看上了这一点。

安娜不打算让神经源数码体去当管家，很明显贾克斯他们的自主意识太强了，不适合这种工作。而实际上，布劳厄和皮尔逊也都不是公司商业部的人，他们俩来自研发部，幂级器械公司之所以成立、之所以要出售家用机器人，就是为了给这个部门筹集资金。幂级的真正目的是创造出工程技术人员心目中的理想人工智能，一个拥有纯粹认知的实体，不被任何情感羁绊、不被任何身体束缚的天才思想，知识广博，思维冷静，同时又具有理性的同情。他们等待的是一个软件版的全副戎装凭空跳出来的雅典娜［１］。安娜觉得他们大概永远也等不到。这么直说显然是不礼貌的；但她希望能说服布劳厄和皮尔逊，神经源数码体是另一种可行的方案。

“嗯，谢谢你们特地过来见我。”安娜说。

“我们也一直盼望着这次会面。”布劳厄说，“累积运行时间比大部分操作系统的寿命还要长的数码体？这种事情可是不多见。”

“确实不多，”安娜意识到他们来这里更多的是出于怀旧，而不是要认真地讨论业务提案。也罢，反正他们总归是来了。

安娜把他们介绍给数码体，然后数码体们简短地展示了他们做的小项目。贾克斯展示了他造的一个虚拟装置，那是个类似于音乐合成器的东西，靠他的舞蹈姿势来弹奏。马可解释了他设计的一个谜题游戏，几个人可以合作解决，也可以互为对手。布劳厄对洛莉特别感兴趣，因为洛莉给他们看了一段她写的程序；这和贾克斯和马可不同，他俩是用软件工具包造东西，而洛莉在写真正的代码。但当布劳厄意识到洛莉和随便哪一个新手程序员并没有什么区别时，他的失望溢于言表。显然他本来希望洛莉身为一只数码体，会对写程序有——些独到的天资。

和数码体谈了一会儿之后，幂级的两位访客与安娜登出了数据地球，切到视频会议。

“他们棒极了，”布劳厄说，“以前我也有只数码体，可他也就到了牙牙学语的地步而已。”

“你以前有过一只神经源数码体？”

“当然，一出品的时候我就买了一只。他是贾克斯吉祥物的副本，和你的一样。我给他起名叫费茨，运行了大概一年。”

这个人曾经拥有一个小贾克斯，她想。某个地方的仓库里还有个婴儿版本的贾克斯，会管这个人叫主人。她忍不住说出声来：“后来你是觉得他无聊了吗？”

“与其说无聊，不如说是意识到了他的局限性。我看得出来，神经源基因组的出发点错了。费茨确实很聪明，但等到他能做什么有用的工作，那得猴年马月了。我得说，我很佩服你能和贾克斯坚持这么久。你的成就让人印象深刻。”他这段话听起来，就好像夸奖她造出了世界上最大的牙签雕塑似的。

“你现在还觉得神经源的出发点错了吗？你已经亲眼看到了贾克斯可以做什么。你们幂级那边有什么东西能与此相比吗？”话已出口，她才意识到这段话有多么尖锐。

布劳厄的回应却很温和，“我们寻找的不是人类级别的人工智能。我们要的是超人智能。”

“而你并不认为人类级别的智能是一个必经的阶段？”

“如果是你的数码体展现出来的那种智能，那就不是。”布劳厄说，“你没法确信将来有一天贾克斯能正常工作，更别说成为编程天才。没准儿他已经到了极限。”

“我不觉得他已经……”

“你没法确定。”

“但我知道，如果神经源基因组能产生一个像贾克斯这样的数码体，也一定能产生你所寻找的那么聪明的数码体。总有一天神经源的阿兰·图灵［２］会出生的。”

“那好，就假定你是对的，”布劳厄说，显然他只是在陪她玩儿罢了，“要花多少年才能找到他呢？光是第——代就花了你们这么长的时间，长得连运行他们的平台都被淘汰了。要多少代才能培养出一个图灵呢？”

“我们不会一直受限于实时运行。总有一天我们会有足够多的数码体组成一个自足的社群，之后他们就不会依赖于和人类的互动了。我们可以加快运行一个数码体社会，而不必担心他们野化，看看他们会产生出什么。”其实安娜自己都不太相信这个过程能产生一个图灵，但这番话她已经练习过很多次，足以让别人听起来觉得她很有底气。

然而布劳厄并没有被说服，“这个风险投资……你给我们看一群青少年，让我们掏钱教育他们，希望等他们长大之后能建立一个出产天才的国家。请原谅，但我觉得我们的钱能花在更有用的地方。”

“可想想你们得到的东西吧。我和其他用户已经投入了许多年时间去关怀抚养这些数码体。比起花钱雇人为另一个基因组付出同样的努力，移植神经源显然要便宜得多。而潜在的回报则正是你们公司所寻求的东西：高速运行的编程天才，一步步让自己成长为超人智能。这些数码体现在已经能发明游戏了，想象一下他们的后裔能做什么吧。而他们中的每一个都能给你们带来收益。”

布劳厄正要回答时，皮尔逊插了进来：“这就是你们想移植神经源的原因吗？希望有一天能看到超智慧数码体发明出的新东西？”

安娜意识到皮尔逊正在审视着她，心想撒谎没有什么好处。“不是，”她说，“我所希望的是让贾克斯有机会过上更加完满的生活。”

皮尔逊点点头，“你希望贾克斯有一天能成为法人，是吧？拥有某种法律人格？”

“是的，我希望如此。”

“我敢说贾克斯也是这么想的，是吧？成为法人？”

“基本上是的。”

皮尔逊点点头，似乎是证明了他的疑虑，“这样的话就没戏了。和他们聊天很愉快，这挺不错，但是你给他们这么多关注，这是在鼓励他们把自己当成一个人来看待。”

“为什么这就没戏了？”但她已经知道了答案。

“我们要的不是拥有超级智能的雇员，而是拥有超级智能的产品。你提供给我们的是前者，这不能怪你，没有人花了这么多年养育数码体之后还会把它看成产品，但是我们的业务不能建立在那种情感之上。”

安娜一直在假装这件事不存在，但现在皮尔逊把它挑明了：幂级的目标和她的目标存在根本的不相容。他们想要一个东西，能像人一样对问题给出回答，对待它却不用像对一个人那样负有各种义务。这是她所不能提供的。

没人能提供这样的东西，因为这根本不可能存在。她花了这么多年去抚养贾克斯，并不仅仅是为了让他学会聊天，也不仅仅是培养他的业余爱好和幽默感。正是这些时光，让他拥有了幂级所寻找的一切属性：能够流畅地探索现实世界，能够创造性地解决问题，能够做出可靠的判断，让别人可以把重要的决策交给他。每一个使人比数据库更加宝贵的特质，一定都是经验的产物。

她想告诉他们，蓝色伽马那时甚至都不知道自己有多么正确：经验不仅是最好的老师，而且是唯一的老师。如果说她在抚养贾克斯时学到了什么东西的话，那就是没有捷径。如果你想创造出二十年的生命所带来的常识的话，那你就得投入二十年，因为用一些启发式的教育方法是不可能缩短时间的，经验这个算法的时间复杂度是不能被压缩的。

哪怕人们可以截取所有这些经验的一个时间断面然后无限复制，哪怕人们可以廉价地出售这些副本甚至白送给别人，得到的每一个数码体也都是曾经活过了那一生的。每一个数码体都曾经用全新的双眼看过这个世界，都有过幻想成真和破灭的经历，都已经知晓说谎是何种感受，听到谎言又是伺种感受。

这意味着每一个数码体都应当得到某种尊重，幂级所无法给予的尊重。

安娜进行了最后的尝试。“这些数码体作为雇员仍然可以为你们盈利。你们可以……”

皮尔逊摇摇头，“我很理解你的努力，祝你好运，但这并不符合幂级的目标。如果这些数码体能成为产品，潜在的收益也许抵得过风险；但如果它们只能成为雇员，那就是另一种情形了。这么大的投入如果只带来这么少的回报，我们不可能接受。”

当然不可能，她想。还有谁能接受呢？除了一个狂热的人，一个被爱驱使着的人，一个像她这样的人。

安娜正准备给德雷克发一条消息，告诉他和幂级的会面失败了，这时机器人的身体活过来了。“会面怎么样？”贾克斯问，但是他从她的表情里已经明白了问题的答案。“我的错吗？他们不喜欢我给他们看的东西？”

“不是，你做得好极了，贾克斯。他们就是不喜欢数码体；我以为我能改变他们的想法，然而我错了。”

“值得——试。”贾克斯说。

“我想是的。”

“你还好吧？”

“我没事。”她向他保证。贾克斯拥抱了她，然后走回充电平台，返回数据地球。安娜独坐在桌前，盯着空空的屏幕，思索着用户组还剩下什么选择。在她看来，只剩一条路了：为多维体工作，并试图说服他们神经源引擎是值得移植的。她需要做的无非是戴上捷立亲贴片，加入他们工业化的育幼实验。

不管她对多维体有什么看法，起码这家公司理解实时互动的重要性，而幂级不懂。玄思数码体也许独处温室中就能心满意足，但如果想要它们成为有生产力的个体的话，这不是一条可行的捷径。必须有人花时间陪他们，而多维体对此一清二楚。

但她不喜欢多维体为了让人们花时间而采取的方法。蓝色伽马的战略是让数码体变得可爱，多维体却采用的是不可爱的数码体，然后用药物迫使人们喜欢它们。在她看来，显然蓝色伽马的方案才是正确的，不仅更合乎伦理，而且更有效。

事实上，考虑到她现在的处境，也许这个方法过于有效了：她正面临着一生中最大的一笔开支，而这笔开支是为了她的数码体。当年的蓝色伽马里没有人预料到这种情形，但也许他们本该预料到的。没有羁绊的爱，正如同零一欲望想卖的东西一样，纯属空想。爱——个人就意味着为他做出牺牲。

而这正是安娜考虑为多维体工作的唯一原因。换了其他情况，她会觉得一份要求她使用捷立亲的工作是种侮辱：她和数码体共事的经验不比世界上任何人少，而多维体却在暗示，没有药物干预，她就不能成为一位高效的训练师，训练数码体正如训练动物一样，是一份工作，一个专业人士不需要爱上任何一项任务也能做好她的工作。

这一刻她也意识到了爱意在训练过程中所起到的巨大作用，此种情感是在最需要耐心的时候产生的。安娜不屑于将这种爱意像产品一样制造出来的想法。但她必须承认现代神经医药学的研究成果。如果让她在训练智能感知数码体的时候脑子里一直充满着催产素，不管是否出自她的意愿，她对于数码体的态度肯定会受到影响。

唯一的问题是，她是否能忍受这一事实。她相信，捷立亲贴片不会影响她照顾贾克斯，没有哪只玄思数码体能取代贾克斯的地位。而如果为多维体工作是让神经源得到移植的最好办法，那她就愿意去做。

安娜只希望凯尔能理解这一切。她的态度一直很明确，贾克斯的幸福永远是第一位的；迄今为止凯尔还没抱怨过什么。她不希望两人的关系会因为这份工作而终结，但是她和贾克斯在一起的时间比任何一个男朋友都长。如果事情恶化到了不可兼得的地步，她知道自己会选择谁。

［１］在希腊神话中，智慧女神雅典娜是从宙斯裂开的头颅中跳出来的，一出世即是成人。

［２］阿兰·图灵（１９１２——１９５４），英国数学家，现代计算机理论的奠基人。

第十章

安娜发来一条消息，表示会面没取得什么成果。消息很短，但对德雷克而言这意味着很多。他听到了她的语气，以前她讨论多维体的时候用过这种语调，因此他明白，她准备接受多维体的工作了。

这是安娜为了移植神经源做出的最后努力，再也没有退路了。没人喜欢这种工作，但她已是成年人，权衡利弊做出了她的决定。如果她愿意这样做的话，他至少应该表示支持。

然而他不能。因为还有另一种选择：接受零一欲望的条件。

早些时候他与马可和波罗谈过之后，就私下联系了珍妮弗·蔡斯，问她如果数码体希望成为法人的话，会不会与零一欲望的标准产生矛盾。她回复说，零一欲望的用户买下数码体副本之后可以自由办理成为法人的手续。事实上，如果他们对数码体的感情能强烈到零一欲望所希望的程度的话，她认为很多人都会让数码体成为法人。对他而言这是正确的答复，但他内心里总有个念头，希望她给出错误的答复，让他能够心安理得地拒绝她的提议。现在，做决定的责任依然在他手里。

他考虑过安娜给出的论点：数码体自己没有能力决定是否要接受零一欲望的提议，因为他们既没有爱情的经验，也没有工作的经验。如果把数码体想象成人类小孩的话，这个论点很有道理。但这也意味着，只要他们还困在数据地球里，只要他们的生活还像这样和外界隔绝，他们将永远没法成熟，永远不能做出这么重要的决定。

也许数码体的成熟标准不应该定得像人类那样高，也许马可已经足以做出这类决定了。马可看起来很乐意把自己看做是一个数码体，而非一个人。有可能他还没完全理解自己的决定有何后果，但德雷克总是觉得，马可其实比他要理解自己的本性。马可和波罗并不是人类，也许把他们看做人类就是一种错误，是逼着他们符合他的预期，而不是让他们实现真正的自我。像对待人类一样对待他们，或者承认他们并非人类，哪——种行为算是更尊重他们呢？

换作其他场合，这可以成为一个纯理论问题，可以搁置到以后再讨论；但现在这个问题直接牵涉到他此时此刻面临的抉择。如果他接受了零一欲望的提议，安娜就不必去多维体工作，因此问题变成了：谁去接受洗脑更好，马可还是安娜？

安娜懂得她接受这份工作的后果，比马可更懂。但安娜是一个人，不管他觉得马可多么让人惊异，他依然把安娜看得更重。如果二者必须有一个经受神经化学调整的话，他不希望是她。

于是，德雷克在屏幕上调出了零一欲望送来的合同内容，然后他把穿着机器人身体的马可和波罗叫来。

“准备签合同？”马可问。

“你要明白，如果你仅仅是想帮别人的话，就不应该签。”德雷克说，“你要是签字的话，一定得是因为你自己想做。”接着他意识到，自己其实并不知道这是不是真的。

“你不必一直问我，”马可说，“我和之前的感觉——样，想做这个。”

“你呢，波罗？”

“是的，同意。”

数码体很愿意，甚至可以说是急切；也许这样就足够下决定了。但他还有些其他的想法，纯粹自私的想法。

如果安娜接受多维体的工作的话，这会在她和凯尔之间产生一道裂痕，而他自己可以从中获益。这个想法一点都不高尚，但他没法假装自己没想过这事。而如果他接受了零一欲望的提议，这道裂痕就会在他和安娜之间产生了。这会让两人走到一起的可能性彻底破灭。他能放得下吗？

也许他和安娜始终都不会有任何机会，也许这么多年来他只是在骗自己。如果真是这样，他还不如彻底抛弃幻想，不如把自己从这渴望中解放出来，这种对永远不会发生的事情的渴望。

“你在等什么？”马可问。

“没什么。”德雷克回答。

在数码体的注视之下，他在零一欲望的合同书上签了字，然后发送给珍妮弗·蔡斯。

“我什么时候去零一欲望？”马可问。

“等对方也在合同上签了字然后送过来，我们会给你照张相，”他说，“然后我们会把快照发送给他们。”

“好的。”马可说。数码体开始兴奋地讨论这意味着什么，而此时德雷克却在想该怎么和安娜讲。当然，他没法对她说，他做这一切是为了她好。如果她觉得他是牺牲了马可来让她获益的话，她肯定会内疚到极点的。这是他做出的决定，最好让安娜怪罪到他头上。

安娜和贾克斯在玩“震颤矢量”，这是安娜最近加到数据地球里面的一个赛车游戏；他们驾驶着悬浮车穿越一片崎岖不平的陆地，地面起伏得像装鸡蛋的盒子一样。安娜设法在一处盆地里积攒了足够的速度，让她跳过了附近的一处山涧，但贾克斯没能做到。他的车子翻滚着跌进深渊，场面很是壮观。

“等我赶上。”他在对讲机里说。

“好的。”安娜回答，她把悬浮车打到空挡。趁着等贾克斯驶上悬崖里之字形小径的工夫，她切到了另——个窗口，检查有没有新消息。结果她大吃——惊。

菲利克斯给整个用户组发了一则消息，兴高采烈地宣布开启一个倒计时，准备迎接人类与陌兽的第一次接触。起初她以为是自己误解了菲利克斯，因为他的用语向来很诡异，但用户组里其他几个人发来的消息证实了神经源的移植工作已经开始，是零一欲望出的钱。用户组里有人把他们的数码体当成性玩具卖掉了。

然后她看到一条消息说那个人是德雷克，他把马可卖掉了。她刚想发一条回复说这不可能，又停住了。她切换回数据地球的窗口。

“贾克斯，我要打个电话。你自己练习一会儿跳山涧行吗？”

“你会后悔的，”贾克斯说，“下场比赛我打败你。”

安娜把游戏切换到练习模式，这样贾克斯可以反复尝试再跳，而不必每次失败都得从山谷底部爬上来。然后她打开视频电话窗口，呼叫德雷克。

“告诉我这不是真的。”她说，但一看到他的脸，她就明白了。

“我不是故意向你隐瞒的。本来我准备给你打电话的，但是……”

安娜震惊得几乎说不出话了。“你为什么要这样？”德雷克犹豫了很久，她又接着说，“就是为了钱？”

“不！当然不是。我只是觉得，马可的观点有道理。他已经足够大了，可以自己做决定了。”

“我们讨论过这个问题。你当时同意，最好再等一段时间，让他有更多的经验。”

“我知道。但是后来我……我觉得我过于谨慎了。”

“过于谨慎？”

他停了一会儿，“我意识到，是放手的时候了。”

“放手？”这个词听起来就好像在说保护马可和波罗不过是某种童年的幻想，而现在他已经长大了。“我从没想到你是这么觉得的。”

“我以前也没有，但是现在不同了。”

“这么说你是不打算让马可和波罗有朝一日成为法人了？”

“不，我仍然是这么打算的。我只是不像过去那样……”他又犹豫了一会儿，“执迷了。”

“不那么执迷了。”安娜开始怀疑自己究竟了不了解德雷克，“这对你有好处，我想。”

他听到这句话似乎有些受伤，但她不在乎。“对大家都有好处，”他说，“数码体可以进入真实空间了……”

“我知道，我知道。”

“我觉得这是为了大局着想，真的。”他说，但他似乎自己都不相信。

“这怎么能是为了大局呢？”她问。德雷克沉默不语，她只是盯着他。

“我以后再和你谈。”安娜说着，关上了电话窗口。一想起马可将会被别人利用的方式——而他自己都不知道自己在被利用——就让她心痛不已。你永远不可能挽救每一个数码体，她提醒自己，但她从没想到连马可也会陷入危险之中。她猜想德雷克也许和她的想法——样，但他理解做出牺牲的必要性。

在数据地球的窗口里，她看到贾克斯开着悬浮车，乐呵呵地上坡下坡，就像是小孩子在玩没轨道的过山车一样。她不想现在就告诉他关于和零一欲望的交易，他俩肯定会讨论这对马可意味着什么，而她现在没有精力去进行这种讨论。眼下她唯一想做的就是看着他，试着去想想神经源的移植。移植工作竟然真的起步了——真是难以想象，这种感觉太奇特了，她觉得这不算是宽慰，毕竟伴随着如此大的代价；但贾克斯的未来所面临的巨大障碍终于被移除了，这无疑是一件好事，而且她还不必去给多维体工作。到移植完成要等上好几个月，但既然已经能看到目的地了，时间会过得很快的。贾克斯将能够进入真实空间，再一次见到他的朋友，重新融入整个社交宇宙。

未来当然不可能一帆风顺，前方依然会有无尽的障碍，但至少她和贾克斯有了克服障碍的可能。安娜让自己短暂地沉浸在幻想中，想象他俩成功之后将会是怎样的情形。

她想象着贾克斯随着年岁增长而逐渐成熟，在真实空间之中，也在现实世界里。想象他终于成为法人，找到一份工作，自食其力。想象他参与着数码体的亚文化圈子，形成一个有足够的资金和技术的社群，当有必要时能够自行移植到新平台上。想象他被伴着数码体长大的那一代人类所接纳，那批人将把数码体也看作情感上的可能伙伴，而她这一代人已经不可能做到了。想象他爱着，被爱着，争吵与妥协着。想象他做出许多的牺牲，有些很困难，但有些叉举重若轻，因为是为了他真心在乎的某个人。

几分钟过去了，安娜告诉自己不能再做白日梦了。没人能保证贾克斯一定能做到那些事情。但是为了让他有一天能得到机会去尝试这一切，她必须担负起眼前的任务：尽她一切努力，去教会他如何生活。

她启动了游戏的关闭进程，然后打开对讲机呼叫贾克斯。“游戏时间结束了，贾克斯，”她说，“该做功课了。”

译后记

译这篇文章的心情是复杂的。

黄金时代的科幻小说常常给人以一幅欣欣向荣的场景，一切的科技和人物都处在时代漩涡的核心，虽然邪恶层出不穷，但是无尽的活力本身就能带给人们希望；也许那是维多利亚时代的进步观在遭受大战的打击之后，被人们投射到了科技所许诺的未来之中。可是这篇文章的主人公与核心科技，却大半时间在边缘和漠视中挣扎，他们的身上没有一点伟大的影子，只是被时代的浪涛所裹挟的寻常百姓而已。因此，全篇始终是一种压抑的基调在主导着。

在这压抑之下，能支撑着人们不致绝望的，只有情感。向来如此。因此，我们看到了一个虚拟的数字生命如何逐渐带上了人类的特征。虽然文中反复在讨论他们到底是动物、是人还是某种新的生命形态，但文中也说过，心智的发展很大程度上取决于环境的栽培；是安娜和德雷克们把人性赋予了数码体，又从他们得到了支持和安慰。文中说拟人想象不应该过度，可是我的镜像神经元总是让我不由自主地想起我的父母，和我将来可能有的孩子。他们应该也在想或者将会想到同样的事情。

“也许她的歌比较卑谦，只是唱今日平凡的悲欢，只是唱自然的哀伤苦痛——昨天经历过，明天又将重逢。”大时代的科技或许在进步，小人物的生活却永远是这般循环。也许这就是为什么，虽然整篇文章所讲的不过是两个人与三个软件体生命里的短短十年，特德·姜却要用Ｌｉｆｅｃｙｃｌｅ这个词作为题目吧。

感谢译者Ｅｎｔ（豆瓣）

The Lifecycle of Software Objects

by Ted Chiang

1

Her name is Ana Alvarado, and she's having a bad day. She spent all week preparing for a job interview, the first one in months to reach the videoconference stage, but the recruiter's face barely appeared onscreen before he told her that the company has decided to hire someone else. So she sits in front of her computer, wearing her good suit for nothing. She makes a half-hearted attempt to send queries to some other companies and immediately receives automated rejections. After an hour of this, Ana decides she needs some diversion: she opens a Next Dimension window to play her current favorite game, Age of Iridium.

The beachhead is crowded, but her avatar is wearing the coveted mother-of-pearl combat armor, and it's not long before some players ask her if she wants to join their fireteam. They cross the combat zone, hazy with the smoke of burning vehicles, and for an hour they work to clear out a stronghold of mantids; it's the perfect mission for Ana's mood, easy enough that she can be confident of victory but challenging enough that she can derive satisfaction from it. Her teammates are about to accept another mission when a phone window opens up in the corner of Ana's video screen. It's a voice call from her friend Robyn, so Ana switches her microphone over to take the call.

"Hey Robyn."

"Hi Ana. How's it going?"

"I'll give you a hint: right now I'm playing AoI."

Robyn smiles. "Had a rough morning?"

"You could say that." Ana tells her about the canceled interview.

"Well, I've got some news that might cheer you up. Can you meet me in Data Earth?"

"Sure, just give me a minute to log out."

"I'll be at my place."

"Okay, see you soon."

Ana excuses herself from the fireteam and closes her Next Dimension window. She logs on to Data Earth, and the window zooms in to her last location, a dance club cut into a giant cliff face. Data Earth has its own gaming continents - Elderthorn, Orbis Tertius - but they aren't to Ana's taste, so she spends her time here on social continents. Her avatar is still wearing a party outfit from her last visit; she changes to more conventional clothes and then opens a portal to Robyn's home address. A step through and she's in Robyn's virtual living room, on a residential aerostat floating above a semicircular waterfall a mile across.

Their avatars hug. "So what's up?" says Ana.

"Blue Gamma is up," says Robyn. "We just got another round of funding, so we're hiring. I showed your resume around, and everyone's excited to meet you."

"Me? Because of my vast experience?" Ana has only just completed her certificate program in software testing. Robyn taught an introductory class, which is where they met.

"Actually, that's exactly it. It's your last job that's got them interested."

Ana spent six years working at a zoo; its closure was the only reason she went back to school. "I know things get crazy at a startup, but I'm sure you don't need a zookeeper."

Robyn chuckles. "Let me show you what we're working on. They said I could give you a peek under NDA."

This is a big deal; up until now, Robyn hasn't been able to give any specifics about her work at Blue Gamma. Ana signs the NDA, and Robyn opens a portal. "We've got a private island; come take a look." They walk their avatars through.

Ana's half expecting to see a fantastical landscape when the window refreshes, but instead her avatar shows up in what looks at first glance to be a daycare center. On second glance, it looks like a scene from a children's book: there`s a little anthropomorphic tiger-cub sliding colored beads along a frame of wires; a panda-bear examining a toy car; a cartoon version of a chimpanzee rolling a foam rubber ball.

The onscreen annotations identify them as digients, digital organisms that live in environments like Data Earth, but they don't look like any that Ana's seen before. These aren't the idealized pets marketed to people who can't commit to a real animal; they lack the picture-perfect cuteness, and their movements are too awkward. Neither do they look like inhabitants of Data Earth's biomes: Ana has visited the Pangaea archipelago, seen the unipedal kangaroos and bidirectional snakes that evolved in its various hothouses, and these digients clearly didn't originate there.

"This is what Blue Gamma makes? Digients?"

"Yes, but not ordinary digients. Check it out." Robyn's avatar walks over to the chimp rolling the ball and crouches down in front of it. "Hi Pongo. Whatcha doing?"

"Pongo pliy bill," says the digient, startling Ana.

"Playing with the ball? That's great. Can I play too?"

"No. Pongo bill."

"Please?"

The chimp looks around and then, never letting go of the ball, toddles over to a scattering of wooden blocks. It nudges one of them in Robyn's direction. "Robyn pliy blicks." It sits back down. "Pongo pliy bill."

"Okay then." Robyn walks back over to Ana. "What do you think?"

"That's amazing. I didn't know digients had come so far."

"It's all pretty recent; our dev team hired a couple of PhDs after seeing their conference presentation last year. Now we've got a genomic engine that we call Neuroblast, and it supports more cognitive development than anything else currently out there. These fellows here" - she gestures at the daycare center inhabitants - "are the smartest ones we've generated so far."

"And you're going to sell them as pets?"

"That's the plan. We're going to pitch them as pets you can talk to, teach to do really cool tricks. There's an unofficial slogan we use in-house: 'All the fun of monkeys, with none of the poop-throwing.'"

Ana smiles. "I'm starting to see where an animal-training background would be handy."

"Yeah. We aren't always able to get these guys to do what they're told, and we don't know how much of that is in the genes and how much is just because we aren't using the right techniques."

She watches as the panda-shaped digient picks up the toy car with one paw and examines the underside; with its other paw it cautiously bats at the wheels. "How much do these digients start out knowing?"

"Practically nothing. Let me show you." Robyn activates a video screen on one wall of the daycare center; it displays footage of a room decorated in primary colors with a handful of digients lying on the floor. Physically they're no different from the ones in the daycare center now, but their movements are random, spasmodic. "These guys are newly instantiated. It takes them a few months subjective to learn the basics: how to interpret visual stimuli, how to move their limbs, how solid objects behave. We run them in?a hothouse during that stage, so it all takes about a week. When they're ready to learn language and social interaction, we switch to running them in real time. That's where you would come in."

The panda pushes the toy car back and forth across the floor a few times, and then makes a braying sound, mo mo mo. Ana realizes that the digient is laughing.

Robyn continues, "I know you studied primate communication in school. Here's a chance to put that to use. What do you think? Are you interested?"

Ana hesitates; this is not what she envisioned for herself when she went to college, and for a moment she wonders how it has come to this. As a girl she dreamed of following Fossey?and Goodall to Africa; by the time she got out of grad school, there were so few apes left that her best option was to work in a zoo; now she's looking at a job as a trainer of virtual pets. In her career trajectory you can see the diminution of the natural world, writ small.

Snap out of it, she tells herself. It may not be what she had in mind, but this is a job in the software industry, which is what she went back to school for. And training virtual monkeys might actually be more fun than running test suites, so as long as Blue Gamma is offering a decent salary, why not?

#

His name is Derek Brooks, and he's not happy with his current assignment. Derek designs the avatars for Blue Gamma's digients, and normally he enjoys his job, but yesterday the product managers asked him for something he considers a bad idea. He tried to tell them that, but the decision is not his to make, so now he has to figure out how to do a decent job of it.

Derek studied to be an animator, so in one respect creating digital characters is right up his alley. In other respects, his job is very different from that of a traditional animator. Normally he'd design a character's gait and its gestures, but with digients those traits are emergent properties of the genome; what he has to do is design a body that manifests the digients' gestures in a way that people can relate to. These differences are why a lot of animators - including his wife Wendy - don't work on digital lifeforms, but?Derek loves it. He feels that helping a new lifeform express itself is the most exciting work an animator could be doing.

He subscribes to Blue Gamma's philosophy of AI design: experience is the best teacher, so rather than try to program an AI with what you want it to know, sell ones capable of learning and have your customers teach them. To get customers to put in that kind of effort, everything about the digients has to be appealing: their personalities need to be charming, which the developers are working on, and their avatars need to be cute, which is where Derek comes in. But he can't simply give the digients enormous eyes and short noses. If they look like cartoons, no one will take them seriously. Conversely, if they look too much like real animals, their facial expressions and ability to speak become disconcerting. It's a delicate balancing act, and he has spent countless hours watching reference footage of baby animals, but he's managed to design hybrid faces that are endearing but not exaggeratedly so.

His current assignment is a bit different. Not satisfied with cats, dogs, monkeys, and pandas, the product managers have decided that there needs to be more variety among the avatars, something other than baby animals. They suggest robots.

The idea makes no sense to Derek. Blue Gamma's entire strategy relies on people's affinity for animals. The digients learn through positive reinforcement, the way animals do, and their rewards include interactions like being scratched on the head or receiving virtual food pellets. These make perfect sense with an animal avatar, but with a robot avatar they look comical and forced. If they were selling physical toys, robots would have?the advantage of being cheaper to build than plausible animals, but production costs don't matter in the virtual realm, and animal faces are more expressive. Providing robotic avatars seems like offering imitations at the same time that you're selling the real thing.

His train of thought is interrupted by a knock at his doorway; it's Ana, the new member of the testing team.

"Hey Derek, you should watch the video of this morning's training session. They were pretty funny."

"Thanks, I'll check them out."

She's about to leave, but then stops. "You look like you're having a bad day."

Derek thinks hiring a former zookeeper was a good idea. Not only did she devise a training program for the digients, she had a great suggestion about improving their food.

Other digient vendors provide a limited variety of digient food pellets, but Ana suggested that Blue Gamma radically open up the forms that digient food takes; she pointed out that a varied diet keeps zoo animals happier and makes feeding time more fun for visitors. Management agreed, and the development team edited the digients' basic reward map to recognize a wide range of virtual foods; they couldn't actually simulate different chemical compounds - Data Earth's physics simulation is nowhere near good enough for that - but they added parameters to stand in for a food's taste and texture, and designed an interface for the food-dispensing software allowing users to concoct their own recipes. It's turned out to be a big success; the individual digients each?have their own favorites, and the beta testers report that they love catering to their digient's preferences.

"Management decided that the animal avatars aren't enough," says Derek. "They want robot avatars, too. Can you believe it?"

"That sounds like a good idea," says Ana.

He's surprised. "You really think so? I'd have thought you'd prefer the animal avatars."

"Everyone here thinks of the digients as animals," she says. "The thing is, the digients don't behave like any real animal. They've got this non-animal quality to them, so it feels like we're dressing them in circus costumes when we try to make them look like monkeys or pandas."

It hurts a little to hear his carefully crafted avatars compared to circus costumes. His face must give him away because she adds, "Not that the average person would notice. It's just that I've spent a lot more time with animals than most people."

"That's okay," he says. "I appreciate hearing a different perspective."

"Sorry. The avatars look great, honestly. I like the tiger-cub especially."

"It's fine. Really."

She gives an apologetic wave and walks down the hall, while Derek thinks about what she said.

Perhaps he's gotten too wrapped up in the animal avatars, so much so that he's begun thinking of the digients as something they're not. Ana's right, of course, that the digients aren't animals any more than they're traditional robots, and who's to say that either analogy is more accurate than the other? If he works from?the premise that a robotic avatar is just as good a way for this new lifeform to express itself as an animal avatar, then perhaps he'll be able to design an avatar he's happy with.

#

A year later, and Blue Gamma is days away from its big product launch. Ana is at work in her cubicle, across the aisle from Robyn's; they sit with their backs to each other, but right now both of their video screens are displaying Data Earth, where their avatars stand side by side. Nearby, a dozen digients scamper around a playground, chasing each other over a tiny bridge or under it, climbing up a short flight of steps and sliding down a ramp. These digients are the release candidates; in a few days, they - or close approximations thereof - will be available for purchase to customers throughout the overlapping realms of the real world and Data Earth.

Rather than teach the digients any new behaviors at this late date, Ana and Robyn are supposed to keep the digients in practice with what they've already learned. They're in the middle of a session when Mahesh, one of the co-founders of Blue Gamma, walks past their cubicles. He pauses to watch. "Don't mind me; keep doing what you're doing. What's today's skill?"

"Shape identification," says Robyn. She instantiates a scattering of colored blocks on the ground in front of her avatar. To one of the digients, she says, "Come here, Lolly." A lion cub toddles over from the playground.

Meanwhile Ana calls over Jax, whose avatar is a neo-Victorian robot made of polished copper. Derek did a great job designing it, from the proportions of the limbs to the shape of the face; Ana thinks Jax is adorable. She likewise instantiates a selection of colored blocks with different shapes and directs Jax's attention to them.

"See the blocks, Jax? What shape is the blue one?"

"Tringle," says Jax.

"Good. What shape is the red one?"

"Squir."

"Good. What shape is the green one?"

"Circle."

"Good job, Jax." Ana gives him a food pellet, which he devours with enthusiasm.

"Jax smirt," says Jax.

"Lolly smirt too," Lolly volunteers.

Ana smiles and rubs them on the backs of their heads. "Yes, you're both very smart."

"Both smirt," says Jax.

"That's what I like to see," says Mahesh.

The release candidates are the final distillation of countless trials, the cream of the crop in terms of teachability. It's partly been a search for intelligence, but just as much it's been a search for temperament, the personality that won't frustrate customers. One element of that is the ability to play well with others. The development team has tried to reduce hierarchical behavior in the digients - Blue Gamma wants to sell a pet that?owners won't need to continually reassert their dominance over - but that doesn't mean competition never arises. The digients love attention, and if one notices that Ana's giving praise to another, it tries to get in on the action. Most of the time this is fine, but whenever a digient seemed particularly resentful of its peers or of Ana, she would flag it and its specific genome would be excluded form the next generation. The process has felt a bit like breeding dogs, but more like working in an enormous test kitchen, baking endless batches of brownies and sampling each one's toothsomeness to find the perfect recipe.

The current instances of the release candidates will be kept as mascots, and copies will be available for purchase, but the expectation is that most people will buy younger digients, when they're still prelinguistic. Teaching your digient how to talk is half the fun; the mascots primarily serve as examples of the kind of results you can expect. Selling prelinguistic digients also allows them to be sold in non-English-speaking markets, even though Blue Gamma only had enough staff to raise mascots in English.

Ana sends Jax back to the playground, and calls over a panda-bear digient named Marco. She's about to start testing his shape recognition when Mahesh points to one corner of her video screen. "Hey, look at that." A couple of digients are on the hill next to the playground, rolling down the slope.

"Hey, cool," she says. "I've never seen them do that before." She walks her avatar over to the hill, with Jax and Marco following and then joining the rest of the digients. The first time Jax tries it, he stops rolling almost immediately, but after a little practice?he's able to make it all the way down the hill. He does that a few times and then runs back to Ana.

"Ana watch?" asks Jax. "Jax spinning lying din!"

"Yes, I saw you! You were rolling down the hill!"

"Rilling din hill!"

"You did great." She rubs him on the back of his head again.

Jax runs back and resumes rolling. Lolly has also taken to the new activity with enthusiasm. Once she's reached the bottom of the hill, she keeps rolling across the flat ground, and then hits one of the playground bridges.

"Eeh, eeh, eeh," Lolly says. "Fuck."

Suddenly everyone's attention is on Lolly. "Where did she learn that?" asks Mahesh.

Ana toggles her microphone off, and walks her avatar over to comfort Lolly. "I don't know," she says. "She must have overheard it."

"Well, we can't sell a digient that says 'fuck.'"

"I'm on it," says Robyn. In a separate window on her own screen, she brings up the archives of their training sessions and runs a search on the audio track. "Looks like that's the first time any of the digients has said it. As for when any of us has said it..." The three of them watch as search results accumulate in the window; it appears that the culprit is Stefan, one of the trainers from Blue Gamma's Australian office. Blue Gamma has people working in Australia and England to train the digients when the West Coast office is closed; the digients don't need to sleep - or, more precisely, the integration processing that's their analog to?sleep can be run at high speed - so they can be trained twenty-four hours a day.

They review the video footage of every time Stefan said the word 'fuck' during a training session. The most dramatic outburst is from three days ago; it's hard to be sure from watching his Data Earth avatar, but it sounds like he banged his knee against his desk. There are previous examples going weeks back, but none as loud or prolonged.

"What do you want us to do?" asks Robyn.

The tradeoff is apparent. This close to the release date, they don't have time to repeat weeks of training; should they gamble that the earlier utterances didn't make an impression on the digients? Mahesh thinks for a moment, and then decides. "Okay, roll them back three days and pick up from there."

"All of them?" says Ana. "Not just Lolly?"

"We can't take the chance; roll them all back. And I want a keyword flagger running on every training session from now on. The next time any of you curses, roll all of them back to the last checkpoint."

So the digients lose three days of experience. Including the first time they rolled down a hill.

2

Blue Gamma's digients are a hit. Within the first year of release, a hundred thousand customers buy them and - more importantly - keep them running. Blue Gamma is gambling on a "razor and blades" business model, because just selling the digients wouldn't recoup the development costs; instead, the company charges customers each time they make digient food, and thus maintains a revenue stream for as long as the digients remain entertaining to their owners. And so far, the customers are finding them enormously entertaining, keeping them running all day long. It's common for customers to run the integration processing slowly, so the digients sleep the entire night, but some run it at high speed,?so their digients are awake almost all the time; they share their digients in cooperation with people in other time zones, enabling them to mature more rapidly. Scores of digient playgrounds and daycare centers appear across Data Earth's social continents, and public-events calendars become dotted with group playdates, training classes, and talent contests. Some owners even bring their digients to the racing zones and let them ride in their vehicles. The virtual world acts a a global village for raising the digients, a social fabric into which a new category of pet is woven.

Half of the digients that Blue Gamma sells are one-offs, having a genome that's randomly generated while remaining within the parameters chosen during the breeding process. The other half are copies of the mascots, but the company takes pains to remind buyers that each copy will develop differently depending on its environment. As an illustration of this, Blue Gamma's sales team points to Marco and Polo, two of the company's mascots. Both are instances of the exact same genome and both have panda-bear avatars, but they have distinctly different personalities. Marco was two years old when Polo was instantiated, and Polo latched on to him as a kind of older brother; the two are inseparable now,?but Marco is more outgoing while Polo is more cautious, and no one expects that Polo will turn into Marco any time soon.

Blue Gamma's mascots are the oldest Neuroblast digients running, and management originally hoped they would provide the test team with a preview of digient behavior before customers encountered it. In practice, it hasn't worked out that way; there's no way to predict how digients raised in a thousand different settings will turn out. In a very real sense, each digient owner is exploring new territory, and they turn to each other for help. Online forums for digient owners spring up, filled with anecdotes and discussion, advice sought and given.

Blue Gamma has a customer liaison whose job is to read the forums, but Derek sometimes follows the forums on his own, after work. Sometimes customers talk about the digients' facial expressions, but even when they don't, Derek enjoys reading the anecdotes.

FROM: Zoe Armstrong

You won't believe what my Natasha did today! We were at the playground, and another digient hurt himself when he fell and was crying. Natasha gave him a hug to make him feel better, and I praised her to high heaven. Next thing I know, she pushes over another digient to make him cry, hugs him, and looks to me for praise!

The next post he reads attracts his attention:

FROM: Andrew Nguyen

Are some of the digients just not as smart as others? My digient doesn't respond to my commands the way I've seen other people's do.

He looks at the customer's public profile, and sees that the avatar is an endless shower of gold coins; the coins bounce off each other so that their trajectories suggest a highly abstract human figure. It's a dazzling piece of animation, but Derek suspects that the user hasn't read Blue Gamma's recommendations on raising the digients. He posts a reply:

FROM: Derek Brooks

When you're playing with your digient, are you wearing the avatar that's displayed in your profile? If you are, one problem is that your avatar doesn't have a face. Set your?camera to track your facial expressions and wear an avatar?that can display them, and you'll get a much better response from your digient.

He continues to browse. A minute later, he sees another question that he finds interesting:

FROM: Natalie Vance

My digient Coco is a Lolly, a year-and-a-half old. Lately she's been really naughty. Never does what I tell her to, driving me crazy. She was an absolute doll a few weeks ago,?so I tried restoring her from a checkpoint, but it doesn't last. I've tried it twice now, and she still ends up with the same naughty attitude. (It took a little longer the second time, though.) Has anyone had a similar experience? I'm especially interested if you have a Lolly. How far back did you need to roll back to get around the problem?

There are several replies in which people suggest ways to isolate what specifically triggered Coco's change in mood and then work around it. He's about to post a reply of his own, to the effect that a digient is not a videogame that you replay until you get a perfect score, when he sees a response from Ana:

FROM: Ana Alvarado

I can sympathize, because I've seen the exact same thing. It's not specific to the Lollys, it's something that a lot of digients go through. You can keep trying to work around?episodes like this, but I suspect they're unavoidable, and you'll just wind up spending months on a digient that never gets any older. Or you can push through the rough?patch and have a more mature digient when you come out the other side.

He's heartened to read this. The practice of treating conscious beings as if they were toys is all too prevalent, and it doesn't just happen to pets. Derek once attended a holiday party at his brother-in-law's house, and there was a couple there with an eight-year-old clone. He felt sorry for the boy every time he looked at him. The child was a walking bundle of neuroses, the result of growing up as a monument to his father's narcissism. Even a digient deserves more respect than that.

He sends Ana a private message, thanking her for her post. Then he notices that the customer with the faceless avatar has responded to his suggestion.

FROM: Andrew Nguyen

The hell with that. I paid good money for this avatar, and I bought it specifically to wear when I'm on the social continents. I'm not going to stop wearing it for a digient.

Derek sighs; there's probably no chance of changing the man's mind, but hopefully he'll just suspend his digient rather than do a bad job of raising it. Blue Gamma has done what it can to minimize abuses; all the Neuroblast digients are equipped with pain?circuit-breakers, which renders them immune to torture and thus unappealing to sadists. Unfortunately, there's no way to protect the digients from things like simple neglect.

#

Over the next year, other companies begin marketing their own genomic engines that support language learning. None of them can match Neuroblast's popularity on the Data Earth platform, although on other platforms the situation is different. On Next Dimension, the Origami engine becomes dominant; on Anywhere, it's an engine called Faberge. Fortunately, Blue Gamma has inspired companies to offer complementary products as well as competing ones.

Today half of the company's employees are crowded into the rececption area: managers, developers, testers, designers. They're here because a highly anticipated delivery has finally arrived; a shipping carton the size of a large suitcase sits in front of the receptionist's desk.

"Let's open it up," says Mahesh.

Ana and Robyn pull the tabs on the shipping carton, separating it into eight blocks of cellulose foam that hinge open. The resident of this custon sarcophagus is a robot?body, newly arrived from the fabrication facility. The robot is humanoid in shape but small, less than three feet in height, to keep the inertia of its limbs low and allow it a moderate amount of agility. Its skin is glossy black and its head is?disproportionately large, with a surface mostly occupied by a wraparound display screen.

The robot is from SaruMech Toys. A number of companies have sprung up to offer services targeting digient owners, but SaruMech is the first one with a hardware product instead of software. They've sent an example of their product to Blue Gamma in hopes of an endorsement.

"Which mascot got the high score?" asks Mahesh. He's referring to the agility trials. Last week all the digients were given test avatars whose weight distribution and range of motion matched the robot body's; they've spent some time each day wearing the avatars, practicing moving around in them. Yesterday Ana scored the digients on their ability to lay on their backs and then rise to their feet, ascend and descend stairs, balance on one leg and then the other. It was like conducting a sobriety test for a bunch of toddlers.

"That was Jax," says Ana.

"Okay, get him ready."

The receptionist relinquishes his workspace to Ana, who logs into Data Earth from there and calls Jax over. Jax is lucky because the test avatar isn't radically different from his own; it's bulkier, but the limbs and torso have similar proportions. By contrast, the digients who grew up wearing panda-bear and tiger-cub avatars have been having more difficulty.

Robyn checks the diagnostics panel on the robot. "Looks like we're good to go."

Ana opens a portal in the gymnasium onscreen, and gestures to Jax. "Okay Jax, come on in."

Onscreen, Jax steps through the portal, and in the reception area the little robot comes alive. The robot's head lights up to display Jax's face, turning the oversized head into a bubble helmet he's wearing. The design is a way of maintaining the resemblance to the digient's original avatar without having to produce custom bodies. Jax looks like a copper robot wearing a suit of obsidian armor.

Jax turns around to take in the entire room. "Wow." He stops turning. "Wow wow. Sound different. Wow wow wow."

"It's okay, Jax," says Ana. "Remember, I told you your voice might sound different in the outside world." The information packet from SaruMech had warned about this; a metal and plastic chassis conducts sound in a way that avatars in Data Earth don't.

Jax looks up to face Ana, and she marvels at the sight of him. She knows that he's not really in the body - Jax's code is still?being run on the network, and this robot is just a fancy peripheral - but the illusion is perfect. And even after all their interactions in?Data Earth, it's thrilling to have Jax stand in front of her and look her in the eye.

"Hi Jax," she says. "It's me, Ana."

"You wear different avatar," Jax says.

"In the outside world, we call it a 'body,' not an 'avatar.' And people don't switch their bodies here; we can only do that in Data Earth. Here we always wear the same body."

Jax pauses to consider that. "You look this always?"

"Well, I can wear different clothes. But yes, this is the way I look."

Jax walks over for a closer view, and Ana squats, elbows on knees, so they're almost the same height. Jax peers at her hands, and then her forearms; she's wearing short sleeves. He brings his head closer, and Ana can hear the faint whir of the robot's camera eyes refocusing. "Little hairs on your arms," he says.

She laughs; her avatar has arms as smooth as a baby's. "Yes, there are."

Jax brings up a hand and extends a thumb and forefinger to grab some of the hairs. He makes a couple of attempts, but like the pincers of a claw vending machine, his fingers keep slipping off. Then pinches her skin and pulls back.

"Ow. Jax, that hurts."

"Sorry." Jax scrutinizes Ana's face. "Little little holes all over your face."

Ana can feel the amusement of the others in the room. "Those are called 'pores.'" she says, standing. "We can talk about my skin later. Right now why don't you take a look around the room?"

Jax turns and slowly walks around the lobby, a miniature astronaut exploring an alien world. He notices the window looking out onto the parking lot, and heads toward it.

Afternoon sunlight slants through the glass. Jax steps into the sunbeam, and abruptly backs out of it. "What that?"

"That's the sun. It's just like the one in Data Earth."

Jax cautiously steps into the light again. "Not like. This sun bright bright bright."

"That's true."

"Sun not need be bright bright bright."

Ana laughs. "I suppose you're right."

Jax walks back over to her and looks at the fabric of her pants. Tentatively, she rubs the back of his head. The tactile sensors in the robot body are obviously working, because Jax leans into her hand; she can feel the weight of him, the dynamic resistance of his actuators. Then Jax hugs her around her thighs.

"Can I keep him?" she says to the others. "He followed me home."

Everyone laughs. "You say that now," says Mahesh, "but wait until he flushes your hand towels down the toilet."

"I know, I know," says Ana. There were many reasons Blue Gamma targeted the virtual realm instead of the real one - lower cost, ease of social networking - but one was the risk of property damage; they couldn't sell a pet that might tear down your actual Venetian blinds or make mayonnaise castles on you actual rug. "I just think it's cool to see Jax this way."

"You're right, it is. For SaruMech's sake, though, I hope the experience translates well onto video." SaruMech Toys doesn't plan to sell the robot bodies, but to rent them for a few hours at a time. Digients will be given use of bodies at a facility outside of Osaka and taken on a field trip into the real world, while the owners watch via cameras mounted on micro-zeppelins. Ana feels a sudden urge to go work for them; seeing Jax this way reminds her of how much she misses the physical part of working with animals, and why working with the digients through a video screen just isn't the same.

Robyn asks Mahesh, "Do you want all the mascots to have a turn in the robot?"

"Yes, but only after they've passed the agility test. If we break this one, SaruMech isn't going to give us another one for free."

Now Jax is playing with her sneakers, tugging on the end of a shoelace. It's not often that Ana wishes she were rich, but right now, feeling her shoelace grow taut from Jax's pulling, that is exactly what she's wishing. Because if she could afford it, she would buy one of these robots in a heartbeat.

#

Various employees take turns showing mascots the real world; Derek usually takes Marco or Polo. His first idea is to take them outside, around the office park where Blue Gamma is headquartered, and show them the strips of grass and shrubbery that divide the parking lot. He points out the crab-like robot that tends to the landscaping, a product of an earlier venture in bringing digients into the real world. The robot is equipped with a stiletto-like trowel for pulling weeds, and its toil is purely instinct-driven; it's descended from generations of winners in an evolutionary gardening competition conducted in Data Earth hothouses. Derek's curious about how the mascots will react upon hearing the story of the weed-pulling robot, wondering if they'll identify with it as a fellow emigré from Data Earth, but they don't show the slightest interest.

Instead, it turns out that the mascots are fascinated by textures. Surfaces in Data Earth have a lot of visual detail, but no tactile?qualities beyond a coefficient of friction; very few players use controllers that convey tactition, so most vendors don't bother implementing texture for their environmental surfaces. Now that the digients can feel surfaces in the real world, they find novelty in the simplest things. When Marco returns from his turn in the robot body, he can't stop talking about the carpets and furniture upholstery; when Polo is wearing the body, he spends all his time feeling the gritty nonskid treads in the building's stairwells. Not surprisingly, the sensor pads in the robot's fingers are the first components that need replacement.

The next thing Marco notices is how Derek's mouth differs from his own. Digient mouths bear only a superficial resemblance to human mouths; although their lips move when they talk, the digients' speech generators aren't physics-based. Marco wants to learn about the mechanics of speech, and keeps asking to put his fingers in Derek's mouth when he talks. Polo is astonished to discover that food actually passes down Derek's throat when he swallows, rather than simply vanishing the way digient food does. Derek had feared that the digients might be distressed to learn the boundaries of their physicality, but instead they just find it funny.

An unexpected benefit of seeing the digients in a robot body is that it provides a closer view of their faces than is common when watching them in Data Earth. As a result, the work that Derek has put in on the digients' facial expressions is easier to appreciate. One day Ana comes to his cubicle and says excited, "You are amazing!"

"Er...thanks?"

"I just saw Marco make the most hilarious expressions. You've got to see them. May I?" Ana gestures at his keyboard, and Derek rolls his chair back from his desk so she can reach it. She opens a couple of video windows on his screen: one is a recording of the robot body's camera, showing the digient's point of view, while the other is a recording of what the helmet screen was displaying. Judging by the former, they were out in the parking lot again.

"He went on one of SaruMech's field trips last week," explains Ana, "and of course he loved it, so now he's bored with the office park."

On the screen, Marco says, "Want to go park we go field trip."

"You can have just as much fun here." On the screen, Ana gestures for Marco to follow her.

The image swings back and forth as Marco shakes his head. "Not same fun. Park more fun. Show you."

"We can't go to that park. It's very far away; we would have to travel a long time to get there."

"Just open portal."

"Sorry Marco, I can't open portals here in the outside world."

"Now watch his face," says Ana.

"You try. Try hard please please." Marco forms his panda-bear face into a pleading expression; Derek hasn't seen it before, and it?makes him burst out in laughter.

Ana laughs too, and says, "Keep watching."

On the screen she says, "It doesn't matter how hard I try, Marco; the outside world doesn't have portals. Only Data Earth has portals."

"Then we go Data Earth, open portal there."

"That would work for you if there's a body there for you to wear, but I can't wear a different body, I'd have to move this one, and that would take a long time."

Marco thinks about that, and Derek's delighted to see that the digient's face actually suggests his incredulity. "Outside world dumb," the digient announces.

Derek and Ana burst out into laughter. She closes the windows and says, "You did some terrific work there."

"Thanks. And thanks for showing that to me; it made my day."

"Glad to do it."

It's nice to be reminded that his earlier work is bearing fruit, because most of Derek's recent assignments aren't nearly as interesting. The Origami and Faberge digients have begun to pop up in a wider variety of avatars, such as baby dragons, gryphons, and other mythological creatures, so Blue Gamma wants to offer similar avatars for the Neuroblast digients. The new avatars are straightforward modifications of the existing ones, requiring nothing new in terms of their facial expressions.

In fact, his newest assignment requires him to create an avatar with no facial expressions at all. A group of artifical-life hobbyists was impressed by the potential of the Neuroblast genome and, rather than wait for real intelligence to evolve on its own in the biomes, commissioned Blue Gamma to design an intelligent alien species for them. The developers engineered a personality taxon that was miles away from the breeds that Blue Gamma sells, and Derek's designing an avatar with three legs, a pair of tentacles instead of arms, and a prehensile tail. Some of the hobbyists want an even stranger body plan, as well as an environment with different physics, but he reminded them that they'll have to wear the avatars themselves when raising the digients, and controlling tentacles will be difficult enough.

The hobbyists have named their new species Xenotherians, and set up a private continent called Data Mars on which they intend to create an alien culture from scratch. Derek's curious about it but hasn't been able to visit, because the only language allowed in the presence of the digients is a custom dialect of the artificial language Lojban. He wonders how long the hobbyists will be able to stick with their project. Aside from the enormous barrier to entry, raising the Xenotherians won't offer pleasures like the one that he and Ana just got from watching Marco. The rewards will be purely intellectual, and over the long term, will that be enough?

3

Over the course of the following year, the forecast for Blue Gamma's future changes from sunny to decidedly cloudy. Sales to new customers have slowed down, but worse than that, the revenue generated by the food-dispensing software has fallen: more and more of the existing customers are suspending their digients.

The problem is that as the Neuroblast digients leave infancy behind, they're growing too demanding. In breeding them Blue Gamma aimed for a combination of smart and obedient, but with the unpredictability inherent in any genome, even a digital one, it turns out the developers missed their target. Like an overly difficult game, the balance of challenge and reward that the digients provide is tilting beyond what most people consider fun, and so they suspend them. But unlike dog owners who bought a breed they were unprepared for, Blue Gamma's customers can't be blamed for not having done their homework; the company itself didn't know that the digients would evolve in this way.

Some volunteers have begun maintaining rescue shelters, accepting unwanted digients in hopes of matching them with new owners. These volunteers practice a variety of strategies; some keep the digients running without interruption, while others restore the digients from their last checkpoint every few days, to keep them from developing abandonment issues that might make it harder for them to get adopted. Neither strategy is enormously successful at attracting prospective owners. There is occasionally a person who wants to try a digient without having to raise one from infancy, but these adoptions never last for long, and the shelters essentially become digient warehouses.

Ana's not happy about this trend, but she's familiar with the realities of animal welfare: she knows you can't save them all. She'd prefer to shield Blue Gamma's mascots from what's happening, but the phenomenon is too widespread for that to be practical. Again and again she has taken them to a playground and one of the digients realizes that a regular playmate is absent.

Today's trip to a playground is different, and brings a pleasant surprise. Even before all the mascots are through the portal, Jax and Marco notice another digient wearing a robot avatar. They simultaneously exclaim "Tibo!" and run over to him.

Tibo is one of the oldest digients aside from the mascots, owned by a beta tester named Carlton. He suspended Tibo about a month ago; Ana's glad to see that is wasn't permanent. As the digients chatter, she walks her avatar over to Carlton's and talks with him; he explains that he just needed a break, and now is feeling ready to give Tibo the attention he needs.

Later on, after she's brought the mascots back from the playground to Blue Gamma's island, Jax tells her about his conversation with Tibo. "Tell him about fun we do time he gone. Tell him about field trip zoo fun fun."

"Was he sad he missed it?"

"No he instead argue. He said field trip was mall not zoo. But that trip last month."

"That's because Tibo was suspended the whole time he's been gone," Ana explains, "so he thinks last month's trip was yesterday."

"I say that," says Jax, surprising her with his understanding, "but he not believe. He argue until Marco and Lolly too tell him.?Then he sad."

"Well, I'm sure there'll be other trips to the zoo."

"Not because missed zoo. Sad missed month."

"Ah."

"I not want be suspended. Not want miss month."

Ana does her best to sound reassuring. "You don't have to worry about that, Jax."

"You not suspend me, right?"

"Right."

To her relief, Jax seems satisfied by this; he hasn't encountered the idea of extracting a promise, and she's embarrassingly glad that she didn't have to make him one. She takes comfort in the knowledge that if they suspend the mascots for any period of time, they'll almost certainly suspend all of them, so at least there won't be experiential discrepancies within the group. The same would be true if they ever roll the mascots back to a younger age. Restoring an early checkpoint is one of Blue Gamma's suggestions for customers who find thier digients too demanding and there's been talk that the company should do this with its own mascots to endorse the strategy.

Ana notices the time, and begins instantiating some games for the mascots to play on their own; it's time for her to train the digients in Blue Gamma's new product line. In the years since creating the Neuroblast genome, the developers have written more sophisticated tools for analyzing the interactions of its various genes, and they understand the genome's properties better. Recently they've created a taxon with less cognitive plasticity, resulting in digients that should stabilize more quickly and stay docile forever. The only way to know for certain is to let customers raise them for years and see what happens, but the developers' confidence is high. This is a significant departure from the company's original goal of digients that become ever more sophisticated, but drastic situations call for drastic measures. Blue Gamma is counting on these new digients to stanch the loss of revenue, so Ana and the rest of the test team are intensively training them.

She has the mascots sufficiently well-trained that they wait for her permission before they start playing the games. "All right everyone, go ahead," she says, and the digients all rush over to their favorites. "I'll see you all later."

"No," says Jax. He stops and walks back to her avatar. "Don't want play."

"What? Sure you do."

"No playing. Want job."

Ana laughs. "What? Why do you want to get a job?"

"Get money."

She realizes that Jax isn't happy when he says this; his mood is glum. More seriously, she asks him, "What do you need money for?"

"Don't need. Give you."

"Why do you want to give me money?"

"You need," he says, matter-of-factly.

"Did I say I need money? When?"

"Last week ask why you play with other digients instead me. You said people pay you play with them. If have money, can pay you. Then you play with me more."

"Oh Jax." She's momentarily at a loss for words. "That's very sweet of you."

#

After another year has gone by, it becomes official: Blue Gamma is shutting down its operations. Not enough customers were willing to take a chance on the perpetually docile digients. Internally there were many proposals discussed, including a breed of digient that understands language but can't speak, but it was too late. The customer base has stabilized to a small community of hardcore digient owners, and they don't generate enough revenue to keep Blue Gamma afloat. The company will release a no-fee version of the food-dispensing software so those who want to can keep their digients running as long as they like, but otherwise, the customers are on their own.

Most of the other employees have been through company collapses before, so while they're unhappy, for them this is just another episode of life in the software industry. For Ana, however, Blue Gamma's folding reminds her of the closure of the zoo, which was one of the most heartbreaking experiences of her life. Her eyes still tear up when she thinks about the last time she saw her apes, wishing that she could explain to them why they wouldn't see her again, hoping that they could adapt to their new homes. When she decided to retrain for the software industry, she was glad that she'd never have to face another such farewell in her new line of work. Now here she is, against all expectation, confronted with a strangely reminiscent situation.

Reminiscent, but not the same. Blue Gamma doesn't actually need to find new homes for its dozen mascots; it can just suspend them, with none of the implications that euthanasia would have. Ana herself has suspended thousands of digients during the breeding process, and they aren't dead or feeling abandoned. The only suffering created by suspending the mascots would be on the part of the trainers; Ana has spent time with the mascots every day for the last five years, and she doesn't want to say goodbye to them. Fortunately, there's an alternative: any employee can afford to keep a mascot as a pet in Data Earth, whereas keeping an ape in her apartment hadn't even been a possibility.

Given how easy it is, Ana's surprised that more of the employees don't want to adopt a mascot. She knows she can count on Derek to take one - he cares about the digients just as much as she does - but the trainers are unexpectedly reluctant. They're all fond of the digients, but most feel that keeping one as a pet now would be like doing their job after they've stopped being paid. Ana is sure that Robyn will take one, but Robyn preempts her with news of her own at lunch.

"We weren't going to tell anyone yet," Robyn confides, "but...I'm pregnant."

"Really? Congratulations!"

Robyn grins. "Thanks!" She releases a flood of pent-up information: the options that she and her partner Linda considered, the ova-fusion procedure they gambled on, their fabulous luck at having the first attempt succeed. Ana and Robyn discuss issues of job hunting and parental leave. Eventually they get back to the topic of adopting the mascots.

"Obviously you're going to have your hands full," says Ana, "but what do you think about adopting Lolly?" It would be fascinating to see Lolly's reaction to a pregnancy.

"No," says Robyn, shaking her head. "I'm past digients now."

"You're past them?"

"I'm ready for the real thing, you know what I mean?"

Carefully, Ana says, "I'm not sure that I do."

"People always say that we're evolved to want babies, and I used to think that was a bunch of crap, but not anymore." Robyn's facial expression is one of transport; she's no longer speaking to Ana exactly. "Cats, dogs, digients, they're all just substitutes for what we're supposed to be caring for. Eventually you start to understand what a baby means, what it really?means, and everything changes. And then you realize that all the feelings you had before weren't - " Robyn stops herself. "I mean, for me, it just put things in perspective."

Women who work with animals hear this all the time: that their love for animals must arise out of a sublimated child-rearing urge. Ana's tired of the stereotype. She likes children just fine, but they're not the standard against which all other accomplishments should be measured. Caring for animals is worthwhile in and of itself, a vocation that need offer no apologies. She wouldn't have said the same about digients when she started at Blue Gamma, but now she realizes it might be true for them, too.

4

The year following Blue Gamma's closure involves many changes for Derek. He gets a job at the firm that employs his wife Wendy, animating virtual actors for television. He's fortunate to work on a series with good writing, but no matter how quick-witted and nonchalant the dialogue sounds, every word of it, every nuance and intonation, is painstakingly choreographed. During the animation process he hears the lines delivered a hundred times, and the final performance seems glossy and sterile in its perfection.

By contrast, life with Marco and Polo is a never ending stream of surprises. He adopted both of them because they didn't want to be separated, and while he can't spend as much time with them as when he worked for Blue Gamma, owning a digient now is actually more interesting than it's ever been before. The customers who kept their digients running formed a Neuroblast user group to keep in touch, and while it's a smaller community than before, the members are more active and engaged, and thier efforts are bearing fruit.

Right now it's the weekend, and Derek is driving to the park; in the passenger seat is Marco, wearing a robotic body. He's standing upright on the seat - restrained by the seat belt - so he can see out the window; he's looking for anything that he's only seen before in videos, things that aren't found in Data Earth.

"Firi hidrint," says Marco, pointing.

"Fire hydrant."

"Fire hydrant."

"That's right."

The body Marco's wearing is the one that Blue Gamma owned. Group field trips came to an end because SaruMech Toys closed shortly after Blue Gamma did, so Ana - who got a job testing software used in carbon-sequestration stations - bought the robot body at a discount for Jax to use. She let Derek borrow the body last week so Marco and Polo could play in it, and now he's returning it. She's going to spend the day in the park, letting other owners' digients have a turn in the body.

"I make fire hydrant next craft time," says Marco. "Use cylinder, use cone, use cylinder."

"That sounds like a good idea," says Derek.

Marco's talking about the craft sessions that the digients now have every day. These began a few months ago, after an owner wrote software that allowed a few of Data Earth's onscreen editing tools to be operated from within the Data Earth environment itself. By manipulating a console of knobs and sliders, a digient can now instantiate various solid shapes, change their color, and combine and edit them in a dozen different ways. The digients are in heaven; to them it seems as if they've been granted magical powers, and given the way the editing tools circumvent Data Earth's physics simulation, in a sense they have. Every day after work when Derek logs into Data Earth, Marco and Polo show him the craft projects they've made.

"Then can show Polo how - Park! Park already?"

"No, we're not there yet."

"Sign says 'Burgers and Parks.'" Marco points out a sign that they're driving past.

"It says 'Burgers and Shakes.' Shakes, not parks. We've still got a little way to go."

"Shakes," Marco says, watching the sign recede in the distance.

Another new activity for the digients has been reading lessons. Marco or Polo never paid much attention to text before - there isn't a lot of it in Data Earth aside from onscreen annotations, which aren't visible to digients - but one owner successfully taught his digients to recognize commands written on flashcards, prompting a number of other owners to give it a try. Generally speaking, the Neuroblast digients recognize words reasonably well, but have trouble associating individual letters with sounds. It's a variety of dyslexia that appears to be specific to the Neuroblast genome; according to other user groups, Origami digients learn letters readily, while Faberge digients remain frustratingly illiterate no matter what instruction method is used.

Marco and Polo take a reading class with Jax and a few others, and they seem to enjoy it well enough. None of the digients were raised on bedtime stories, so text doesn't fascinate them the way it does human children, but their general curiosity - along with the praise of their owners - motivate them to explore the uses that text can be put to. Derek finds it exciting, and laments the fact that Blue Gamma didn't stay in business long enough to see these things come to pass.

They arrive at the park; Ana sees them and walks over as Derek parks the car. Marco gives Ana a hug as soon as Derek lets him out of the car.

"Hi Ana."

"Hi Marco," replies Ana; she rubs the back of the robot's head. "You're still in the body? You had a whole week. Wasn't that enough?"

"Wanted ride in car."

"Did you want to play in the park for a bit?"

"No, we go now. Wendy not want us stay. Bye Ana." By now Derek has gotten the charging platform for the robot out of the backseat. Marco steps on to the charging platform - they've trained the digients to return to it whenever they return to Data Earth - and the robot's helmet goes dark.

Ana uses her handheld to get the first digient ready to enter the robot. "So you have to go, too?" she asks Derek.

"No, I don't have to be anywhere."

"So what did Marco mean?"

"Well..."

"Let me quess: Wendy thinks you spend too much time with digients, right?"

"Right," says Derek. Wendy was also uncomfortable with the amount of time he's been spending with Ana, but there's no point in mentioning that. He assured Wendy that he doesn't think of Ana that way, that they're just friends who share an interest in digients.

The robot's helmet lights up to display a jaguar-cub face; Derek recognizes him as Zaff, who's owned by one of the beta testers. "Hi Ana hi Derek," says Zaff, and immediately runs toward a nearby tree. Derek and Ana follow.

"So seeing them in the robot body didn't win her over?" asks Ana.

Derek stops Zaff from picking up some dog turds. To Ana, he says, "Nope. She still doesn't understand why I don't suspend them whenever it's convenient."

"It's hard to find someone who understands," Ana says. "It was the same when I worked at the zoo; every guy I dated felt like he was coming in second. And now when I tell a guy that I'm paying for reading lessons for my digient, he looks at me like I'm crazy."

"That's been an issue for Wendy, too."

They watch as Zaff sorts through the leaf litter, extracts a leaf decayed to near transparency, and holds it up to his face to look through it, a mask of vegetable lace. "Although I guess I shouldn't really blame them," says Ana. "It took me a while to understand the appeal myself."

"Not me," says Derek. "I thought digients were amazing right away."

"That's true," agrees Ana. "You're a rare one."

Derek watches her with Zaff, admires her patience in guiding him. The last time he felt so much in common with a woman was when he met Wendy, who shared his excitement at bringing characters to life through animation. If he weren't already married, he might ask Ana out, but there's no point in speculating about that now. The most they can be is friends, and that's good enough.

#

It's a year later, and Ana is spending the evening at her apartment. On her computer she has a window open to Data Earth, where her avatar is at a playground, supervising a group playdate that Jax has with a handful of other digients. The number of digients continues to shrink - Tibo, for example, hasn't been around in months - but Jax's regular group has merged with another one recently, so he still has the opportunity to make new friends. A few of the digients are up in the climbing equipment, others play with toys on the ground, while a couple watch a virtual television.

In another window, Ana browses through the user-group discussion forums. The topic du jour?is the latest action by the Information Freedom Front, an organization that lobbies for the end of privately owned data. Last week they publicized techniques for cracking many of Data Earth's access-control mechanisms, and in recent days people have been seeing rare and expensive items from their game inventories being handed out like flyers on a downtown street corner. Ana hasn't been to a game continent in Data Earth since the problem began.

In the playground, Jax and Marco have decided to play a new game. They both get down on all fours and begin crawling around. Jax waves to get her attention, and she walks her avatar over to him. "Ana," he says, "you know ants talk each other?"

They've been watching nature videos on the television. "Yes, I've heard that," she says.

"You know we know what they saying?"

"You do?"

"We talk ant language. Like this: imp fimp deemul weetul."

Marco replies, "Beedul jeedul lomp womp."

"And what does that mean?"

"Not tell you. Only we know."

"We and ants," adds Marco. And then Jax and Marco both laugh, mo mo mo, and Ana smiles. The digients run off to play something else, and she goes back to browsing the forums.

FROM: Helen Costas

Do you think we need to worry about our digients being copied?

FROM: Stuart Gust

Who would bother? If there were a big demand for digients, Blue Gamma wouldn't have gone out of business. Remember what happened with the shelters? You literally couldn't give a digient away. And it's not as if they've gotten any more popular since then.

In the playground, Jax exclaims, "I win!" He's been playing some vaguely defined game with Marco. He rocks side to side in triumph.

"Okay," says Marco, "your turn." He sorts through the toys around him until he finds a kazoo and then hands it to Jax.

Jax puts one end of the kazoo in his mouth. He gets on his knees and uses the kazoo to rhythmically poke at Marco's midsection, around where his navel would be if he had one.

Ana asks, "Jax, what are you doing?"

Jax takes the kazoo from his mouth. "Make Marco blowjob."

"What? Where did you see a blowjob?"

"On TV yesterday."

She looks at the television; right now it's showing a child's cartoon. The television is supposed to draw its content from a children's video repository; someone is probably inserting adult material using the IFF hack. She decides not to make a big deal of it to the digients. "Okay," she says, and Jax and Marco resume their mime. She posts a note about the video tampering to the forums, and continues reading.

A few minutes later, Ana hears an unfamiliar chittering sound, and sees that Jax has gone to watch television; all of the digients are watching it. She moves her avatar so she can see what's drawn their attention.

On the virtual television, a person wearing a clown avatar is holding down a digient wearing a puppy avatar, and hitting the digient's legs repeatedly with a hammer. The digient's legs can't break because its avatar wasn't designed to account for that, and it probably can't scream for similar reasons, but the digient must be in agony, and the chittering sounds are the only way it can express that.

Ana turns the virtual television off.

"What happen?" asks Jax, and several of the other digients repeat the question, but she doesn't answer. Instead she opens a window on her physical screen to read the description accompanying the video that was playing. It's not an animation, but a recording of a griefer using the IFF hack to disable the pain circuit-breakers on a digient's body. Even worse, the digient isn't an anonymous new instantiation, but someone's beloved pet, illicitly copied using the IFF hack. The digient's name is Nyyti, and Ana realizes that he's a classmate in Jax's reading lessons.

Whoever copied Nyyti could have a copy of Jax, too. Or he could be making a copy of Jax right now. Given Data Earth's distributed architecture, Jax is vulnerable if the griefer is anywhere on the same continent as the playground.

Jax is still asking about what they saw on the television. Ana opens a window listing all the Data Earth processes running under her account, finds the one that represents Jax, and suspends it. In the playground, Jax freezes in midsentence and then vanishes.

"What happen Jax?" asks Marco.

Ana opens another window for Derek's processes - they granted each other full privileges for their accounts - and suspends Marco and Polo. She doesn't have full privileges for the other digients, though, and she's not sure what to do next. She can see that they're agitated and confused. They don't have the fight-or-flight response that animals have, nor do they have any reactions triggered by smelling pheromones or hearing distress?calls, but they do have an analog of mirror neurons. It helps them learn and socialize, but it also means they're distressed by what they saw on the television.

Everyone who brought their digient to the playdate granted Ana permission to make the digients take a nap, but their processes would still be running even if they were asleep,?meaning they'd still be at risk of being copied. She decides to move the digients to a small island, away from the major continents, in hopes that there's less chance that a?griefer will be scanning processes there.

"Okay everybody," she announces, "we're going to the zoo." She opens a portal to the visitor's center of the Pangaea archipelago and ushers the digients through it. The?visitor's center appears to be empty, but she's not taking any chances. She forces the digients to sleep and then sends messages to all their owners, telling them where they can?pick up their digients. She keeps her avatar with them while she goes on the forums to warn everyone else.

Over the next hour the other owners arrive to pick up their digients, while Ana watches the discussion on the forums bloom like algae. There's outrage and threats of lawsuits?against various parties. Some gamers take the position that digient owners' complaints should take a backseat to their own because digients have no monetary value, igniting a?flame war. Ana ignores most of it, looking for information about the response from Daesan Digital, the company that runs the Data Earth platform. Eventually there's solid news:

FROM: Enrique Beltran

Daesan has an upgrade to Data Earth's security architecture that they say will fix the breach. It was going to be part of next year's update, but they're bumping it up because?of what's been happening. They can't give us a schedule for when it'll be done. Until it is, everyone better keep your digients suspended.

FROM: Maria Zheng

There's another option. Lisma Gunawan is setting up a private island, and she's only going to allow approved code to run on it. You won't be able to use anything you've bought?recently, but Neuroblast digients will run fine. Contact her if you want to be put on the visitor list.

Ana sends a request to Lisma, and gets an automated reply promising news when the island is ready. Ana's not set up to run a local instance of the Data Earth environment?herself, but she does have another option. She spends an hour configuring her system to run a completely local instance of the Neuroblast engine; without a Data Earth portal,?she has to load Jax's saved state manually, but eventually she's able to get Jax running with the robot body.

"- turn off television?" He stops, realizing his surroundings have changed. "What happen?"

"It's okay, Jax."

He sees the body he's wearing. "I in outside world." He looks at her. "You suspend me?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. I know I said I wouldn't, but I had to."

Plaintively, he asks, "Why?"

Ana's embarrassed by how hard she's hugging the robot body. "I'm trying to keep you safe."

#

A month later, Data Earth gets its security upgrade. The IFF disclaims any responsibility for what griefers do with the information they published, saying that every freedom has?the potential to be abused, but they shift their attention to other projects. For a while, at least, the public continents in Data Earth are safe for digients again, but the?damage has been done. There's no way to track down copies that are being run privately, and even if no one releases videos of digient torture anymore, many Neuroblast owners?can't bear the thought that such things are going on; they suspend their digients permanently and leave the user group.

At the same time, other people are excited by the availability of copied digients, particularly of digients who've been taught to read. Members of an AI research institute have?wondered whether digients could form their own culture if left in a hothouse, but they never had access to digients who could read, and they weren't interested in raising any?themselves. Now the researchers assemble copies of as many text-literate digients as they can, mostly Origami digients since they have the best reading skills, but they mix in a?few Neuroblast ones as well. They put them on private islands furnished with text and software libraries, and started running the islands at hothouse speeds. The discussion?forums teem with speculation about cities in a bottle, microcosms on a tabletop.

Derek thinks the idea is ridiculous - a bunch of abandoned children aren't going to become autodidacts no matter how many books they're left with - so he's not surprised to read?about the results: every test population eventually goes feral. The digients don't have enough aggression in them to descend into "Lord of the Flies"-style savagery; they simply?divide into loose, nonhierarchical troops. Initially, each troop's daily routines are held together by force of habit - they read and use eduware when it's time for school, they?go to the playgrounds to play - but without reinforcement these rituals unravel like cheap twine. Every object becomes a toy, every space a playground, and gradually the?digients lose what skills they had. They develop a kind of culture of their own, perhaps what wild digient troops would demonstrate if they'd evolved on their own in the biomes.

As interesting as that is, it's a far cry from the nascent civilization that the researchers were seeking, so they try redesigning the islands. They try to increase the variety?of the test populations, asking owners of educated digients to donate copies; to Derek's surprise, they actually receive a few from owners who have grown tired of paying for?reading lessons and are satisfied that the feral digients aren't suffering. The researchers devise various incentives - all automated, so no real-time interaction is required -?to keep the digients motivated. They impose hardships so that indolence has a cost. While a few of the revised test populations avoid going feral, none ever begin the climb?toward technological sophistication.

The researchers conclude that there's something missing in the Origami genome, but as far as Derek's concerned, the fault lies with them. They're blind to a simple truth:?complex minds can't develop on their own. If they could, feral children would be like any other. And minds don't grow the way weeds do, flourishing under indifferent attention;?otherwise all children in orphanages would thrive. For a mind to even approach its full potential, it needs cultivation by other minds. That cultivation is what he's trying to?provide for Marco and Polo.

Marco and Polo occasionally get into arguments, but they don't stay angry for very long. A few days ago, however, the two of them got into a fight over whether it was fair that?Marco had been instantiated earlier than Polo, and for some reason it escalated. The two digients have hardly spoken to each other since, so Derek's relieved when they approach?him as a pair.

"It's nice to see you two together again. Have you guys made up?"

"No!" says Polo. "Still angry."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Both us want your help," says Marco.

"Okay, what can I do?"

"Want you roll back us last week, before big fight."

"What?" This is the first time he's ever heard of a digient requesting to be restored from a checkpoint. "Why would you want that?"

"I want not remember big fight," says Marco.

"I want be happy, not angry," says Polo. "You want us be happy, right?"

Derek opts not to get into a discussion about the difference between their current instantiations and instantiations restored from a checkpoint. "Of course I do, but I can't?just roll you back every time you have a fight. Just wait a while, and you won't be so angry."

"Have waited, and still angry," says Polo. "Fight big big. Want it never happen."

As soothingly as he can, Derek says, "Well, it did happen, and you're going to have to deal with it."

"No!" shouts Polo. "I angry angry! Want you fix it!"

"Why you want us stay angry forever?" demands Marco.

"I don't want you to stay angry forever, I want you to forgive each other. But if you can't, then we'll all have to live with that, me included."

"Now angry at you too!" says Polo.

The digients storm off in different directions, and he wonders if he's made the right decision. It hasn't always been easy raising Marco and Polo, but he's never rolled them?back to an earlier checkpoint. This strategy has worked well enough so far, but he can't be certain it will keep working.

There are no guidebooks on raising digients, and techniques intended for pets or children fail as often as they succeed. The digients inhabit simple bodies, so their voyage to?maturity is free from the riptides and sudden squalls driven by an organic body's hormones, but this doesn't mean that they don't experience moods or that their personalities?never change; their minds are continuously edging into new regions of the phase space defined by the Neuroblast genome. Indeed, it's possible that the digients will never reach?"maturity"; the idea of a developmental plateau is based on a biological model that doesn't necessarily apply. It's possible their personalities will evolve at the same rate for?as long as the digients are kept running. Only time will tell.

Derek wants to talk about what just happened with Marco and Polo; unfortunately, the person he wants to talk to isn't his wife. Wendy understands the possibilities for the?digients' growth, and recognizes that Marco and Polo will become more and more capable the longer they're cared for; she simply can't generate any enthusiasm about that?prospect. Resentful of the time and attention he devotes to the digients, she would consider their request to be rolled back the perfect opportunity to suspend them for an?indefinite period.

The person he wants to talk to is, of course, Ana. What once seemed a groundless fear of Wendy's has come true; he has definitely developed feelings for her beyond friendship.?It's not the cause of the problems he's having with Wendy; if anything, it's a result. The time he spends with Ana is a relief, a chance for him to enjoy the digients' company?unapologetically. When he's angry he thinks it's Wendy's fault for driving him away, but when he's calm he realizes that's unfair.

The important thing is that he hasn't acted on his feelings for Ana, and he doesn't plan to. What he needs to focus on is reaching an accord with Wendy regarding the digients;?if he can do that, the temptation that Ana poses should pass. Until then, he ought to reduce the amount of time he spends with Ana. It's not going to be easy: given how small?the digient-owner community is, interaction with Ana is inevitable, and he can't let Marco and Polo suffer because of this. He's not sure what to do, but for now, he refrains?from calling Ana for advice and posts a question to the forum instead.

5

Another year passes. Currents within the mantle of the marketplace change, and virtual worlds undergo tectonic shifts in response: a new platform called Real Space, implemented?using the latest distributed-processing architecture, becomes the hotspot of digital terrain formation. Meanwhile Anywhere and Next Dimension stop expanding at their edges,?cooling into a stable configuration. Data Earth has long been a fixture in the universe of virtual worlds, resistant to growth spurts or sharp downturns, but now its topography?begins to erode; one by one, its virtual land masses disappear like real islands, vanishing beneath a rising tide of consumer indifference.

Meanwhile, the failure of the hothouse experiments to produce miniature civilizations has caused general interest in digital lifeforms to dwindle. Occasionally curious new fauna?are observed in the biomes, a species demonstrating an exotic body plan or a novel reproductive strategy, but it's generally agreed that the biomes aren't run at a high enough?resolution for real intelligence to evolve there. The companies that make the Origami and Faberge genomes go into decline. Many technology pundits declare digients to be a dead?end, proof that embodied AI is useless for anything beyond entertainment, until the introduction of a new genomic engine called Sophonce.

Sophonce's designers wanted digients that could be taught via software instead of needing interaction with humans; toward that end, they've created an engine that favors asocial?behavior and obsessive personalities. The vast majority of the digients generated with the engine are discarded for their psychological malformations, but a tiny fraction prove?capable of learning with minimal supervision: give them the right tutoring software and they'll happily study for weeks of subjective time, meaning that they can be run at?hothouse speeds without going feral. Some hobbyists demonstrate Sophonce digients that outperform Neuroblast, Origami, and Faberge digients on math tests, despite having been?trained with far less real-time interaction. There's speculation that, if their energies can be directed in a practical direction, Sophonce digients could become useful workers?within a matter of months. The problem is that they're so charmless that few people want to engage in even the limited amounts of interaction that the digients require.

#

Ana has brought Jax along with her to Siege of Heaven, the first new game continent to appear in Data Earth in a year. She shows him around the Argent Plaza, where players?congregate and socialize in between missions; it's a massive courtyard of white marble, lapis lazuli, and gold filigree located on top of a?cumulonimbus cloud. Ana has to wear her game avatar, a kestrel-cherub, but Jax keeps his traditional copper robot avatar.

As they're strolling amongst the other gamers, Ana sees the onscreen annotation for a digient. His avatar is a hydrocephalic dwarf, the standard avatar for a Drayta: a Sophonce digient who's skilled at solving the logic puzzles found on the gaming continents. The original Drayta's owner trained him using a puzzle generator pirated from the Five Dynasties continent on the Real Space platform, and then released copies to the public domain. Now so many gameplayers take a Drayta with them on their missions that game companies are considering major redisigns.

Ana directs Jax's attention to the other digient. "See the guy over there? He's a Drayta."

"Really?" Jax has heard about Draytas, but this is the first one he's met. He walks over to the dwarf. "Hi," he says. "I'm Jax."

"Wanna solve puzzles," says Drayta.

"What kind puzzles you like?"

"Wanna solve puzzles." Drayta is getting anxious; he runs around the waiting area. "Wanna solve puzzles."

A nearby gamer wearing an osprey-seraph avatar pauses in his conversation to point a finger at Drayta; the digient freezes in midstep, shrinks to an icon, and snaps into one of the gamer's belt compartments as if pulled by an elastic.

"Drayta weird," says Jax.

"Yes he was, wasn't he?"

"All Draytas like that?"

"I think so."

The seraph walks over to Ana. "What kind of digient have you got? Haven't seen his sort before."

"His name's Jax. He runs on the Neuroblast genome."

"Don't know that one. Is it new?"

One of the seraph's teammates, wearing a nephilim avatar, comes by. "Nah, it's old, last generation."

The seraph nods. "Is he good at puzzles?"

"Not really," says Ana.

"So what does he do?"

"I like singing," volunteers Jax.

"Really? Let's have a song, then."

Jax doesn't need further encouragement; he launches into one of his favorites, "Mack the Knife" from Threepenny Opera. He knows all the words, but the tune he sings is at best a rough approximation of the actual melody. At the same time he performs an accompanying dance that he choreographed himself, mostly a series of poses and hand gestures borrowed from an Indonesian hip-hop video he likes.

The other gamers laugh all through his performance. Jax finishes with a curtsy, and they applaud. "That's brilliant," says the seraph.

Ana says to Jax, "That means he likes it. Say thanks."

"Thanks."

To Ana, the seraph says, "Not going to be much help in the labyrinths, is he?"

"He keeps us entertained," she says.

"I'll bet he does. Send me a message if he ever learns to solve puzzles, I'll buy a copy." He sees that his entire team has assembled.

"Well, off to our next mission. Good luck on yours."

"Good luck," says Jax. He waves as the seraph and his teammates take flight and dive in formation toward a distant valley.

Ana's reminded of that encounter a few days later, when she's reading a discussion on the user-group forums:

FROM: Stuart Gust

Last night I played SoH with some people who take a Drayta on their missions, and while he wasn't much fun, he was definitely useful to have around. It made me wonder if it has to be one or the other. Those Sophonce digients aren't any better than ours. Couldn't our digients be both fun and useful?

FROM: Maria Zheng

Are you hoping to sell copies of yours? You think you can raise a better Andro?

Maria's referring to a Sophonce digient named Andro, trained by his owner Bryce Talbot to act as his personal assistant. Talbot?demonstrated Andro to VirlFriday, maker of appointment-management software, and got the company's executives interested. The deal fell through after the executives got demonstration copies; what Talbot hadn't realized was that Andro was, in his own way, as obsessive as Drayta. Like a dog forever loyal to its first owner, Andro wouldn't work for anyone else unless Talbot was there to give orders. VirlFriday tried installing a sensory input filter, so each new Andro instantiation perceived his new owner's avatar and voice as Talbot's, but the disguise never worked for more than a couple of hours. Before long all the executives had to shut down their forlorn Andros, who kept looking for the original Talbot.

As a result, Talbot wasn't able to sell the rights to Andro for anywhere near what he'd hoped. Instead, VirlFriday bought the rights to Andro's specific genome and a complete archive of his checkpoints, and they've hired Talbot to work for them. He's part of a team that's restoring earlier checkpoints of Andro and retraining them, attempting to create a version that has the same personal-assistant skills and is also willing to accept a new owner.

FROM: Stuart Gust

No, I don't mean selling copies. I'm just thinking about Zaff doing work the way dogs guide the blind or sniff out drugs. My goal isn't to make money, but if there's something the digients can do that people are willing to pay for, it would prove to all the skeptics out there that digients aren't just for entertainment.

Ana posts a reply:

FROM: Ana Alvarado

I just want to make sure we're clear about our motivations. It'd be terrific if our digients learned practical skills, but we shouldn't think of them as failures if they don't. Maybe Jax can make money, but Jax isn't for making money. He's not like the Draytas, or the weedbots. Whatever puzzles he might solve or work he might do, those aren't the reason I'm raising him.

FROM: Stuart Gust

Yes, I agree with that completely. All I meant was that our digients might have untapped skills. If there's some kind of job they'd be good at, wouldn't it be cool for them to do that job?

FROM: Maria Zheng

But what can they do? Dogs were bred to be good at specific things, and Sophonce digients are so single minded that they only want to do one thing, whether they're good at it or not. Neither is true for Neuroblast digients.

FROM: Stuart Gust

We could expose them to lots of different things and see what they have an aptitude for. Give them liberal arts education instead of vocational training. (I'm only half kidding.)

FROM: Ana Alvarado

That's actually not as silly as it might sound. Bonobos have learned to do everything from making stone cutting tools to playing computer games when they were given the chance. Our digients might be good at things that it hasn't occurred to us to train them for.

FROM: Maria Zheng

Just what are we talking about? We've already taught them to read. Are we going to give them lessons in science and history? Are we going to teach them critical thinking skills?

FROM: Ana Alvarado

I really don't know. But I think that if we do this, it's important to have an open mind and not be skeptical. Low expectations are a self-fulfilling prophecy. If we aim high, we'll get better results.

Most of the user-group members are content with their digients' current education - an improvised mixture of homeschooling, group tutoring, and eduware - but there are some who are excited by the idea of going further. This latter group begins a discussion with their digients' tutors about expanding the curriculum. Over the course of months, various owners read up on pedagogical theory and try to determine how the digients' learning style differs from those of chimps or human children, and how to design lesson plans that best accommodate it. Most of the?time the owners are receptive to all suggestions, until the question arises of whether the digients might make faster progress if their tutors assigned them homework.

Ana prefers that they find activities that develop skills but which the digients enjoy enough to do on their own. Other owners argue that the tutors ought to give the digients actual assignments to be completed. She's surprised to read a forum post from Derek in which he supports the idea. She asks him about it the next time they talk.

"Why would you want to make them do homework?"

"What's wrong with that?" says Derek. "Is this because you once had a mean teacher when you were a kid?"

"Very funny. Come on, I'm serious."

"Okay, seriously: what's so bad about homework?"

She hardly knows where to begin. "It's one thing for Jax to have ways to keep himself entertained outside of class," she says. "But to give him assignments and tell him he has to finish them even if he doesn't enjoy it? To make him feel bad if he doesn't do it? That goes against every principle of animal training."

"A long time ago, you were the one who told me that digients weren't like animals."

"Yes, I did say that," she allows. "But they're not tools either. And I know you know that, but what you're talking about, it sounds like you're preparing them to do work that they wouldn't want to do."

He shakes his head. "It's not about making them work, it's about getting them to learn some responsibility. And they might be strong enough to take feeling bad once in a while; the only way to know is to try."

"Why take the chance of making them feel bad at all?"

"It was something I thought of when I was talking with my sister," he says. Derek's sister teaches children born with Down Syndrome. "She mentioned that some parents don't want to push their kids too much, because they're afraid of exposing them to the possibility of failure. The parents mean well, but they're keeping their kids from reaching their full potential when they coddle them."

It takes her a little time to get used to this idea. Ana's accustomed to thinking of the digients as supremely gifted apes, and while in the past people have compared apes to children with special needs, it was always more of a metaphor. To view the digients more literally as special-needs children requires a shift in perspective. "How much responsibility do you think the digients can handle?"

Derek spreads his hands. "I don't know. In a way it's like Down Syndrome; it affects every person differently, so whenever my sister works with a new kid, she has to play it by ear. We have even less to go on, because no one's ever raised digients for this long before. If it turns out that the only thing we're accomplishing with homework assignments is making them feel bad, then of course we'll stop. But I don't want Marco and Polo's potential to be wasted because I was afraid of pushing them a little."

She sees that Derek has a very different idea of high expectations than she has. More than that, she realizes that his is actually the better one. "You're right," she says, after a pause. "We should see if they can do homework."

#

It's a year later, and Derek is finishing up some work before he meets Ana for lunch on a Saturday. For the last couple of hours he's been testing an avatar modification that would change the proportions of the digients' bodies and faces to make them look more mature. Among those owners who have opted to further their digients' education, more and more are commenting on the incongruity between the digients' eternally cute avatars and their increasing competence. This add-on is intended to correct that, and make it easier for the owners' to think of the digients as more capable.

Before leaving, he checks his messages, and is puzzled to see a couple from strangers accusing him of running some kind of scam. The messages seem legitimate, so he reads them more closely. The senders are complaining about a digient approaching them in Data Earth and asking for money.

Derek realizes what must have happened. He recently began giving Marco and Polo an allowance, which they usually spend on game subscriptions or virtual toys; they've asked for more, but he's held the line. They must have decided to ask people in Data Earth at random for money and been rebuffed, but since the digients are running under Derek's Data Earth account, people assumed that he had trained them to beg for money.

He'll send complete apologies to these people later on, but right now he tells Marco and Polo to enter their robot bodies immediately. Fabrication technology has reached the point where he was able to afford two robot bodies of his own, customized to complement Marco and Polo's avatars. A minute later, their panda-bear faces appear in the robot's helmets, and Derek reprimands them for asking strangers for money. "I thought you would know better," he says.

Polo is apologetic. "Yes, know better," he says.

"So why did you do it?"

"My idea, not Polo's," says Marco. "Knew they wouldn't give money. Knew they'd message you."

Derek's astonished. "You were trying to get people angry at me?"

"This happen because we on your account," says Marco. "Not happen if we have own accounts, like Voyl."

Now he understands. The digients have been hearing about a Sophonce digient named Voyl. Voyl's owner - a lawyer named Gerald Hecht - filed papers to create the Voyl Corporation, and Voyl now runs under a separate Data Earth account registered to that corporation. Voyl pays taxes and is able to own property, enter into contracts, file lawsuits and be sued; in many respects he is a legal person, albeit one for whom Hecht technically serves as director.

The idea has been around for a while. Artificial-life hobbyists all agree on the impossibility of digients ever getting legal protection as a class, citing dogs as an example: human compassion for dogs is both deep and wide, but the euthanasia of dogs in pet shelters amounts to an ongoing canine holocaust, and if the courts haven't put a stop to that, they certainly aren't going to grant protection to entities that lack a heartbeat. Given this, some owners believe the most they can hope for is legal protection on an individual basis: by filing articles of incorporation on a specific digient, an owner can take advantage of a substantial body of case law that establishes rights for nonhuman entities. Hecht is the first one to have actually done it.

"So you were trying to make a point," says Derek.

"People say being corporation great," says Marco. "Can do whatever want."

A number of human adolescents have complained that Voyl has more rights than they do; obviously the digients have seen their comments. "Well, you're not incorporated, and you definitely cannot do anything you want."

"We sorry," says Marco, suddenly appreciating the trouble he's in. "Just want be corporations."

"I told you before: you're not old enough."

"We older Voyl," says Polo.

"Me especially," says Marco.

"Voyl's not old enough for it, either. His owner made a mistake."

"So you not let us be corporations ever?"

Derek gives them a stern look. "Maybe one day, when you're much older; we'll see. But if you two try a stunt like this again, there are going to be serious repercussions. You understand?"

The digients are glum. "Yes," says Marco.

"Yes," says Polo.

"Okay. I've got to go; we'll talk about this more later." Derek scowls at them. "You two get back into Data Earth now."

As he drives to the restaurant, Derek again thinks about what Marco is asking for. A lot of people are skeptical about the idea of digients becoming corporations; they view Hecht's actions as nothing more than a stunt, an impression Hecht only reinforces by issuing press releases about his plans for Voyl. Right now Hecht essentially runs the Voyl Corporation, but he's training Voyl in business law and insists that someday Voyl will make all the decisions himself; the role of director, whether filled by Hecht or by someone else, will be nothing but a formality. In the meantime, Hecht invites people to put Voyl's status as a legal person to the test. Hecht has the resources for a court battle, and he's itching for a fight. So far no one has taken him up on it, but Derek hopes that someone will; he wants the precedents to be well established before he'll consider incorporating Marco and Polo.

The question of whether Marco or Polo would ever be intellectually capable of becoming corporations is another question, and to Derek's mind a more difficult one to answer. The Neuroblast digients have shown that they can do homework on their own, and he's confident that their attention spans for independent tasks will increase steadily over time, but even if they become able to do sizeable projects without supervision, that's still a far cry from being able to make responsible decisions about one's future. And he's not even sure if that level of independence is something he should encourage Marco and Polo to have as a goal. Turning Marco and Polo into corporations opens the door to keeping them running after Derek himself has passed away, which is a worrisome prospect: for Down Syndrome individuals,?there are organizations that provide assistance to people living on their own, but similar support services don't exist for incorporated digients. It might be better to ensure that Marco and Polo are suspended in the event that Derek can't take care of them.

Whatever he decides to do, he'll have to do it without Wendy; they've decided to file for divorce. The reasons are complicated, of course, but one thing is clear: raising a pair of digients is not what Wendy wants from life, and if Derek wants a partner in this endeavor, he'll have to find someone else. Their marriage counselor has explained that the problem isn't the digients per se, it's the fact that Derek and Wendy can't find a way to accommodate their having different interests. Derek knows the counselor's right, but surely having common interests would have helped.

He doesn't want to get ahead of himself, but he can't stop thinking that getting divorced offers him an opportunity to be more than just friends with Ana. Surely she's considered the possibility too; after all the time they've known each other, how could she not have? The two of them would make a great team, working together for what's best for their digients.

Not that he plans to declare his feelings at lunch; it's too soon for that, and he knows Ana is seeing someone right now, a guy named Kyle. But their relationship is fast approaching the six-month mark, which is usually when the guy realizes that Jax isn't just a hobby, but the major priority in her life; it probably won't be long before the breakup follows. Derek figures that in telling Ana about his divorce, he'll be reminding her that there are other options, that not every guy will think of digients as competition for her attention.

He looks around for Ana in the restaurant, sees her and waves; she gives him a big grin. When he reaches the table he says, "You won't believe what Marco and Polo just did." He tells her what happened, and her jaw drops.

"That's amazing," she says. "God, I'll bet Jax has heard the same things they have."

"Yeah, you might want to have a conversation with him when you get home." This leads to talking about the benefits and drawbacks of giving the digients access to social forums. The forums offer richer interaction than the owners can supply by themselves, but not all the influences the digients receive are positive ones.

After they've discussed digients for a while, Ana asks, "So aside from that, what's new with you?"

Derek sighs. "I might as well tell you: Wendy and I are getting divorced."

"Oh no. Derek, I'm so sorry." Her sympathy is genuine, and it warms him.

"It's been a long time coming," he says.

She nods. "Still, I'm sorry it's happening."

"Thanks." He talks for a while about what he and Wendy have agreed upon, how they'll sell the condo and split the proceeds. Thankfully the process is mostly amicable.

"At least she doesn't want copies of Marco and Polo," says Ana.

"Yeah, thank goodness for that," agrees Derek. A spouse can almost always make a copy of a digient, and when a divorce isn't amicable, it's all too easy to use one to get back at one's ex. They've seen it happen on the forums many times.

"Enough of that," says Derek. "Let's talk about something else. What's happening with you?"

"Nothing, really."

"You looked like you were in a good mood until I started talking about Wendy."

"Well, yeah, I was," she admits.

"So is there something in particular that's got you feeling so upbeat?"

"It's nothing."

"Nothing's got you in a good mood?"

"Well, I have some news, but we don't have to talk about it now."

"No, don't be silly, it's fine. If you've got good news, let's hear it."

Ana pauses and then, almost apologetically, says, "Kyle and I have decided to move in together."

Derek is stunned. "Congratulations," he says.

6

Two more years pass. Life goes on.

Occasionally Ana, Derek, and the other education-minded owners have their digients take some standardized tests, to see how they compare with human children. The results vary. The Faberge digients, being illiterate, can't take written tests, but they seem to be developing well according to other metrics. Among the Origami digients, there's a curious split in the test results, with half continuing to develop over time and half hitting a plateau, possibly due to a quirk in the genome. The Neuroblast digients do reasonably well if they're permitted the same allowances in testing that dyslexic humans are given; while there's variation between the individual digients, as a group their intellectual development continues apace.

What's harder to gauge is their social development, but one encouraging sign is that the digients are socializing with human adolescents in various online communities. Jax becomes interested in tetrabrake, a subculture focused on virtual dance choreography for four-armed avatars; Marco and Polo have each joined a fan club for a serial game drama, and each regularly tries to convince the other of the superiority of his choice. Even though Ana and Derek don't really understand the appeal of these communities, they like the fact that their digients have become part of them. The adolescents who dominate these communities seem unconcerned with the fact that the digients aren't human, treating them as just another kind of online friend they are unlikely to meet in person.

Ana's relationship with Kyle has its ups and downs, but is generally good. They occasionally go out with Derek and whomever he's dating; Derek sees a series of women, but nothing ever becomes serious. He tells Ana that it's because the women he dates don't share his interest in digients, but the truth is that his feelings for Ana refuse to go away.

The economy goes into a recession after the latest flu pandemic, prompting changes in the virtual worlds. Daesan Digital, the company that created the Data Earth platform, makes a joint announcement with Viswa Media, creator of the Real Space platform: Data Earth is becomming part of Real Space. All Data Earth continents will be replaced by identical Real Space versions added to the Real Space universe. They're calling it a merger of two worlds, but it's just a polite way of saying that, after years of upgrades and new versions, Daesan can no longer afford to keep fighting the platform wars.

For most customers, all this means is that they can travel between more virtual locations without logging out and in again. Over the last few years, almost all of the companies whose software runs on Data Earth have created versions that run on Real Space. Gamers who play Siege of Heaven or Elderthorn can simply run a conversion utility, and their inventories of weapons and clothing will be waiting for them on the Real Space versions of the game continents.

One exception, though, is Neuroblast. There isn't a Real Space version of the Neuroblast engine - Blue Gamma folded before the platform was introduced - which means that there's no way for a digient with a Neuroblast genome to enter the Real Space environment. Origami and Faberge digients experience the migragtion to Real Space as an expansion of possibilities, but for Jax and the other Neuroblast digients, Daesan's announcement essentially means the end of the world.

#

Ana is getting ready for bed when she hears the crash. She hurries out to the living room to investigate.

Jax is wearing the robot body, examining his wrist. One of the tiles on the wall display next to him is cracked. He sees Ana enter and says, "I sorry."

"What were you doing?" she asks.

"I very sorry."

"Tell me what you were doing."

Reluctantly, Jax says, "Cartwheel."

"And your wrist gave way and you hit the wall." Ana takes a look at the robot-body's wrist. As she feared; it will require replacement. "I don't make these rules because I don't want you to have fun. But this is what happens when you try dancing in the robot body."

"I know you said. But I try little dancing, and body fine. I try little more, and body still fine."

"So you tried a little more, and now we have to buy a new wrist, and a new display tile." She briefly wonders how quickly she can replace them, if she can keep Kyle - who is out of town on business - from finding out about this. A few months ago Jax damaged a piece of sculpture that Kyle loved, and it might be better not to remind him of that incident.

"I very very sorry," says Jax.

"Okay, back to Data Earth." Ana points to the charging platform.

"I admit was mistake - "

"Just go."

Jax dutifully heads over. Just before he steps on the platform, he says quietly, "It not Data Earth." Then the robot-body's helmet goes dark.

Jax is complaining about the private version of Data Earth that the Neuroblast user group has set up, duplicating many of the continents from the original. In one respect it's much better than the private island they used as a refuge from the IFF hack, because now processing power is so cheap that they can run dozens of continents. In another respect it's much worse, because those continents are almost entirely devoid of inhabitants.

The problem is not just that all the humans have moved to Real Space. The Origami and Faberge digients have gone to Real Space too, and Ana can hardly blame their owners; she'd have done the same, given the opportunity. Even more distressing is that most of the Neuroblast digients are gone as well, including many of Jax's friends. Some members of the user group quit when Data Earth closed; others took a "wait and see" approach, but grew discouraged after they saw how impoverished the private Data Earth was, choosing to suspend their digients rather than raise them in a ghost town. And more than anything else, that's what the private Data Earth resembles: a ghost town the size of a planet. There are vast expanses of minutely-detailed terrain to wander around in, but no one to talk to except for the tutors who come in to give lessons. There are dungeons without quests, malls without businesses, stadiums without sporting events; it's the digital equivalent of a post-apocalyptic landscape.

Jax's human friends from the tetrabrake scene used to log into the private Data Earth just to visit Jax, but their visits have grown

increasingly infrequent; all the tetrabrake events happen on Real Space now. Jax can send and receive choreography recordings, but a major part of the scene is live gatherings where choreography is improvised, and there's no way for him to participate in those. Jax is losing most of his social life in the virtual world, and he can't find one in the real one: his robot body is categorized as an unpiloted free-roaming vehicle, so he's restricted from public spaces unless Ana or Kyle is there to accompany him. Confined to their apartment, he becomes bored and restless.

For weeks Ana tried having Jax sit at her computer in his robot body and log into Real Space that way, but he refuses to do it anymore. There were difficulties with the user interface - his inexperience with using an actual computer, compounded by the camera's suboptimal tracking of gestures performed by a robot body - but she believes they could have overcome them. The bigger problem is that Jax doesn't want to control an avatar remotely: he wants to be the avatar. For him, the keyboard and screen are a miserable substitute for being there, as unsatisfying as a jungle videogame would be to a chimpanzee taken from the Congo.

All the remaining Neuroblast digients are having similar frustrations, making it clear that a private Data Earth is only a temporary fix. What's needed is a way to run the digients on Real Space, allowing them to move freely and interact with its objects and inhabitants. In other words, the solution is to port the Neuroblast engine - to rewrite it to run on the Real Space platform. Ana has persuaded Blue Gamma's former owners to release the source code for Neuroblast, but it will take experienced developers to do the rewriting. The user group has posted announcements on open-source forums in an attempt to attract volunteers.

The sole advantage of Data Earth's obsolescence is that their digients are safe from the dark side of the social world. A company called Edgeplayer markets a digient torture chamber on the Real Space platform; to avoid accusations of unauthorized copying, they use only public-domain digients as victims. The user group has agreed that once they get the Neuroblast engine ported, their conversion procedure will include full ownership verification; no Neuroblast digient will ever enter Real Space without someone committed to taking care of it.

#

It's two months later, and Derek is browsing the user's group forum, reading the responses to an earlier post of his on the status of the Neuroblast port. Unfortunately, the news was not good; the attempts to recruit developers for the project haven't met with much success. The user group has held open-house events in their private Data Earth so that people could meet the digients, but there have been very few takers.

The problem is that genomic engines are old news. Developers are drawn to new, exciting projects, and right now that means working on neural interfaces or nanomedical software. There are scores of genomic engines languishing in various states of incompletion on the open-source repositories, all in need of volunteer programmers, and the prospect of porting the dozen-year-old Neuroblast engine to a new platform may be the least exciting of them all. Only a handful of students are contributing to the Neuroblast port, and considering how little time they're able to devote, the Real Space platform will itself be obsolete before the port is finished.

The other alternative is to hire professional developers. Derek has talked to some developers with experience in genomic engines, and requested quotes on how much it would cost to port Neuroblast. The estimates he's received are reasonable given the complexity of the project, and for a company with several hundred thousand customers, it would make perfect sense to go ahead with it. For a user group whose membership has dwindled down to about twenty people, however, the price is staggering.

Derek reads the latest comments on the discussion forum, and then calls up Ana. Having the digients confined to a private Data Earth has definitely been hard, but for him there's also been a silver lining: he and Ana have a reason to talk every day now, whether it's about the status of the Neuroblast port or trying to organize activities for their digients. Over the last few years Marco and Polo had drifted away from Jax as they all pursued their own interests, but now the Neuroblast digients have only each other for company, so he and Ana try to find things for them to do as a group. He no longer has a wife who might complain about this, and Ana's boyfriend Kyle doesn't seem to mind, so he can call her up without recrimination. It's a painful sort of pleasure to spend this much time with her; it might be healthier for him if they interacted less, but he doesn't want to stop.

Ana's face appears in the phone window. "Have you seen Stuart's post?" Derek asks. Stuart pointed out what each person would have to pay for them if they divided the cost evenly, and asked how many of the members could afford that much.

"I just read it," says Ana. "Maybe he thinks he's being helpful, but all he's doing is getting people anxious."

"I agree," he says. "But until we come up with a good alternative, the per-person cost is what everyone will be thinking about. Have you met with that fundraiser yet?" Ana was going to talk to a friend of a friend, a woman who has run fundraising campaigns for wildlife sanctuaries.

"As a matter of fact, I just got back from lunch with her."

"Great! What did you find out?"

"The bad news is, she doesn't think we can qualify for nonprofit status, because we're only trying to raise money for a specific set of individuals."

"But anyone could use the new engine - " He stops. It's true that there are probably millions of snapshots of Neuroblast digients stored in archives around the world. But the user group can't honestly claim to be working on their behalf; without someone willing to raise them, none of those digients would benefit from a Real Space version of the Neuroblast engine. The only digients the user group is trying to help are its own.

Ana nods without him saying a word; she must have had the exact same thought earlier. "Okay," says Derek, "we can't be a nonprofit. So what's the good news?"

"She says we can still solicit contributions outside of the nonprofit model. What we need to do is tell a story that generates sympathy for the digients themselves. That's the way some zoos pay for things like surgeries on elephants."

He considers that for a moment. "I guess we could post some videos about the digients, try tugging on people's heartstrings."

"Exactly. And if we can build up enough popular sentiment, we might get contributions of time as well as money. Anything that raises the profiles of the digients will increase our chances of getting volunteers from the open-source community."

"I'll start going through my videos for footage of Marco and Polo," he says. "There's plenty of cute stuff from when they were young; I'm not so sure about the more recent stuff. Or do we need heartrending stuff?"

"We should talk about what would work best," says Ana. "I'll post a message on the forum asking everyone else."

This reminds Derek of something. "By the way, I got a call yesterday that might help us out. It's kind of a long shot, though."

"Who was it?"

"Do you remember the Xenotherians?"

"Those digients that were supposed to be aliens? Is that project still going on?"

"Sort of." He explains that he was contacted by a young man named Felix Radcliffe, who is one of the last participants in the Xenotherian project. Most of the original hobbyists gave up years ago, exhausted by the difficulty of inventing an alien culture from scratch, but there remains a small group of devotees who have become almost monomaniacal. From what Derek has been able to determine, most of them are unemployed and rarely leave their bedrooms in their parents' homes; they live their lives in Data Mars. Felix is the only member of the group willing to initiate contact with outsiders.

"And people call us fanatics," says Ana. "So why did he contact you?"

"He heard we were trying to get Neuroblast ported, and wants to help. He recognized my name because I was the one who designed the avatars for them."

"Lucky you," she says, smiling, and Derek makes a face. "Why would he care if Neuroblast gets ported? I thought the whole point of Data Mars was to keep the Xenotherians isolated."

"Originally it was, but now he's decided they're ready to meet human beings, and he wants to conduct a first-contact experiment. If Data Earth were still running, he'd let the Xenotherians send an expedition to the main continents, but that's no longer an option. So Felix is in the same boat as us; he wants Neuroblast ported so his digients can enter Real Space."

"Well...I guess I can understand that. And you said he might be able to help with funding?"

"He's trying to generate interest among anthropologists and exobiologists. He thinks they'll want to study the Xenotherians so much they'll pay for the port."

Ana looks dubious. "Would they actually pay for something like that?"

"I doubt it," says Derek. "It's not as if the Xenotherians are actually aliens. I think Felix would have better luck with game companies who need aliens to populate their worlds, but it's his decision. I figure that as long as he doesn't approach any of the people we're contacting, he won't hurt our chances, and there's a possibility he can help."

"But if he's as awkward as he sounds, how likely is it he can persuade anyone?"

"Well, it wouldn't be with his salesmanship. He's got a video of the Xenotherians that he shows anthropologists, to whet their appetites. He let me see a little bit of it."

"And?"

He shrugs, raises his hands. "I could've been looking at a hive of weedbots for all that I understood."

Ana laughs. "Well, maybe that's good. Maybe the more alien they are, the more interesting they'll be."

Derek laughs too, imagining the irony: after all the work they did at Blue Gamma to make digients appealing, what if it turns out that the alien ones are what people are more interested in?

7

Another two months go by. The user group's attempts at fundraising don't meet with much success; the charitably inclined are growing fatigued of hearing about natural endangered species, let alone artificial ones, and digients aren't nearly as photogenic as dolphins. The flow of donations has never risen above a trickle.

The stress of being confined to Data Earth is definitely taking a toll on the digients; the owners try to spend more time with them to keep them from getting bored, but it's no substitute for a fully populated virtual world. Ana also tries to shield Jax from the problems surrounding the Neuroblast port, but he's aware of it nonetheless. One day when she comes home from work, she logs in to find him visibly agitated.

"Want ask you about porting," he says, with no prelude.

"What about it?"

"Before thought it just another upgrade, like before. Now think it much bigger. More like uploading, except with digients instead people, right?"

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"You seen video with mouse?"

Ana knows the one Jax is referring to: newly released by an uploading research team, it shows a white mouse being flash-frozen and then vaporized, one micrometer at a time,?into curls of smoke by a scanning electron beam, and then instantiated in a test scape where it's virtually thawed and awakened. The mouse immediately has a seizure, convulsing?piteously for a couple of subjective minutes before it dies. It's currently the record-holder for longest survival time for an uploaded mammal.

"Nothing like that will happen to you," she assures him.

"You mean I not remember if happens," says Jax. "I only remember if transition successful."

"No one's going to run you, or anyone else, on an untested engine. When Neuroblast has been ported, we'll run test suites on it and fix all the bugs before we run a digient. Those test suites don't feel anything."

"Researchers ran test suites before they uploaded mice?"

Jax is good at asking the tough questions. "The mice were the test suites," Ana admits. "But that's because no one has the source code to organic brains, so they can't write test suites that are simpler than real mice. We have the source code for Neuroblast, so we don't have that problem."

"But you don't have money afford port."

"No, not right now, but we're going to get it." She hopes she sounds more confident than she feels.

"How I help? How I make money?"

"Thanks, Jax, but right now there isn't a way for you to make?money," she says. "For now your job is to just keep studying and do well in your classes."

"Yes, know that: now study, later do other things. What if now I get loan, then pay back later when earn money?"

"Let me worry about that, Jax."

Jax looks glum. "Okay."

In fact, what Jax suggests is almost exactly what the user group has attempted recently by looking for corporate investors. It's an avenue opened up by VirlFriday's success in selling digients as personal assistants. It took several years, but Talbot finally managed to raise an instance of Andro that would work for anyone; VirlFriday has sold hundreds of thousands of copies. It's the first demonstration that a digient can actually be profitable, and several other companies are looking to duplicate Talbot's achievement.

One of those companies is called Polytope, who've announced plans for launching an enormous breeding program to create the next Andro. The user group contacted them and offered them a stake in the Neuroblast digients' future: in exchange for paying to port the Neuroblast engine, Polytope would get a pecentage of any income generated by the digients in perpetuity. The group was more hopeful than it had been in months, but the company's answer was no; the only digients that Polytope is interested in are Sophonce digients, whose obsessive focus is a necessity if they're going to replace conventional software.

The user group has briefly discussed the possibility of paying for the port out of their own pockets, but it's clearly not feasible. As a result, some members are considering the unthinkable:

FROM: Stuart Gust

I hate being the one to bring this up, but someone has to. What about temporarily suspending the digients for a year or so, until we've raised the money for the port?

FROM: Derek Brooks

You know what happens when anyone suspends their digient. Temporary becomes indefinite becomes permanent.

FROM: Ana Alvarado

I couldn't agree more. It's just too easy to get into perpetual postponement mode. Have you ever heard of anyone restarting a digient that they'd suspended for more than six months? I haven't.

FROM: Stuart Gust

But we're not like those people. They suspended their digients because they were tired of them. We'll miss our digients every day that they're suspended; it'll be an incentive for us to raise the money.

FROM: Ana Alvarado

If you think suspending Zaff will increase your motivation, go ahead. Keeping Jax awake is what keeps me motivated.

Ana has no doubts when she posts her reply on the forum, but the conversation is more difficult when, a few days later, Jax?brings up the issue himself. The two of them are in the private Data Earth, where she is showing him around a new game continent. It's a classic, one that Ana enjoyed years ago, and it's recently been released for free, so the user group instantiated a copy for the digients. She tries to convey her enthusiasm for it, pointing out what distinguishes it from the other game continents that the digients have grown bored with, but Jax sees the continent for what it is: yet another attempt to keep him occupied while they wait for Neuroblast to be ported.

As they walk through a deserted medieval town square, Jax says, "Sometimes wish I just be suspended, not have to wait more. Restarted when I can enter Real Space, feel like no time passed."

The comment catches Ana off-guard. None of the digients have access to the user-group forums, so Jax must have come up with the idea on his own. "Do you really want that?" she asks.

"Not really. Want stay awake, know what happening. But sometimes get frustrated." Then, he asks, "You sometimes wish you don't have take care me?"

She makes sure Jax is looking her in the face before she replies. "My life might be simpler if I didn't have you to take care of, but it wouldn't be as happy. I love you, Jax."

"Love you too."

#

Driving home from work, Derek gets a message from Ana saying that she'd been contacted by someone at Polytope, so as soon as he gets home he calls her. "So what happened?" he asks.

Ana looks bemused. "It was a very strange call."

"Strange how?"

"They're offering me a job."

"Really? Doing what?"

"Training their Sophonce digients," she says. "Because of all my previous experience, they want me to be the team leader. They offered a great salary, three years guaranteed employment, and a signing bonus that's, frankly, fabulous. There's a catch, though."

"Well? Don't keep me in suspense."

"All their trainers are required to use InstantRapport."

Derek's eyes widen. "You're kidding," he says. InstantRapport is one of the smart transdermals, a patch that delivers doses of an oxytocin-opioid cocktail whenever the wearer is in the presence of a specific person. It's used to strengthen rocky marriages and strained parent-child relationships, and it's recently become available without a prescription. "What the hell for?"

"They figure that affection will produce better results, and the only way trainers will feel affection for Sophonce digients is with

pharmaceutical intervention."

"Oh, I get it. It's a way to increase employee productivity." He knows plenty of people who take nootropics or use transcranial magnetic stimulation to boost their performance at work, but so far no employer has make it a requirement. He shakes his head in disbelief. "If their digients are so hard to love, you would think they'd take a hint and switch to Neuroblast digients."

"I said something similar to them, but they weren't interested. I had an idea, though." Ana leans forward. "I might be able to change their minds if I go work for them."

"How do you figure?"

"It'd be an opportunity to show Jax to Polytope's management on an ongoing basis. I could log into our private Data Earth from work, maybe even bring him in wearing the robot body. What better way to demonstrate how versatile the Neuroblast engine is? And once they realize that, they'll port it to Real Space."

Derek considers it. "Assuming they don't forbid you from spending time with Jax during work hours - "

"Give me some credit. I wouldn't give them the hard sell; I'd be subtle about it."

"It might work," he says. "But they'd make you wear the InstantRapport patch. Is the chance worth that?"

Ana gives a frustrated shrug. "I don't know. It sure as hell isn't my first choice. But sometimes we have to take a chance, right? Push things a little."

He isn't sure what to say. "What does Kyle think about it?"

She sighs. "He's totally against it. He doesn't like the idea of me taking InstantRapport, and he definitely doesn't think the chances are good enough to justify it." She pauses, and then says, "But he doesn't feel the same way about digients that you or I do, so of course he'd say that. For him, the payoff doesn't seem that big."

Ana's clearly expecting support and he obliges, but privately his thoughts are more conflicted. He has reservations about what she's proposing, but he's hesitant about saying so.

He hates that he has such thoughts, but on the occasion that Ana has mentioned having difficulties with Kyle, he daydreams about the two of them splitting up. He's told himself that he would never do anything to drive them apart, but if Kyle doesn't share Ana's commitment to the digients, Derek isn't doing anything wrong by showing that he does. If that suggests to Ana that he's a better match for her than Kyle, he can't be blamed for that.

The question is whether he really thinks it's a good idea for Ana to accept Polytope's job offer. He's not sure he does, but until he's sure, he's going to be supportive.

After he gets off the phone, Derek logs onto the private Data Earth to spend time with Marco and Polo. They're playing a game of zero-gee racquetball, but descend from the court when they see him.

"Met nice visitors today," says Marco.

"Really? Do you know who they were?"

"Person name Jennifer, and person name Roland."

Derek checks the visitor log, and is dismayed by what he sees: Jennifer Chase and Roland Michaels are employees of a company called Binary Desire, makers of sex dolls both virtual and physical.

This isn't the first time the user group has received an inquiry from someone wanting to use the digients for sex. The vast majority of sex dolls are still controlled by conventional software to enact scripted scenarios, but for as long as there have been digients, there have been people trying to have sex with them; the typical procedure is to copy a public-domain digient and reconfigure its reward map so that it enjoys whatever its owner finds arousing. Critics consider it the equivalent of having a dog lick peanut butter off your genitals, and it's not an unfair comparison, either in terms of the intelligence of the digients or the sophistication of the training. Certainly there aren't any digients remotely as person-like as Marco or Polo available for sex right now, so the user group gets occasional inquiries from sex-doll makers interested in purchasing copies of the digients. Everyone in the group has agreed that they should ignore such inquiries.

But according to the log, Chase and Michaels were escorted in by Felix Radcliffe.

Derek tells Marco and Polo to resume their game, and then calls Felix. "What the hell were you thinking? Bringing in Binary Desire?"

"They did not attempt to sex the digients."

"I can see that." He has the recording of their visit playing at double-speed in another window.

"They had conversation with them."

Talking to Felix sometimes feels like addressing an alien. "We had an understanding about sex-doll makers. Do you remember that?"

"These people are not like the others. I like the way they think."

He's afraid to ask what that means. "If you like them, bring them to Data Mars and show them your Xenotherians."

"I did show them," says Felix. "They were not interested."

Of course they weren't, Derek realizes; the demand for sex with Lojban-speaking tripods would be microscopic. But he sees that Felix is being honest, that it wouldn't bother him to prostitute the Xenotherians if it would help finance his first-contact experiment. Felix may be eccentric, but he's not a hypocrite.

"Then that should have been the end of it," he says. "We may have to ban you from Data Earth."

"You should talk to these people."

"No, we shouldn't."

"They will pay you for listening to them. They will send a message containing the specifics."

Derek almost laughs. Binary Desire must be pretty desperate if they're paying people to listen to a sales pitch. "Messages are fine. But I'm putting those people on the ban list, and I don't want you bringing in anyone else from a sex-doll maker. Is that clear?"

"That is clear," says Felix, and hangs up.

Derek shakes his head. Normally he wouldn't consider listening to such a sales pitch, even for money, because he doesn't want to give the impression that he'd be willing to sell Marco and Polo as sex objects.

But right now the user group needs every dollar it can get. If listening to one company's presentation could encourage other companies to pay for the same opportunity, then it might be worthwhile. He restarts the video of the visitors' meeting with the digients and watches it at regular speed.

8

The user group has gathered to listen to Binary Desire's presentation via videoconferencing; Binary Desire has made a payment to an escrow service, and the funds will be released after the meeting. Seated at the focus of her wraparound screen, Ana looks around her; everyone's video feeds are integrated so that the user group appears to be gathered in a virtual auditorium, each sitting in a tiny private balcony. Derek's sitting in the balcony to her left, and Felix in turn is to his left. At the podium on stage is Binary's representative Jennifer Chase. Her image onscreen is blond and beautiful and tastefully dressed, and because the parties have agreed to use authenticated video,?Ana knows this is how Chase actually looks. She wonders if Binary Desire assigns Chase to do all their negotiations; the woman is probably very good at getting what she asks for.

Felix stands up in his seat and starts to say something in Lojban before catching himself. "You will like what she will say," he says.

"Thank you, Felix, but let me take it from here," says Chase. Felix sits back down, and Chase addresses the group.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. Typically when I meet with a prospective business partner, I talk about how Binary Desire can help them reach a wider market than they can themselves, but I'm not going to do that with you. My goal for this meeting is to assure you that your digients will be treated with respect. We don't want pets that have been sexualized through simple operant conditioning. We want beings that engage in sex at a higher, more personal level."

Stuart calls out, "How do you expect to get that when our digients are completely asexual?"

Chase doesn't miss a beat. "With two years of training, minimum."

Ana's surprised. "That's a major investment," she says. "I thought digient sex-dolls were usually trained for a couple of weeks."

"That's because they're usually Sophonce digients, and they don't become better sex partners in two years than they do in two weeks. I don't know if you've seen the results, but if you're curious, I can tell you where you can find a harem of Draytas dressed in Marilyn Monroe avatars, all bleating Wanna suck dick. It's not pretty."

Ana laughs despite herself, as do several others in the group. "No, it doesn't sound like it."

"That's not what Binary Desire is looking for. Anyone can take a public-domain digient and reconfigure its reward map. We want to offer sex partners with real personality, and we're willing to invest the effort needed to create that."

"So what would your training entail?" asks Helen Costas, from the back.

"First off, sexual discovery and exploration. We'd give the digients anatomically-correct avatars and let them get accustomed to having erogenous zones. We'd encourage the digients to begin sexual experimentation with each other, so they can get some practice as sexual beings and choose a gender they're comfortable with. Since much of the learning during that phase will occur purely among themselves, there may be periods where the digients can be run at faster than real time. Once they've acquired a reasonable amount of experience, we'll begin bonding them with compatible human partners."

"What makes you so sure they'll bond with a specific human?" asks Derek.

"Our developers have examined some of the digients in the shelters; they're too young for our purposes, but they've developed emotional attachments, and our developers have done enough analysis that they believe they can induce similar attachments in older digients. As the digient gets to know a human, we'll enhance the emotional dimension of their interactions, both sexual and non-sexual, so they'll generate love in the digient."

"Like a Neuroblast version of InstantRapport," says Ana.

"Something like that," says Chase, "but more effective and specific, because it'll be custom-tuned. For the digient, it will be indistinguishable from falling in love spontaneously."

"That custom-tuning doesn't sound like something you'll be able to get right on the first try," says Ana.

"No, of course not," says Chase. "We expect that it will take months for a digient to fall in love; throughout that period we'll be working with the customer, rolling the digient back to checkpoints and trying different adjustments until the emotional bond is firmly established. It'll be like the breeding program you managed when you worked at Blue Gamma; we're just tailoring it for the individual customer."

Ana's about to say that it's very different, but decides not to. All she needs to do is listen to the woman's sales pitch, not refute it. "I can see what you mean," she says.

Derek says, "Even if you can make them fall in love, none of our digients is going to be a convincing Marilyn Monroe."

"No, but that's not our goal. The avatars we'd give them would be humanoid, but not human. You see, we're not trying to duplicate the experience of sex with a human being; we want to provide non-human partners that are charming, affectionate, and genuinely enthusiastic about sex. Binary Desire believes this is a new sexual frontier."

"A new sexual frontier?" says Stuart. "You mean popularizing a kink until it becomes mainstream."

"You could call it that," says Chase. "But try looking at it another way: our ideas of what constitutes healthy sex have always broadened over time. People used to think homosexuality, BDSM, and polyamory were all symptoms of psychological problems, but there's nothing intrinsic about those activities that's incompatible with a loving relationship. The problem was having one's desires stigmatized by society. We believe that in time, digient sex will likewise be accepted as a valid expression of sexuality. But that requires being open and honest about it, and not pretending that a digient is a human."

An icon appears onscreen indicating that Chase has transmitted a document to the group. "I'm sending you a copy of the contract we're proposing," she says, "but let me give you a summary. Binary Desire will cover the costs of porting Neuroblast to Real Space in exchange for non-exclusive rights to your digients. You retain the right to make and sell copies of your digients as long as they don't compete with ours. If your digients sell well, we'll also pay royalties. And your digients will enjoy what they do."

"Okay, thank you," Ana says. "We'll take a look at the contract, and let you know. Is that all?"

Chase smiles. "Not quite. Before I release the funds, I'd like the chance to address any concerns you might have; I assure you I won't be offended. Is it the sexual aspect that you have reservations about?"

Ana hesitates, and then says, "No, it's the coercion."

"There wouldn't be any coercion. The bonding process ensures the digients will enjoy it as much as their owners."

"But you're not giving them any choice about what they enjoy."

"Is it so different for humans? When I was a little girl, the idea of kissing a boy was completely uninteresting, and if it'd been up to me, that would never have changed." Chase gives a slight, coy smile, as if to suggest how much she enjoys kissing now. "We become sexual beings whether we want to or not. The modifications Binary Desire would make to the digients aren't any different. In fact, they'll be better. Some people get saddled with sexual proclivities that cause them a lifetime of grief. That's not going to happen to the digients. As far as each digient is concerned, it's going to be paired up with a perfectly compatible sex partner. That's not coercion, that's ultimate sexual fulfillment."

"But it's not real," Ana blurts out, and immediately regrets it.

It's precisely the opening Chase was looking for. "How is it not?" she asks. "Your feeling for your digients are real; their feelings for you are real. If you and your digient can have a nonsexual connection that's real, why should a sexual connection between a human and a digient be any less real?"

Ana's at a loss for words momentarily, and Derek steps in. "We could argue philosophy forever," he says. "The bottom line is, we didn't spend years raising our digients to have them become sex toys."

"I realize that," says Chase. "And making this deal won't prevent copies of your digients from going on to other things. But right now your digients, amazing as they are, have no marketable job skills, and you can't predict when they'll get any. How else are you going to raise the money you need?"

How many women have asked themselves the same question, Ana wonders. "So it's the oldest profession."

"That's one way to put it, but let me again point out that the digients won't be subjected to any coercion, not even economic coercion. If we wanted to sell faked sexual desire, there are cheaper ways we could do it. The whole point of this enterprise is to create an alternative to fake desire. We believe that sex is better when both parties enjoy it; better as an experience, and better for society."

"That all sounds very noble. What about people who are into sexual torture?"

"We don't condone any non-consensual sex acts, and that includes sex with digients. The contract I've sent you guarantees that Binary Desire will retain the circuit-breakers that Blue Gamma initially installed, enforced with state-of-the-art access control. As I said, we believe sex is better when both parties enjoy it. We're committed to that."

"You approve, correct?" Felix says to the group. "They anticipate all possibilities."

Several of the user group members glare at him, and even Chase's expression indicates that she'd rather do without Felix's help.

"I know that this wasn't what you were hoping for when you began looking for investors," says Chase. "But if you can look past your initial reaction, I think you'll agree that what we're proposing will be to everyone's advantage.

"We'll think about it and get back to you," says Derek.

"Thank you for listening to my presentation," says Chase. A window pops up on screen, indicating that the funds have been released from escrow. "Let me say one last thing. If you're approached by another company, be sure to look at the fine print. It will probably include a clause that our lawyers wanted us to include, one that gives them the right to resell your digients to another company, with the circuit-breakers disabled. I expect you know what that means?"

Ana nods; it meant that the digients might get resold to a company like Edgeplayer for use as torture victims. "Yes, we do."

"Binary Desire overruled our lawyers' recommendation on that. Our contract guarantees that the digients won't be used for anything but noncoercive sex, ever. See if anyone else will make you that same guarantee."

"Thank you," says Ana. "We'll be in touch."

#

Ana went into the meeting with Binary Desire with the attitude that it was purely pro-forma, a way to make some money by listening to a sales pitch. Now, having heard the pitch, she finds that she's thinking about it a lot.

She hasn't paid attention to the world of virtual sex since she was in college, when a college boyfriend spent a semester abroad. They bought the peripherals together before he left, discreet hard-shell accessories with hilarious silicone interiors, and digitally locked each device with the other's serial number, a fidelity guarantee for their virtual genitals. Their first few sessions were unexpectedly fun, but it didn't take long for the novelty to wear off and the shortcomings of the technology to become blatant. Sex without kissing was woefully incomplete, and she missed having her face an inch away from his, feeling the weight of his body, smelling his musk; seeing each other on a video screen couldn't replace that, no matter how close the camera was. Her skin hungered for his in a way that no peripheral could satisfy;?by semester's end she felt like she was going to burst at the seams. The technology has undoubtedly improved since then, but it's still an impoverished medium for intimacy.

Ana remembers how much a difference it made the first time she saw Jax wearing a physical body. If a digient were inhabiting a doll, would that make the idea of sex more appealing? No. She's had her face right up against Jax's face, cleaning smudges off his lenses or inspecting scratches, and it's nothing like being close to a person; with a digient there's no feeling of a personal space being entered, not even the trust signified when a dog lets you rub its belly. At Blue Gamma they'd chosen not to put that kind of physical self-protectiveness into the digients - it didn't make sense for their product - but what does physical intimacy mean if there aren't those barriers to overcome? She doesn't doubt that it's possible to give a digient an arousal response close enough to human that both parties' mirror neurons would kick in. But could Binary Desire teach a digient about the vulnerability that came with being naked, and what you were telling someone with your willingness to be naked in their presence?

But maybe none of that matters. Ana replays the recording of the videoconference, listens to Chase saying that it's a new frontier, sex with a non-human partner. It's not supposed to be the same as sex with another person, it'll be a different kind of sex, and maybe it'll be accompanied by a different kind of intimacy.

She thinks of an incident that took place when she worked at the zoo, when one of the female orangutans passed away. Everyone was heartbroken, but the orangutan's favorite trainer was particularly inconsolable. Eventually he confessed that he'd been having sex with her, and shortly afterwards the zoo fired him. Ana was shocked, of course, but even more so because he wasn't the creepy pervert she imagined a zoophile would be; his grief was as deep and genuine as that of anyone who had lost a lover. He'd been married once, too, which surprised her; she'd assumed such people couldn't get a date, but then she realized she was buying into the stereotype about zookeepers: that they spent time with animals because they couldn't get along with people. As she did at the time, Ana again tries to pin down exactly why nonsexual relationships with animals can be healthy while sexual ones can't, why the limited consent that animals can give is sufficient to keep them as pets yet not to have sex with them. Again she can't articulate an argument that isn't rooted in personal distaste, and she's not sure that's a good enough reason.

As for the question of digients having sex with each other, the topic has occasionally been discussed in the past, and Ana has always felt that the owners are fortunate not to have to deal with it, because sexual maturity is when a lot of animals become difficult to handle. There isn't even the guilt that might be associated with neutering Jax surgically, because she's not depriving him of a fundamental aspect of his nature. But now there's a thread on the discussion forum that is making her reconsider things:

FROM: Helen Costas

I don't like the idea of anyone having sex with my digient, but then I remember that parents never want to think about their kids having sex, either.

FROM: Maria Zheng

That's a false analogy. Parents can't stop their children from becoming sexual, but we can. There's no intrinsic need for digients to emulate that aspect of human development. Don't go overboard with the anthropomorphic projection.

FROM: Derek Brooks

What's intrinsic? There was no intrinsic need for digients to have charming personalities or cute avatars, but there was still a good reason for it: they made people more likely to spend time with them, and that was good for the digients.

I'm not saying we should accept Binary Desire's offer. But I think what we need to ask ourselves is, if we make the digients sexual, would that encourage other people to love them, in a way that's good for the digients?

Ana wonders if Jax's asexuality means he's missing out on things that would be beneficial for him to experience. She likes the fact that Jax has human friends, and the reason she wants Neuroblast ported to Real Space is so he can maintain those relationships, strengthen them. But how far could that strengthening go? How close a relationship could one have before sex became an issue?

Later that evening, she posts a reply to Derek's comment:

FROM: Ana Alvarado

Derek raises a good question. But even if the answer is yes, that doesn't mean we should accept Binary Desire's offer.

If a person is looking for a masturbatory fantasy, he can use ordinary software to get it. He shouldn't buy a mail-order bride and slap a dozen InstantRapport patches on her, but that's essentially what Binary Desire wants to give its customers. Is that the kind of life we want our digients to have? We could dose them with so much virtual endorphin that they'd be happy living in a closet in Data Earth, but we care about them too much to do that. I don't think we should let someone else treat them with less respect.

I admit the idea of sex with a digient bothered me initially, but I guess I'm not opposed to the idea in principle. It's not something I can imagine doing myself, but I don't have a problem if other people want to, so long as it's not exploitative. If there's some degree of give and take, then maybe it could be like Derek said: good for the digient as well as the human. But if the human is free to customize the digient's reward map, or keep rolling him back until he finds a perfectly tweaked instantiation, then where's the give and take? Binary Desire is telling its customers that they don't have to accommodate their digients' preferences in any way. It doesn't matter whether it involves sex or not; that's not a real relationship.

#

Any member of the user group is free to accept Binary Desire's offer individually, but Ana's argument is persuasive enough that?no one does so for the time being. A few days after the meeting, Derek tells Marco and Polo about Binary Desire's offer, figuring that they deserve to be kept informed of what's going on. Polo is curious about the modifications Binary Desire wanted to make; he knows he has a reward map, but has never thought about what it would mean to edit it.

"Might be fun editing my reward map," says Polo.

"You not able edit your reward map when you working for someone else," says Marco. "You only able do that when you corporation."

Polo turns to Derek. "That true?"

"Well, that's not something I would let you do even when you are a corporation."

"Hey," protests Marco. "You said when we corporations, we make all our own decisions."

"I did say that," admits Derek, "but I hadn't thought about you editing your own reward map. That could be very dangerous."

"But humans able edit own reward maps."

"What? We can't do anything like that."

"What about drugs people take for sex? Ifridisics?"

"Aphrodisiacs. Those are just temporary."

"InstantRapport temporary?" asks Polo.

"Not exactly," says Derek, "but a lot of the time when people take that, they're making a mistake." Especially, he thinks, if a company is paying them to take it.

"When I corporation, I free make own mistakes," says Marco. "That whole point."

"You're not ready to be a corporation yet."

"Because you not like my decisions? Ready mean always agree with you?"

"If you're planning on editing your own reward map as soon as you're a corporation, you're not ready."

"I not said want," says Marco emphatically. "I don't want. I said when corporation, I free do that. That different."

Derek stops for a moment. It's easy to forget, but this is the same conclusion the user group came to during forum discussions about incorporating the digients: if legal personhood is to be more than a form of wordplay, it has to mean granting a digient some degree of autonomy. "Yes, you're right. When you're a corporation, you'll be free to do things that I think are mistakes."

"Good," says Marco, satisfied. "When you decide I ready, it not because I agree you. I can be ready even if I not agree you."

"That's right. But please, tell me you don't want to edit your own reward map."

"No, I know dangerous. Might make mistake that stop self from fixing mistake."

He's relieved. "Thank you."

"But let Binary Desire edit my reward map, that not dangerous."

"No, it's not dangerous, but it's still a bad idea."

"I not agree."

"What? I don't think you understand what they want to do."

Marco gives him a look of frustration. "I do. They make me like what they want me like, even if I not like it now."

Derek realizes Marco does understand. "And you don't think that's wrong?"

"Why wrong? All things I like now, I like because Blue Gamma made me like. That not wrong."

"No, but that was different." He thinks for a moment to explain why. "Blue Gamma made you like food, but they didn't decide what specific kind of food you had to like."

"So what? Not very different."

"It is different."

"Agree wrong if they edit digients not want be edited. But if digient agree before be edited, then not wrong."

Derek feels himself growing exasperated. "So do you want to be a corporation and make your own decisions, or do you want someone else to make your decision? Which one is it?

Marco thinks about that. "Maybe I try both. One copy me become corporation, second copy me work for Binary Desire."

"You don't mind having copies made of you?"

"Polo copy of me. That not wrong."

At a loss, Derek brings the discussion to a close and sends the digients off to do work on their studies, but he can't easily dismiss what Marco has said. On the one hand Marco made some good arguments, but on the other Derek remembers his college years well enough to know that skill at debate isn't the same as maturity. Not for the first time, he thinks of how much easier it would be if there were a legally mandated age of majority for digients; without one, it will be entirely up to him to decide when Marco is ready to be a corporation.

Derek's not alone in having disagreements in the wake of Binary Desire's offer. The next time he talks to Ana, she complains about a recent fight with Kyle.

"He thinks we should accept Binary Desire's offer," she says. "He said it's a much better option than me taking the job at Polytope."

It's another opportunity to be critical of Kyle; how should he handle it? All he says is, "Because he thinks modifying the digients isn't that big a deal."

"Exactly." She fumes a bit, and then continues. "It's not as if I think wearing the InsantRapport patch is no big deal. Of course it is. But there's a big difference between me using InstantRapport voluntarily and Binary Desire just imposing their bonding process on the digients."

"A huge difference. But you know, that raises an interesting question." He tells her about his conversation with Marco and Polo. "I'm not sure if Marco was just arguing for the sake of arguing, but it made me think. If a digient volunteers to undergo the changes that Binary Desire wants to make, does that make a difference?"

Ana looks thoughtful. "I don't know. Maybe."

"When an adult chooses to use an InstantRapport patch, we have no grounds to object. What would it take for us to respect Jax's or Marco's decisions the same way?"

"They'd have to be adults."

"But we could file articles of incorporation tomorrow, if we wanted to," he says. "What makes us so sure we shouldn't? Suppose one day Jax says to you he understands what he'd be getting into by accepting Binary Desire's offer, just like you with the job at Polytope. What would it take for you to accept his decision?"

She thinks for a moment. "I guess it would depend on whether or not I thought he was basing his decision on experience. Jax has never had a romantic relationship or held a job, and accepting Binary Desire's offer would mean doing both, potentially forever. I'd want him to have had some experience with those matters before making a decision where the consequences are so permanent. Once he's had that experience, I suppose I couldn't really object."

"Ah," says Derek, nodding. "I wish I'd thought of that when I was talking to Marco." It would mean modifying the digients into sexual beings, but without the intention of selling them; another expense for the user's group, even after they got Neuroblast ported. "That's going to take a long time, though."

"Sure, but there's no hurry to make the digients sexual. Better to wait until we can do it properly."

Better to set an older age of majority than risk setting it too young. "And until then, it's up to us to look after them."

"Right! We have to put their needs first." Ana looks grateful for the agreement, and he's glad he can provide it. Then frustration returns to her face. "I just wish Kyle understood that."

He searches for a diplomatic response. "I'm not sure anyone can, if they haven't spent the time we have," he says. It's not intended as a criticism of Kyle; it's what he sincerely believes.

9

A month has passed since Binary Desire's presentation, and Ana is in the private Data Earth with a few of the Neuroblast digients, awaiting the arrival of visitors. Marco tells Lolly about the latest episode of his favorite game drama, while Jax practices a dance he's choreographed.

"Look," he says.

She watches him rapidly cycle through a sequence of poses. "Remember, when they get here, you have to talk about what you built."

"I know, you said and said already. I stop dancing soon they here. Just having fun."

"Sorry, Jax. I'm just nervous."

"Watch me dancing. Feel better."

She smiles. "Thanks, I'll try that." She takes a deep breath and tells herself to relax.

A portal opens and two avatars walk through. Jax promptly stops dancing, and Ana walks her avatar over to greet the visitors. The onscreen annotations identify them as Jeremy Brauer and Frank Pearson.

"I hope you didn't have any trouble getting in," says Ana.

"No," says Pearson, "the logins you gave us worked fine."

Brauer is looking around. "Good old Data Earth." His avatar pulls on the branch of a shrub and then lets go, watching the way it sways. "I remember how exciting it was when Daesan first released it. It was state of the art."

Brauer and Pearson work for Exponential Appliances, maker of household robots. The robots are examples of old-fashioned AI; their skills are programmed rather than learned, and while they offer some real convenience, they aren't conscious in any meaningful sense. Exponential regularly releases new versions, advertising each one as being a step closer to the consumer's dream of AI: a butler that is utterly loyal and attentive from the moment it's switched on. To Ana this upgrade sequence seems like a walk to the horizon, providing the illusions of progress while never actually getting any closer to the goal. But consumers buy the robots, and they've given Exponential a healthy balance sheet, which is what Ana's looking for.

Ana isn't trying to get the Neuroblast digients jobs as butlers; it's obvious that Jax and the others are too willful for that type of work. Brauer and Pearson don't even work for the commercial division of the company; instead, they're part of the research division, the reason that Exponential was founded. The household robots are Exponential's way of funding its efforts to conjure up the technologist's dream of AI: an entity of pure cognition, a genius unencumbered by emotions or a body of any kind, an intellect vast and cool yet sympathetic. They're?waiting for a software Athena to spring forth fully grown, and while it'd be impolite for Ana to say she thinks they'll be waiting forever, she hopes to convince Brauer and Pearson that the Neuroblast digients offer a viable alternative.

"Well, thank you for coming out to meet me," says Ana.

"We've been looking forward to it," says Brauer. "A digient whose cumulative running time is longer than the lifespan of most operating systems? You don't see that very often."

"No, you don't." Ana realizes that they came more for nostalgia's sake than to seriously entertain a business proposal. Well, so be it, as long as they're here.

Ana introduces them to the digients, who then give little demonstrations of projects they've been working on. Jax shows a virtual contraption he's built, a kind of music synthesizer that he plays by dancing. Marco gives an explanation of a puzzle game he's designed, one that can be played cooperatively or competitively. Brauer is particularly interested in Lolly, who shows them a program she's been writing; unlike Jax and Marco, who built their projects using toolkits, Lolly is writing actual code. Brauer's disappointment is evident when it becomes clear?that Lolly is just like any other novice programmer; it's clear he was hoping her digient nature had given her a special aptitude for the subject.

After they've talked with the digients for a while, Ana and the visitors from Exponential log out of Data Earth and switch to videoconferencing.

"They're terrific," says Brauer. "I used to have one, but he never got much beyond baby talk."

"You used to have a Neuroblast digient?"

"Sure, I bought one as soon as they came out. He was an instance of the Jax mascot, like yours. I named him Fitz, kept him going for a year."

This man had a baby Jax once, she thinks. Somewhere in storage is a baby version of Jax that knows this man as his owner. Aloud, she says, "Did you get bored with him?"

"Not so much bored as aware of his limitations. I could see that the Neuroblast genome was the wrong approach. Sure Fitz was smart, but it would take forever before he could do any useful work. I've got to hand it to you for sticking with Jax for so long. What you've achieved is impressive." He makes it sound like she's built the world's largest toothpick sculpture.

"Do you still think Neuroblast was the wrong approach? You've seen for yourself what Jax is capable of. Do you have anything comparable at Exponential?" It comes out more sharply than she intended.

Brauer's reaction is mild. "We're not looking for human-level AI; we're looking for superhuman AI."

"And you don't think that human-level AI is a step in that direction?"

"Not if it's the sort that your digients demonstrate," says Brauer. "You can't be sure that Jax will ever be employable, let alone become a genius at programming. For all you know, he's reached his maximum."

"I don't think he has - "

"But you don't know for certain."

"I know that if the Neuroblast genome can produce a digient like him, it can produce one as smart as you're looking for. The Alan Turing of Neuroblast digients is just waiting to be born."

"Fine, let's suppose you're right," says Brauer; he's clearly indulging her. "How many years would it take to find him? It's already taken you so long to raise the first generation that the platform they run on has become obsolete. How many generations before you come up with a Turing?"

"We won't always be restricted to running them in real time. At some point there'll be enough digients to form a self-sufficient population, and then they won't be dependent on human interaction. We could run a society of them at hothouse speeds without any risk of them going feral, and see what they produce." Ana's actually far from confident that this scenario would produce a Turing, but she's practiced this argument enough times to sound like she believes it.

Brauer isn't convinced, though. "Talk about a risky investment. You're showing us a handful of teenagers and asking us to pay for their education in the hopes that when they're adults, they'll found a nation that will produce geniuses. Pardon me if I think there are better ways we could spend our money."

"But think about what you're getting. The other owners and I have devoted years of our attention to raising these digients. Porting Neuroblast is cheap compared to what it'd cost to hire people to do that for another genome. And the potential payoff is exactly what your company's been looking for: programming geniuses working at high speed, bootstrapping themselves to superhuman intelligence. If these digients can invent games now, just imagine what their descendants could do. And you'd make money off every one of them."

Brauer is about to reply when Pearson interjects. "Is that why you want Neuroblast ported? To see what superintelligent digients might invent one day?"

Ana sees Pearson scrutinizing her, and decides there's no point in trying to lie. "No," she says. "What I want is for Jax to have a chance at a fuller life."

Pearson nods. "You'd like Jax to be a corporation one day, right? Have some sort of legal personhood?"

"Yes, I would."

"And I'll bet Jax wants the same thing, right? To be incorporated?"

"For the most part, yes."

Pearson nods again, his suspicions confirmed. "That's a deal-breaker for us. It's nice that they're fun to talk to, but all the attention you've given your digients has encouraged them to think of themselves as persons."

"Why is that a deal-breaker?" But she knows the answer already.

"We aren't looking for superintelligent employees, we're looking for superintelligent products. You're offering us the former, and I can't blame you; no one can spend as many years as you have teaching a digient and still think of it as a product. But our business isn't based on that kind of sentiment."

Ana has been pretending it wasn't there, but now Pearson has stated it baldly: the fundamental incompatibility between Exponential's goals and hers. They want something that responds?like a person, but isn't owed the same obligations as a person, and that's something she can't give them.

No one can give it to them, because it's an impossibility. The years she spent raising Jax didn't just make him fun to talk to, didn't just provide him with hobbies and a sense of humor. It was what gave him all the attributes Exponential was looking for: fluency at navigating the real world, creativity at solving new problems, judgment you could entrust an important decision to. Every quality that made a person more valuable than a database was a product of experience.

She wants to tell them that Blue Gamma was righter than it knew: experience isn't merely the best teacher, it's the only teacher. If she's learned anything raising Jax, it's that there are no shortcuts; if you want to create the common sense that comes from twenty years of being in the world, you need to devote twenty years to the task. You can't assemble an equivalent collection of heuristics in less time; experience is algorithmically incompressible.

And even though it's possible to take a snapshot of all that experience and duplicate it ad infinitum, even though it's possible to sell copies cheaply or give them away for free, each of the resulting digients would still have lived a lifetime. Each one would have once seen the world with new eyes, have had hopes fulfilled and hopes dashed, have learned how it felt to tell a lie and how it felt to be told one.

Which means each one would deserve some respect. Respect that Exponential can't afford to give.

Ana makes one final attempt. "These digients could still make money for you as employees. You could - "

Pearson shakes his head. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, and I wish you the best of luck, but it's not a good match for Exponential. If these digients were going to be products, the potential profits might be worth the risk. But if all they're going to be is employees, that's a different situation; we can't justify such a large investment for so little return."

Of course not, she thinks. Who could? Only someone who's a fanatic, someone who's motivated by love. Someone like her.

#

Ana is sending a message to Derek about the failed meeting with Exponential when the robot body comes to life. "How meeting go?" asks Jax, but he can read her expression well enough to answer the question himself. "Is my fault? They not like what I show them?"

"No, you did great, Jax. They just don't like digients; I made a mistake in thinking I could change their minds."

"Worth trying," says Jax.

"I suppose it was."

"You okay?"

"I'll be fine," she assures him. Jax gives her a hug, and then walks the body back to the charging platform and returns to Data Earth.

Sitting at her desk, staring at a blank screen, Ana contemplates the user group's remaining options. As far as she can tell,?there's only one: working for Polytope and trying to convince them that the Neuroblast engine is worth porting. All she has to do is wear the InstantRapport patch and join their experiment in industrialized caregiving.

Whatever else one might say about Polytope, the company understands the value of real-time interaction in a way that Exponential does not. Sophonce digients might be content to be left alone in a hothouse, but that's not a viable shortcut if you want them to become productive individuals. Someone is going to have to spend time with them, and Polytope recognizes that.

Her objection is to Polytope's strategy for getting people to spend that time. Blue Gamma's strategy had been to make the digients lovable, while Polytope was starting with unlovable digients and using pharmaceuticals to make people love them. It seems clear to her that Blue Gamma's approach was the right one, not just more ethical but more effective.

Indeed, maybe it was too effective, considering the situation she's in now: she's faced with the biggest expense of her entire life, and it's for her digient. It's not what anyone at Blue Gamma expected, all those years ago, but perhaps they should have. The idea of love with no strings attached is as much a fantasy as what Binary Desire is selling. Loving someone means making sacrifices for them.

Which is the only reason Ana's considering working for Polytope. Under any other circumstances, she'd be insulted by the offer of a job that required the use of InstantRapport: she has as much experience working with digients as anyone in the world,?yet Polytope is implying that she can't be an effective trainer without pharmaceutical intervention. Training digients - like training animals - is a job, and a professional can do her job without having to be in love with a particular assignment.

At the same time, she knows the difference that affection can make in the training process, how it enables patience when patience is needed most. The idea that such affection can be manufactured isn't appealing, but she can't deny the realities of modern neuropharmacology: if her brain is flooded with oxytocin every time she's training Sophonce digients, it's going to have an effect on her feelings toward them whether she wants it to or not.

The only question is whether that's something she can tolerate. She's confident that the InstantRapport patch won't distract her from taking care of Jax; no Sophonce digient is going to displace Jax in her affections. And if working for Polytope is the best chance of getting Neuroblast ported, she's willing to do it.

Ana just wishes Kyle understood; she has always made it clear that Jax's welfare comes first, and up until now Kyle has never had a problem with that. She doesn't want their relationship to end because of this job, but she's been with Jax longer than she's been with any boyfriend; if it comes down to it, she knows who she'll choose.

10

The message from Ana about the failed meeting is short, but to Derek it conveys plenty. He's heard the tone in her voice when she has talked about this possibility before, so he knows she's preparing herself to accept Polytope's job offer.

This is Ana's last-ditch attempt to get Neuroblast ported, nothing more. No one likes the idea, but she's an adult, she's weighed the costs and benefits and made her decision. If she's willing to do it, the least he can do is be supportive.

Except that he can't. Not when there's an alternative: accepting Binary Desire's offer.

After his earlier conversation with Marco and Polo, Derek privately contacted Jennifer Chase to ask her if the digients' desire to be incorporated wouldn't render them unsuitable for?Binary Desire's purposes. She told him that Binary Desire's customers will be free to file articles of incorporation on the copies they've purchased. In fact, if their feeling toward their digients become as strong as Binary Desire hopes, she expects that many of them will do so. It's the right answer as far as he's concerned, but part of him hoped they'd give the wrong one, providing him with a clear reason to?refuse their proposal. Instead, the decision remains his to make. His, and Marco's.

He's thought about the argument Ana articulated, about the digients not being competent to accept Binary Desire's offer because of their lack of experience with romantic relationships and jobs. The argument makes sense if you think of the digients as being like human children. It also means that as long as they're confined to Data Earth, as long as their lives are so radically sheltered, they'll never become mature enough to make a decision of this magnitude.

But perhaps the standards for maturity for a digient shouldn't be as high as they are for a human; maybe Marco is as mature as he needs to be to make this decision. Marco seems entirely comfortable thinking of himself as a digient rather than a human. It's possible he doesn't fully appreciate the consequences of what he's suggesting, but Derek can't shake the feeling that Marco in fact understands his own nature better than Derek does. Marco and Polo aren't human, and maybe thinking of them as if they were is a mistake, forcing them to conform to his expectations instead of letting them be themselves. Is it more respectful to treat him like a human being, or to accept that he isn't one?

Under other circumstances this would be an academic question, something he could postpone for later discussion, but instead it ties directly into the decision he is facing here and now. If he accepts Binary Desire's offer, there'll be no need for Ana to take the job at Polytope, so the question becomes: is it better for Marco to have his brain chemistry altered than for Ana to have hers?

Ana knows what she'd be getting into by agreeing to it, more so than Marco does. But Ana is a person, and no matter how amazing he thinks Marco is, he values Ana more. If one of them has to undergo neurochemical manipulation, he doesn't want it to be her.

Derek brings up the contract that Binary Desire sent on his screen. Then he calls Marco and Polo over in their robot bodies.

"Ready sign contract?" asks Marco.

"You know you shouldn't do this if it's just to help the others," says Derek. "You should do it because it's what you want to do." Then he wonders if that's really true.

"You not need keep asking me," says Marco. "I feel same as before, want do this."

"What about you, Polo?"

"Yes, agree."

The digients are willing, even eager, and perhaps that should be enough to settle the matter. But then there are the other considerations, purely selfish ones.

If Ana takes the job with Polytope, it will create a rift between her and Kyle, one that Derek might benefit from. It's not an admirable thought, but he can't pretend it hasn't occurred to him. Whereas if he accepts Binary Desire's offer, the rift created will be between him and Ana; it'll ruin his chances of ever getting together with her. Can he give that up?

Maybe he never had a chance with Ana; maybe he's been fooling himself for all these years. In which case he'll be better off if he lets go of that fantasy, if he frees himself from yearning for something that'll never happen.

"What you waiting for?" asks Marco.

"Nothing," says Derek.

With the digients watching, he signs the contract from Binary Desire and sends it to Jennifer Chase.

"When I go to Binary Desire?" asks Marco.

"We'll take a snapshot of you after I get a countersigned copy of the contract," he replies. "Then we'll send it to them."

"Okay," says Marco.

As the digients talk excitedly about what this means, Derek thinks about what to say to Ana. He can't tell her he's doing it for her, of course. She'd feel horribly guilty if she thought he was sacrificing Marco for her benefit. This is his decision, and it's better that Ana put the blame on him.

#

Ana and Jax are playing Jerk Vector, a racing game that Ana recently added to Data Earth; they pilot their hovercars across a landscape as hilly as egg-crate foam. Ana manages to gain enough velocity within a basin that she can jump across a nearby ravine, while Jax doesn't make it, and his hovercar tumbles spectacularly to the bottom.

"Wait me catch up," he says over the intercom.

"Okay," Ana says, and sets her hovercar in neutral. While she's waiting for Jax to ascend the switchback trail along the ravine wall, she switches to another window to check her messages. What she sees startles her.

Felix has sent a message to the entire user group, triumphantly beginning a countdown until humanity's first contact with the Xenotherians. Initially Ana wonders if she's misunderstanding Felix because of his eccentric use of language, but a couple of messages from others in the user group confirm that the Neuroblast port is underway and Binary Desire is paying for it. Someone in the user group has sold their digient as a sex toy.

Then she sees a message saying that Derek was the one, that he sold Marco. She's about to post a reply saying that it can't be true, but she stops herself. Instead, she switches back to the Data Earth window.

"Jax, I've got to make a call. Why don't you practice jumping the ravine for a while?"

"You become sorry," says Jax. "I beat you next race."

Ana switches the game into practice mode so Jax can try jumping the ravine again without having to climb up from the bottom each time he misses. Then she opens up a video phone window and calls up Derek.

"Tell me it's not true," she says, but one look at his face confirms that it is.

"I didn't mean for you to find out this way. I was going to call you, but - "

Ana's so astonished she can barely find the words. "Why did you do it?" Derek hesitates so long that she says, "Was if for the money?"

"No! Of course not. I just decided that Marco's arguments made sense, and that he was old enough to choose."

"We talked about that. You agreed that it was better to wait until he had more experience."

"I know. But then I - I decided I was being overly cautious."

"Overly cautious? You're not letting Marco risk scraping his knee; Binary Desire is going to perform brain surgery on him. How can you be too cautious about that?"

He pauses, and then says, "I realized it was time to let go."

"Let go?" As if the idea of protecting Marco and Polo were some childish fancy he'd outgrown. "I didn't know you thought of it that way."

"I didn't either, until recently."

"Does this mean you don't plan on incorporating Marco and Polo someday?"

"No, I still plan to do that. I just won't be as - " Again he hesitates. "Fixated."

"Not as fixated." Ana wonders how well she knew Derek at all. "Good for you, I guess."

He looks hurt by that, which is fine with her. "It's good for everyone," he says. "The digients get access to Real Space - "

"I know, I know."

"Really, I think it's for the best," he says, but he doesn't seem to believe it himself.

"How can it be for the best?" she asks. Derek doesn't say anything, and she just stares at him.

"I'll talk to you later," says Ana, and closes the phone window. Thinking about the ways Marco might be used - without ever realizing that he's being used - makes her heart break. You?can't save them all, she reminds herself. But it never occurred to her that Marco might be one of those at risk. She assumed Derek felt the same way she does, that he understood the need to make sacrifices.

In her Data Earth window she can see Jax gleefully piloting his hovercar up and down slopes like a kid on a trackless rollercoaster. She doesn't want to tell him about the deal with Binary Desire right now; they would have to discuss what it means for Marco, and she doesn't have the energy for that conversation right now. For the moment, all she wants to do is watch him and, tentatively, try to get used to the idea that the Neuroblast port is actually underway. It's a peculiar sensation. She can't call it relief, because of?the cost entailed, but it's undeniably a good thing that this enormous obstacle to Jax's future has been removed, and she didn't have to take the job with Polytope to do it. It'll be months before the port is finished, but the time will pass quickly now that the destination is known. Jax will be able to enter Real Space, see his friends again and rejoin the rest of the social universe.

Not that the future will be all smooth sailing. There are still an endless series of obstacles ahead, but at least she and Jax will have a chance to tackle them. Briefly, Ana indulges herself, fantasizing about what might happen if they succeed.

She imagines Jax maturing over the years, both in Real Space and in the real world. Imagines him incorporated, a legal person, employed and earning a living. Imagines him as a participant in the digient subculture, a community with enough money and skills to port itself to new platforms when the need arises. Imagines?him accepted by a generation of humans who have grown up with digients and view them as potential relationship partners in a way that members of her generation will never be able to. Imagines him loving and being loved, arguing and compromising. Imagines him making sacrifices, some hard and some made easy because they're for a person he truly cares about.

A few minutes pass, and Ana tells herself to stop daydreaming. There's no guarantee that Jax is capable of any of those things. But if he's ever going to get the chance to try them, she has to get on with the job in front of her now: teaching him, as best she can, the business of living.

She initiates the game's shutdown procedure and calls Jax on the intercom. "Playtime's over, Jax," she says. "Time to do your homework."

Story Notes

People routinely attempt to describe the human brain’s capabilities in terms of instructions per second, and then use that as a guidepost for predicting when computers will be as smart as people. I think this makes about as much sense as judging the brain by the amount of heat it generates. Imagine if someone were to say, “when we have a computer that runs as hot as a human brain, we will have a computer as smart as a human brain.” We’d laugh at such a claim, but people make similar claims about processing speed and for some reason they get taken seriously.

It’s been over a decade since we built a computer that could defeat the best human chess players, yet we’re nowhere near building a robot that can walk into your kitchen and cook you some scrambled eggs. It turns out that, unlike chess, navigating the real world is not a problem that can be solved by simply using faster processors and more memory. There’s more and more evidence that if we want an AI to have common sense, it will have to develop it in the same ways that children do: by imitating others, by trying different things and seeing what works, and most of all by accruing experience. This means that creating a useful AI won’t just be a matter of programming, although some amazing advances in software will definitely be required; it will also involve many years of training. And the more useful you want it to be, the longer the training will take.

But surely the training can be accelerated somehow, can’t it? I don’t believe so, or at least not easily. This seems related to the misconception that a faster computer is a smarter one, but with humans it’s easier to see that speed is not the same thing as intelligence. Suppose you had a digital simulation of Paris Hilton’s brain; no matter how fast a computer you run her on, she’s never going to understand differential equations. By the same token, if you run a child at twice normal speed, all you’d get is a child whose attention span has been cut in half, and how useful is that?

But surely the AI will be able to learn faster because it won’t be hampered by emotions, right? On the contrary, I think creating software that feels emotions will be a necessary step towards creating software that actually thinks, in much the same way that brains capable of emotion are an evolutionary predecessor to brains capable of thought. But even if it’s possible to separate thinking from feeling, there may be other reasons to give AIs emotions. Human beings are social animals, and the success of virtual pets like Tamagotchis demonstrates that we respond to things that appear to need care and affection. And if an AI takes years to train, a good way to get a human to invest that kind of time is to create an emotional bond between the two.

And that’s what I was really interested in writing about: the kind of emotional relationship that might develop between humans and AIs. I don’t mean the affection that people feel for their iPhones or their scrupulously maintained classic cars, because those machines have no desires of their own. It’s only when the other party in the relationship has independent desires that you can really gauge how deep a relationship is. Some pet owners ignore their pets whenever they become inconvenient; some parents do as little for their children as they can get away with; some lovers break up with each other the first time they have a big argument. In all of those cases, the people are unwilling to put effort into the relationship. Having a real relationship, whether with a pet or a child or a lover, requires that you be willing to balance someone else’s wants and needs with your own.

I don’t know if humans will ever have that kind of relationship with AIs, but I feel like this is an area that’s been largely overlooked in science fiction. I’ve read a lot of stories in which people argue that AIs deserve legal rights, but in focusing on the big philosophical question, there’s a mundane reality that these stories gloss over. It’s a bit like how movies show separated lovers overcoming tremendous obstacles to be reunited: that’s wonderfully romantic, but it’s not the whole story when it comes to love; over the long term, love also means working through money problems and picking dirty laundry off the floor. So while achieving legal rights for AIs would clearly be a major milestone, another stage that I think is just as important – and indeed, probably a prerequisite for initiating a legal battle – is for people to put real effort into their individual relationships with AIs.

And even if we don’t care about them having legal rights, there’s still good reason to treat AIs with respect. Think about the pets of neglectful owners, or the lovers who have never stayed with someone longer than a month; are they the pets or lovers you would choose? Think about the kind of people that bad parenting produces; are those the people you want to have as your friends or your employees? No matter what roles we assign AIs, I suspect they will do a better job if, at some point during their development, there were people who cared about them.

实事之实，真情之真

在我女儿妮可［１］还不到一岁的时候，我读过一篇文章。上面说，在未来或许人们可以不再教小孩读书写字，因为语音识别和合成技术很快就会取代这些本领，人们再也用不着学它了。我和妻子都被文中的想法惊呆了。当时我们就决定：无论科技发展到什么程度，传统意义上的读书写字都不可取代；我们的女儿在学习新本领时，仍然要先掌握它。

现在回过头来看，我和当时的那位专栏作家各说对了一半：妮可已经长成大姑娘了，她可以像我一样读书看报；不过似乎也可以说，她却没有像我一样学会写字。她并不像专栏作家在文中预测的那样，向一个虚拟助理软件口述信息，并要求它重复她刚刚说的话；她只需要默读想要说的单词，视网膜投影器就会把单词显示在她的视野里，然后她使用手势和眼动等动作来修改就行了。因此，在日常生活中需要写字的时候，她不会遇到什么问题。可是如果没有那些辅助软件，只有一个键盘——其实我一直更喜欢用键盘——她就连我现在给你打的这个句子都能拼错好几处。从这种情况下来看，英语对她来说甚至更像是一门外语。尽管她可以流利地说英语，写起字来却非常困难。

这么听起来，好像是我对妮可的智力发展感到有些失望——那你可就错了。实际上，她很聪明，也很敬业。尽管可以在别的地方挣到更多的钱，她还是非常地热爱和专注于她在一家艺术博物馆的工作。我总是为她的成就感到骄傲。

然而，还是有那么一个过去的我在为自己的女儿失去拼写能力而担惊受怕。我也并不能否认，现在的我是从那时的我慢慢变来的。

从我读了那篇文章到现在，已经过去了二十多年。在这段时间里，我们的生活经历过无数我从未想到过的变化。最可怕的一个，莫过于当妮可的妈妈安吉拉［２］离开家里了——她说，她已经厌烦在家里过的这种枯燥无聊的生活了，然后她就花了接下来的十年环游地球。

另一种变化——妮可的读写能力变成现在这个样子的变化，则是自然而然、循序渐进的。一系列方便有效的应用软件确实像它们自述所说的那样改变着我们的生活；在它们面市的时候，我也从没有反对过。

我并不像守旧的卫道士们那样，在一个新产品发布的时候就杞人忧天、上蹿下跳。实际上，我比别人都更欢迎新生事物。不过，当试金石公司［３］发布了新的搜索应用“记忆盒子［４］”时，我的确对这个新应用有了些不同的想法。

当今，数百万的人——有一些像我这样人过中年，不过更多的是年轻人——喜欢上了一种叫做“生活日志［５］”的玩意儿，他们戴着个人摄像机，录下生活中每一件事的连续视频。如果他们想要重温开心的瞬间，或者跟踪过敏反应的诱因，都可以去查阅自己的生活日志，不过也只是偶尔而已。没有人愿意在浩如烟海的生活日志中像大海捞针那样编写查询请求和过滤搜索结果。生活日志是有史以来最完整、最丰富的相册，但它也像大多数相册一样，人们不会没事儿就去翻看它的。

现在，试金石公司希望挑战这个“大海捞针”的任务：他们宣称，记忆盒子的算法可以在你说出“针”这个字的同时，从数据的大海中把它捞出来。

记忆盒子监视你的对话，用来查询录下来的过去的事件，然后在你的视野的左下角显示那个事件的录像。如果你说“记得在那次婚礼上跳过康茄舞［６］吗？”记忆盒子将会显示这段视频。如果和你说话的人说起“上次我们在海滩”，记忆盒子也会显示这段视频。当然，你也不用非要和别人谈起这些事情不可，因为记忆盒子也监视你的默读动作。如果你默读“我第一次去吃的那家川菜馆”，你的声带也会像你出声读这个句子一样运动，记忆盒子就可以把相关的视频找出来。

当然，没人说这个软件没有用——只要想想它能够回答“我把钥匙放哪儿了？”这样的问题你就明白了。不过试金石公司并不仅仅希望记忆盒子充当一个方便的虚拟助理软件：他们希望它能取代你自己的记忆。

［１］　Ｎｉｃｏｌｅ。

［２］　Ａｎｇｅｌａ。

［３］　Ｗｈｅｔｓｔｏｎｅ。本来应当翻译成“磨刀石公司”，但因为故事涉及到真伪之辩，我就用了“试金石公司”这个译名。“试金石”在英语中的词是ｔｏｕｃｈｓｔｏｎｅ。

［４］　Ｒｅｍｅｍ。就是“记忆”ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ的字头。因为这个软件的用途和译者的私心，翻译成“记忆盒子”。

［５］　Ｌｉｆｅｌｏｇ。生活日志并不是单纯的科幻，早在上世纪八十年代就有人开始尝试了。

［６］　Ｃｏｎｇａ。起源于非洲的一种拉丁美洲舞蹈。

基京吉［７］十三岁那年的夏天，村子里来了一个欧洲人。当干热的哈马丹风［８］挟带着尘沙从北方吹来，村里的头人萨伯［９］向大家宣布了这个消息。萨伯德高望重，当地的家家户户都把他当作首领。

当然，大家的第一反应都是紧张不安。“我们做错了什么？”基京吉的父亲问萨伯。

在很多年以前，欧洲人就来到了蒂夫地区［１０］。有些头人曾经说他们总会离开，生活会回到原来的样子；但是终于有一天，蒂夫人都发现必须要与欧洲人共同生活下去了。蒂夫人生活和处事的方式改变了许多，但早先欧洲人并不和他们住在一起。欧洲人来到村子里，一般都是为了给他们修的路收税；有些家族［１１］不愿意交税，欧洲人就总是跑到他们那儿去催。不过基京吉所在的山戈夫家族［１２］还是从来没有这样过，萨伯和其他家族头人都同意，按时交税是最好的策略。

萨伯告诉大家不用担心。“这个欧洲人是个传教士，也就是说他只是来祈祷的。他没权力惩罚我们，不过我们最好还是欢迎他一下，好叫那些在城里当官的人高兴。”

他命令为这位传教士修建两座小屋，一个作为卧室，一个作为接待室。在接下来的几天里，每个人都从收割高粱的农活里抽出时间，来帮助砌砖、打桩子和编织草屋顶。在大功就要告成、大家正在砸平地面的时候，那位传教士到了村子里。人们首先看到他雇的脚夫穿过一片木薯地，从老远就能看见他们扛着好些大箱子。传教士本人跟在后面，虽然他什么也没扛，但已经累得上气不接下气了。

这位传教士叫莫斯比［１３］。莫斯比向所有帮助修建小屋的村民致谢。他也想帮着砸地，不过很快大家就发现他四体不勤，什么也不会做。所以最后他就只好坐在一棵角豆树的树荫底下，用一块布擦着头上的汗。

基京吉好奇地看着传教士。传教士打开他的一个箱子，从里面拿出了粗看像是一块木头的东西；但是他把它翻开了，基京吉才知道那是一叠装订得紧紧的纸。

基京吉从前看到过纸。欧洲人收税的时候，他们会交给村民们一张纸，这样村民们就可以证明他们交了什么税。不过现在传教士正在看的纸显然是另一种东西，肯定有其他的用处。

传教士发现基京吉在看着他，就请他走到跟前来。“我叫莫斯比，”他说，“你叫什么名字？”

“我叫基京吉。我爸爸是山戈夫家族的奥尔加［１４］。”

莫斯比翻开手里的那一叠纸，打了个手势让基京吉看。“你听过亚当的故事吗？”他问，“亚当是世界上第一个人。我们都是他的子孙。”

“我们这儿的人是山戈夫的子孙，”基京吉说，“蒂夫地区的所有人都是蒂夫的子孙。”

“没错，但是你们的祖先蒂夫也是亚当的后代，我的祖先也是。我们都是兄弟——你明白了吗？”

传教士的口音有点儿大舌头，不过基京吉还是能听懂他在说什么。“嗯，明白了。”

莫斯比笑了。他指着手里的纸说：“这张纸上有亚当的故事。”

“故事是人讲的，怎么能跑到纸上去呢？”

“这是我们欧洲人会的一种本领。当一个人说话的时候，我们就在纸上做记号。另一个人以后看到这张纸的时候，他就能看到这些记号，知道当时第一个人说了些什么。这样第二个人就能听到第一个人说的话了。”

基京吉想起了爸爸跟他讲过的关于老戈贝戈巴［１５］的事情。戈贝戈巴精通在丛林里谋生的本领，基京吉的爸爸说过，“咱们看来只是一堆荒草的地方，他就能看出那儿曾经有一头豹子逮住了一只蔗鼠。”只要看着地面，戈贝戈巴就能知道从前这里发生过什么，即使事情发生的时候他并不在场。欧洲人的那种本领，想来也是差不多的吧——那些擅长理解符号的人可以听到从前讲过的故事，即使讲故事的时候他们也并不在场。

“给我讲讲这张纸上的故事吧。”基京吉说。

莫斯比给他讲了一个亚当和他妻子被一条蛇诱骗的故事［１６］。然后他问基京吉：“你觉得怎么样？”

“你讲得不怎么样，不过故事还是挺有意思的。”

“哈哈，”莫斯比笑着说，“你说得对，我说你们蒂夫话说得不好。不过这个故事可真是个好故事，这是天下最古老的故事了——在你们祖先蒂夫出生以前好久好久，就有人讲过它了。”

“这纸没有那么古老吧。”基京吉有些不相信地说。

“当然，这张纸还挺新的呢。不过这上面的记号是从一张老一些的纸上抄的，那张纸上的记号呢，又是从更老的纸上抄的。已经这样抄了很多遍啦。”

这真有意思——如果他说的是实话。基京吉喜欢听故事，他也知道老故事往往最好听。他就问莫斯比，“你这儿有多少故事啊？”

“有的是。”莫斯比翻动着这一叠纸，吉京基可以看到每一张纸上都画满了记号——是啊，这一定是好多好多的故事呢。

“你刚刚说的那种理解纸上符号的本领，是不是只有欧洲人才会啊？”

“不是，谁都学得会——我就可以教给你。你想学吗？”

基京吉小心地点了点头。

［７］　Ｊｉｊｉｎｇｉ。这个故事发生在尼日利亚，因此这些人的姓名我是按照谷歌翻译的斯瓦西里语的读音音译的。不过从下文可以看出，他们说的可能是本族语言。

［８］　Ｈａｒｍａｔｔａｎｗｉｎｄｓ。是一种从每年１０——１１月至次年３——４月，从撒哈拉沙漠刮向西非的干热风。

［９］　Ｓａｂｅ。

［１０］　Ｔｉｖｌａｎｄ。Ｔｉｖ（蒂夫族）是尼日利亚境内的一个民族，他们聚居的地区译为“蒂夫地区”。

［１１］　Ｃｌａｎ。也可以考虑翻译成“宗族”“氏族”等。后文中还有一个词指代更大的血缘关系的人群，不要把它们混淆了。

［１２］　Ｓｈａｎｇｅｖｃｌａｎ。

［１３］　Ｍｏｓｅｂｙ。

［１４］　Ｏｒｇａ。

［１５］　Ｇｂｅｇｂａ。

［１６］　这是《圣经》（旧约·创世纪）上的故事。

作为一名记者，生活日志记录和确定事情真相的功能给了我很大的帮助和便利。在法律上来说，无论是刑事还是民事，现在已经很少有案件不调用当事人或者目击者的生活日志了。确实，涉及到公众利益的时候，查清楚发生了什么事情就很重要；正义是社会契约的一个基本要素，而没有真相，正义也就无从谈起。

不过，对于生活日志在纯粹的个人事务上的应用，我就持比较怀疑的态度。生活日志最早流行的时候，就有一些夫妇希望用查找视频记录的办法来平息“谁说了什么”的争论。不过在视频中找到相关的片段通常都不太容易，所以除了个别认死理的人，大多数人都很快就放弃了。检索视频是一件麻烦的事情，大家都希望把力气花在有意义的事情上——也就是说，一般都是为了维护正义的这种大事才去检索它。

现在有了记忆盒子，找到准确的瞬间大大地变得容易了。从前一直放在那里但是没有人去关心的生活日志，现在也像罪案现场的监控一样可以被仔细检查——那里面充满了用来解决家庭琐事的证据。

我主要写新闻稿件，不过我也写写专题文章。所以当我向我的上级编辑提出我想写一篇关于记忆盒子可能的缺点的文章的时候，他同意了。我首先采访了一对夫妇，丈夫是建筑师，妻子是画家——就叫他们乔尔［１７］和迪尔德丽［１８］吧。我们很快就谈论起了记忆盒子的事儿。

“乔尔总是说他知道事情的来龙去脉，”迪尔德丽说，“虽然他根本就不知道。从前这可真是让我抓狂，因为他记错了事情也不承认，我说服不了他。现在可好了——比如说吧，我们最近在说麦克基特里奇［１９］绑架案……”

她就发给我一段她和乔尔争论的视频。我的视网膜投影器显示出一段鸡尾酒会的片段。这是从迪尔德丽的视角拍摄的，乔尔正在和一些人高谈阔论：“显然，那家伙一被抓起来我就知道他是有罪的了。”

“你原来可不是这么想的，”这是迪尔德丽的声音，“前几个月你都说他是无辜的。”

乔尔摇头说：“我没有，你肯定记错了。我只是说，就算是显然有罪的人，也需要公正的审判。”

“这话不是你说的。你说他是被草率判刑的。”

“你肯定把别人当成我了……”

“不对，就是你。大家都来看看这个。”

旁边忽然打开了一个视频窗口，是迪尔德丽找出来的视频片段。她把片段发给了在场的每个人——这段画中画里，乔尔和迪尔德丽正坐在一个咖啡馆里。

乔尔正在说：“他只是个替罪羊。警方不过是要安抚老百姓，就捡了个软柿子捏，把他给抓了。现在他可倒霉喽。”

“你觉得他就不可能无罪释放？”迪尔德丽问。

“不可能，除非他能请得起一个厉害的律师团——我打赌他请不起。法律公平可不是说给他这样的穷人听的。”

我把两个窗口都关了。迪尔德丽说：“如果没有记忆盒子，我就没办法让他相信他的看法变过。现在就有办法了。”

“好吧，那次确实是你对，”乔尔说，“不过你也没必要在咱们的朋友面前把这个都抖出来吧。”

“你总是在朋友们面前纠正我，现在倒轮到你来要求我不能这样做？”

追求真相并不是没有底线的，这条底线就是“内在善［２０］”。如果受到它影响的人只是在一个私密的小圈子里，那么往往其他方面的考虑会更重要一点，而公开争论真相则很有可能是破坏感情的。揪出那个出了馊主意搞砸了整个假期的家伙真的重要吗？你真的需要知道哪个朋友更容易忘了人家拜托他的事情吗？

我不是情感专家，不过我知道婚姻顾问们经常说的那句话：抓住对方的错不放总不是办法。一对夫妇应该相互认可对方的感受，一同面对他们的问题。

接下来我和一位试金石公司的发言人艾丽卡·梅耶斯［２１］谈话。很快她就用商人的腔调向我鼓吹了一通记忆盒子的好处。“让信息的获取更加方便快捷，这本身就是一种内在善了，”她说，“无时无刻不在的录像让法律的执行发生了革命性的变化，企业也能通过更好地保存那些记录而创造更多效益。那么当我们的记忆变得更加精确，属于我们每个人的未来也都将变得更好——不仅是更好地工作，也是更好地生活。”

当我向她说起像乔尔和迪尔德丽这样的夫妇时，她说：“如果感情本来就是牢固的，记忆盒子不会对它有什么影响。反过来说呢，如果本来就是个想要证明自己处处都对、对方处处都错的人，那么婚姻肯定会出问题，用不用记忆盒子都一个样。”

我承认，她在这件事情上大概是抓住了重点，我没办法反驳她。不过我又问她，她有没有想过记忆盒子让人们更容易争强好胜［２２］，因而可能为这样的争吵提供了更多的机会，就算是原本牢固的婚姻也是这样呢？

“不是这样的，”她说，“记忆盒子不会让他们有这种心态，心态都是自己养成的。要是换一对夫妇，他们可以很方便地用记忆盒子发现他们都记错了的事情，然后就更容易原谅这类误解。我相信后一种情况在我们的用户中更常见。”

我希望我也能像艾丽卡·梅耶斯那样乐观，但我也知道，新技术并不总是唤起人性中最好的一面。谁没点儿好胜心、谁不想证明自己记得的事情才是对的呢？我可以轻易想见，我也会像迪尔德丽那样使用记忆盒子，而我并不确定这样真的对我有好处。别的不说——那些每天在网上浪费掉几个小时的人都知道，技术可是会纵容坏习惯的。

［１７］　Ｊｏｅｌ。

［１８］　Ｄｅｉｒｄｒｅ。

［１９］　ＭｃＫｉｔｔｒｉｄｇｅ。

［２０］　Ｉｎｔｒｉｎｓｔｉｃｇｏｏｄ。这是伦理学的一个基本概念，与“手段善”（ｉｎｓｔｒｕｍｅｎｔａｌｇｏｏｄ）相对。它指人们追求的善的目的或结果。

［２１］　ＥｒｉｃａＭｅｙｅｒｓ。

［２２］　原文中是ｋｅｅｐｓｃｏｒｅ。Ｓｃｏｒｅ在口语里有“真相”“占上风的论点”等意思，但我没有采用。我认为这里的意思就是，记忆盒子让双方的争论变得可以计量，从而谁对谁错就可以像计分那样评判了。

莫斯比每七天讲一次道，这天原本用来休息、酿啤酒和喝啤酒。他并不怎么赞同人家喝酒，但他也不愿意在干活儿的日子讲道，所以只剩下这天了。莫斯比对村民讲欧洲人信奉的神，告诉人们跟随神的指引可以改善他们的生活；不过至于为什么信了神就会这样，他却给不出一个很有说服力的解释。

尽管讲道不太成功，莫斯比却还有些配药的本领，他也愿意学习如何在田里劳作，所以村里人也慢慢地接纳了他。基京吉的爸爸同意基京吉隔几天去就找莫斯比学习书写的本领。莫斯比也想教别的孩子们写字，基京吉的小伙伴们也来过一阵子——不过他们大概只是为了证明他们不怕跑到欧洲人旁边；很快这些孩子们就觉得厌烦了，后来就都不来了。只有基京吉一直对学写字很有兴趣，他爸爸又觉得这样可以让欧洲人高兴，最后基京吉就每天都能去找莫斯比了。

莫斯比向基京吉解释，每一个发音应该怎样用纸上的不同记号表示出来。这些记号在纸上排列成行，就像田地里的庄稼；你要跟着它们排列的顺序看，就像是沿着田埂走过去一样，读出每一个记号代表的声音，然后你就能发现你说出了原来的那个人说过的话。莫斯比拿着一根中间有墨芯的小木棍，给他示范怎样用它在纸上做不同的记号。

在一堂课上，莫斯比先说一段话，然后把它写下来：“当夜晚来临，我就要睡觉。”——Ｔｕｇｈｍｂａａｉｌｅｙｏｍｅｙａｖ［２３］；“那儿有两个人。”——Ｉｏｒｕｖｍｂａｎｍｂａｕｈａｒ。基京吉认认真真地把这些字抄在他的那张纸上。当他抄好了，莫斯比就来看。

“写得很好。不过你写的时候应该在中间留空。”

“我留了。”基京吉指着行间的空白说。

“我不是说这个。你看这儿，每行中间还有空格呢。”他指着自己的那张纸说。

基京吉明白了：“你的记号挤成一堆一堆的，我的就都均匀地排在一起。”

“这不只是成堆的记号而已。这是……呃，我不知道你们叫它什么，”莫斯比从他的桌子上拿起比较薄的一摞纸翻了翻，“哦，我没查到——在我们那儿我们叫它‘单词’。我们写字的时候，要在单词之间留空格才行。”

“啊，什么是单词啊？”

“我该怎么解释呢？”莫斯比想了一会儿，“如果你说得很慢很慢，你就会在每个单词以后稍稍停一下。所以我们写字的时候才在单词之间的位置留空格。比如说，‘你·今年·几岁［２４］·了？’”他一边说一边写，在每次停下的时候空一格：Ａｎｙｏｍａｏｕｋｕｍａａｍｅ？

“你是外国人，所以你才说得慢。我是蒂夫人，所以我说话的时候就不用停下来。所以我写的时候也不用空格吧？”

“这和说得多快没关系。不管你说得快还是说得慢，单词都是一样的。”

“那么你为什么还要说，你要在每个单词后面停一下呢？”

“这是最简单的区分单词的办法。学着像这样慢慢地说。”他指着刚才他写的那行字说。

基京吉说得很慢很慢，就像一个醉汉想要掩盖他喝醉了酒一样。“……哎，为什么在ａｎ和ｙｏｍ之间没有空格啊？”

“Ａｎｙｏｍ是一个单词。你并不在它中间停顿。”

“可是我也不在别的地方停顿呀。”

莫斯比叹了口气。“我再考虑一下该怎么给你解释我的意思吧。现在你先学着在我留空格的地方留空就行了。”

写字还真是门奇怪的本领，基京吉想。当下地播种的时候，最好的就是把甘薯的种子均匀地种在那儿；如果他播种的时候像莫斯比那样把种子搞得一堆一堆的，不用说肯定会挨爸爸的揍。不过他既然决定尽力去学写字的本领，那么就算是把那些记号挤成一堆一堆的，他也会就这么办。

经过接下来的几堂课，基京吉终于明白了他应该在哪里留空格，也明白了莫斯比说的“单词”是什么意思。实际上，如果只是听的话，你听不出单词开始和结束的地方。一个人说话的声音就像是山羊腿上的羊皮，看起来是一整块；单词则像是皮肉下面的骨头，而单词之间的空格呢，就像是关节——如果你想要把羊腿切断，就得从这里动手。莫斯比在写字的时候留了空格，他就可以让别人看到他说的话的骨头是什么样了。

基京吉发现，如果他足够注意的话，他现在已经能够分辨出人们日常谈话中的每一个单词了。当然，从人们嘴里说出来的声音并没有改变，不过基京吉理解它的角度已经不一样了；他现在已经能够明白，一整句话是由哪些部分组成的。他自己也一直都是在说一个一个的单词，只不过他刚刚才知道这一点。

［２３］　我没有查到这些文字是什么语言，从上下文看应该是蒂夫语。

［２４］　“几岁”在汉语里处理成一个词还是两个词我不太能确定。

记忆盒子让检索变得前所未有地便利，但相比试金石公司对于产品寄予的厚望，这还远远算不上什么。迪尔德丽检查她丈夫从前说过的话，是刻意地去检索；但试金石公司希望所有人都习惯使用记忆盒子，当他们想要回忆往事的时候，自然而然地就用它来检索了——记忆盒子将会与每个人的思维过程紧密集成起来。

一旦这样，我们就成了改造了头脑的半机械人［２５］，再也不能记错任何事情。储存在带错误校验功能的芯片中的数字视频将会取代我们大脑颞叶［２６］中不可靠的记忆。

有了这样完美无缺的记忆会怎么样？有记载的记忆力最好的人，据说是二十世纪上半叶居住在俄罗斯的所罗门·舍雷舍夫斯基［２７］。参与对他测试的心理学家们发现，他可以把只听过一遍的一串单词或者数字记住长达几个月甚至几年之久。尽管他不懂意大利语，他却可以引述十五年前别人向他读的《神曲》中的章节。

不过，完美的记忆也不总是像我们想象的那么好。如果一篇文章让舍雷舍夫斯基回忆起太多的形象，他就往往无法关注文章到底说了什么；又比如他记得太多的具体的例子，结果理解抽象的概念反而变得困难了。他尝试过多次故意忘记事情。他甚至还用过“斩草除根［２８］”的办法——把不想记下来的数字写在便条上然后烧掉，当然这也并不奏效［２９］。

当我向那位试金石公司的发言人艾丽卡·梅耶斯提出，完美的记忆有可能反而是一种缺陷的时候，她用现成的话回答了我。“这和人们曾经对视网膜投影器的关注是一回事儿，”她说，“有人担心过投影的信息可能会分散注意力或者让人看不清真实的东西，不过现在大家都习惯了。”

并不是每个人都觉得这是件好事，可是我没有说。

“记忆盒子也是完全可以由用户按需使用的，”她继续说下去，“如果你发现它检索得太多了，超过了你的需要，你就可以降低它的响应敏感性。不过按照我们的用户分析，他们并不会这样做。只要习惯了，你就会发现它做出的响应越多，帮助也就越大。”

不过，问题并不只是她说的这一方面。即使记忆盒子并不总是把你不需要的视频片段投射到你的视野里，我还是怀疑，完美的影像记录可能造成麻烦。

有句俗话叫做“原谅然后忘记［３０］”，如果我们真的足够宽宏大量的话，先原谅再忘记就挺好的；不过实际上，原谅和忘记之间的关系可并不这么简单。在很多的情况下我们必须先忘记一点儿事情才能够原谅别人；当我们不再对痛苦记忆犹新，我们就更容易原谅伤害我们的人，而这又让事情变得更容易忘记。有了这种心理反馈回路，原本令人愤怒的冒犯事后想来也会变得容易原谅。

我担心的，正是记忆盒子让这种反馈回路无法连通。它将伤害的每一个细节都记录在擦不掉的录像里，不能模糊的记忆让人无法开始原谅。我回想起艾丽卡·梅耶斯说过的关于记忆盒子不会影响牢固婚姻的话。她说的话其实涉及到什么是牢固婚姻的问题：如果有人的婚姻是建立在健忘的基础上（这确实有点儿讽刺），记忆盒子有道理去破坏它吗？

问题不只是关于婚姻的；一切人际关系都依赖于原谅和忘记。我女儿妮可从小就很固执，她小时候就不喜欢听话，青春期更是公开叛逆。在她十几岁那段时间，我们发生过很多次激烈的争吵。好在这些争吵大抵都已经过去了，现在我们的关系还是挺不错的。如果我们当时用了记忆盒子的话，现在我们还会互相说话吗？

我并没有说忘记是维护人际关系的唯一途径。尽管已经不记得大多数我和妮可的争吵——我真的很庆幸我不记得了——却还有一次争吵我记得很清楚，它一直鞭策着我做一名更好的父亲。

那是妮可十六岁那年，当时她在读高二［３０］。她妈妈安吉拉离开家里已经两年了，这两年大概是我和妮可生活中最难过的两年。我已经不记得是怎么吵起来的，不过无疑是由于一件小事；但我们越吵越厉害，很快妮可就把整个事情迁怒于我。

“你害得她走了！你把她赶走了！你也走，我才不在乎呢！——没有你我肯定会过得更好！肯定！”她说得出做得到，喊叫完了以后就径直冲出了房门。

我知道，她并不是想好了要恶意地指责我——我觉得她在那个年纪不会预谋什么坏事儿；但是，再也没有比她的指责更伤我的心的话了。安吉拉出走已经让我心力交瘁，我一直在想，当初我做些什么才能挽留住她。

妮可一直到第二天才回来。她不在家的当天晚上，我反省了许多事情。尽管我还是不觉得她妈妈是因为我的问题才走的，但妮可的指责还是为我敲响了警钟。我从前没有想过，但从那时起，我意识到我一直把自己当作安吉拉离开家里的最大的受害者，不管这种情况多么不合理，我仍然沉湎于自怜中无法自拔。甚至生小孩都不是我的主意；是安吉拉想当妈妈，结果现在她倒把这么重的责任推到我身上。怎样的世道才会让我独力养育一个十几岁的女孩子啊？这么困难而重要的任务，究竟怎么才会落到我这个没有一点经验的人头上啊？

妮可的指责让我明白，她所处的境地比我还要难熬。尽管很长时间以来我都不是很喜欢养育小孩这件事，我至少还是自愿地去做的；妮可则是被动地成为我们的孩子，她并没有办法去反对。如果真的有人有道理发脾气，那也是她而不是我。虽然我一直认为我是一名好父亲，但显然我还需要做得更好才行。

我开始改变自己。那一晚上我们的关系并没有好转，但这么几年下来，我终于让妮可重新喜欢上我这个爸爸了。我记得在她大学的毕业典礼上她拥抱了我，我觉得我这么多年的努力有了回报。

如果有了记忆盒子，这些年我们还能重归于好吗？即使我们都能克制住自己不当面指责对方犯的错误，私下里重看我们争吵的片段的也很可能是件坏事情。视频能够清楚地再现我们互相叫嚷的丑态，让我们的愤怒无法平息，也让我们无法修补我们之间的关系。

［２５］　Ｃｏｇｎｉｔｉｖｅｃｙｂｏｒｇｓ。直译应当是“认知半机械人”或“感知半机械人”。这个名词曾经出现在关于视觉设计的著作《ＶｉｓｕａｌＴｈｉｎｋｉｎｇｉｎＤｅｓｉｇｎ》中，用以描述人们利用各种工具增强感知能力（这不是科幻，只是一种形象说法）。译者的理解是，这种半机械人是相对于仅仅使用人工四肢等部分的半机械人而言，所以这里强调了“头脑”。

［２６］　颞叶通常被认为是大脑中和记忆相关的主要部位。也有一些科学家有不同的看法。

［２７］　ＳｏｌｏｍｏｎＳｈｅｒｅｓｈｅｖｓｋｉｉ。是一位俄国记者，他的特殊记忆能力被长期研究过。

［２８］　原文ｓｌａｓｈ——ａｎｄ——ｂｕｒｎ的意思主要是“刀耕火种的”和“残忍好斗的”，后一种意思也可以解释为“绝不手软的”。译者采用了后一种意思，但前一种意思如果作“原始粗笨”解或许也可以讲通。

［２９］　也有报道称，他后来学会了忘记想要忘记的事物的方法。

［３０］　Ｆｏｒｇｉｖｅａｎｄｆｏｒｇｅｔ。更中国化的说法是“不记旧仇”、“不念旧恶”等。但由于后文讨论了“原谅”和“忘记”之间的关系，因此采用了直译，并且认为其中的ａｎｄ表示承接而非并列。

［３１］　Ａｊｕｎｉｏｒｉｎｈｉｇｈｓｃｈｏｏｌ。四年制高中的三年级，如果译为“高三”可能会让中文读者误认为高中的最后一年，因此折中译为“高二”。

基京吉想要记下一些讲述蒂夫族人从哪里来的故事，可是讲故事的人讲得太快了，他写字的速度根本就跟不上。莫斯比说他该多练练，熟能生巧；但是基京吉觉得，他大概没希望写得那么快了。

一年夏天，一个叫莱丝［３２］的欧洲女人来到了村子里。莫斯比说她是一位“研究别人的人”，不过也解释不了这是什么意思，只知道她想要了解一些关于蒂夫地区的知识。她向村里的所有人都问了问题——不只是头人，还有年轻人、妇女和小孩，然后她把他们向她讲的话都写了下来。她没有让大家都去接受欧洲的生活习惯。莫斯比一直坚持说并没有诅咒这样的东西，一切都是上帝的旨意；莱斯却会问诅咒是怎么一回事，并且专心听你解释你的父系亲属怎样诅咒你、母系亲属又会怎样避免你受到诅咒。

一天傍晚，村子里最会讲故事的人考夸［３３］讲了一个蒂夫族人如何分成不同的家系［３４］的故事，莱丝把他说的话全都原原本本地记了下来。然后她用手指按动一台吵闹的机器，重新把它誊写了一遍，这样她就有了一份工整易读的稿子。基京吉问她能不能也帮他抄一份，她同意了。基京吉高兴得不得了。

纸上的故事出人意料地让人失望。基京吉记得，当他刚开始了解写字的时候，他曾经想象过读故事会让他眼前现出讲故事的场面，生动得就像真的有个人在讲故事一样；可是并不是这样。考夸不仅仅用他的语言讲故事，他还用他的声调、他的手势、他的目光——他用他全身的动作给你讲故事，而你也会理解这些动作。可是这些都没有记在纸上，只有干巴巴的文字能够写下来。读这些文字只能让你想起听考夸讲故事的经历，就像是舔刚刚煮过羊角豆的锅子，并不是吃到了羊角豆本身。

不过，基京吉还是为拿到这张纸而高兴，他不时还会读起它。这是个好故事，确实值得记在纸上。不是所有写在纸上的东西都这么有价值。莫斯比在讲道的时候会朗读他的书上的故事，那些基本上都是些好故事；不过他也读他在几天前写的字——那些都不是故事，只是用来宣扬了解欧洲的神对于蒂夫族人的生活有什么好处。

有一天，莫斯比又做了一次口若悬河的讲道。基京吉称赞道：“我知道你觉得你的讲道都很不错，不过今天的确实特别精彩。”

“谢谢。”莫斯比笑着说。过了一会儿，他问：“你为什么说，我觉得我的讲道都很不错？”

“因为你希望人们在好多年以后还会读你讲道的内容呢。”

“我没希望这样。你为什么这么想呢？”

“你在讲道以前就把它们都写下来了——在你对现在的人讲道之前，你就已经为将来的人把它们写好啦。”

莫斯比哈哈大笑。“不，我不是为了这个才把它们写下来的。”

“那是为什么呢？”基京吉知道，莫斯比也不是写给别处的人们的；因为有的时候邮递员来到村子给莫斯比送信，莫斯比从来没有托他们把那些讲道的稿子寄出去。

“我把这些字写下来，就是为了我在讲道的时候不会忘记我想要说什么。”

“你怎么会忘记你要说什么呢？咱们现在就在说话呢，谁会需要一张纸来记着要说什么？”

“讲道和平时说话还是不一样的。”莫斯比停下来想了想，“我希望我的演讲能够尽量地好。我不会忘记我想要说什么，但是我可能会忘记怎么说才最好。如果我把它们写下来，我就不用担心了。而且把这些字写下来不但帮助我记住它们，也帮助我思考。”

“写字怎么能帮助你思考呢？”

“这个问题问得好，”莫斯比说，“听起来很奇怪吧？我不知道怎么解释，不过写字能帮助我决定我要说什么。在我老家有一句老话：‘唇舌易变，笔墨永恒’［３５］。用蒂夫话来说就是‘说出的话总会飞走，写下来的字才能够留下来。’——你懂我的意思吧？”

“嗯……懂了。”基京吉这么说只是为了礼貌，他其实根本就没懂。这位传教士还没到老糊涂的年纪，不过他的记性一定很差，而且他还不愿意承认。基京吉把这事儿告诉他的伙伴们，他们就把它当作笑谈。当他们闲聊的时候，大概都会加上一句，“你能记住这件事吧？这个能帮助你记住它，”然后就模仿着莫斯比做出写字的样子。

第二年的一天傍晚，考夸说他要讲一个蒂夫族人如何分成不同的家系的故事。基京吉也去听了，他还把他的那张纸也带了去，这样他就可以一边听着考夸讲，一边读纸上的故事。有的时候他能对得上两者的内容，但更多的时候就不那么容易了，因为考夸讲的话和纸上记的不一样。考夸讲完以后，基京吉对他说：“你讲的故事和去年讲的不太一样啊。”

“胡说，”考夸说，“我讲的故事都是不会变的，不管多久也不会变。二十年以后你再让我讲这个故事，我照样还是会这么讲。”

基京吉指着手里的纸给他看。“这张纸上记着你去年讲的故事，和你刚才讲的就不一样。”基京吉找了一处他记得的，“比如说上次你说，‘乌英吉人［３６］把女人和小孩儿抓起来当奴隶’，这次你说，‘他们不只是把女人抓起来当奴隶，还让小孩儿也当奴隶’。”

“这是一回事儿。”

“事情是一回事儿，但你讲的方法不一样了。”

“不对，”考夸说，“我从前怎么讲的，现在还是这么讲。”

基京吉不愿意解释字或者单词是什么东西，他就说：“如果你每次讲的都一样，你就应该每次都说，‘乌英吉人把女人和小孩儿抓起来当奴隶’。”

考夸盯着他看了一会儿，然后大笑起来。“你现在学会了写字，然后你就觉得这种东西特别重要啦？”

萨伯一直听着他们的谈话。他责备考夸说：“轮不到你来批评基京吉。‘萝卜青菜，各有所爱’，每个人都可以在他愿意做的事情上花工夫。”

“没错，您说得没错。”考夸虽然这么说，却用嘲弄的眼神看着基京吉。

后来，基京吉就想到了莫斯比说过的那句老话。就算考夸讲的是同一个故事，他每次讲的时候也可以用不同的话来讲；他讲故事讲得很好，具体怎样措词对他来讲其实并不重要。这就和莫斯比大不一样。莫斯比讲道的时候从来不会随意发挥；对他来说，一字一句都是重要的。基京吉明白了，莫斯比把他讲道德内容写在纸上并不是因为他的记性差，而是因为他希望找到一种特定遣词造句的方式。当他找到了并把它记下来，以后他需要的时候就可以去看了。

出于好奇，基京吉试着想象他也要去讲一次道，然后就开始写他要说些什么。他坐在一棵芒果树的树桩上，在莫斯比给他的小本子上写了一段关于“吩咐［３７］”的演讲。“吩咐”是一种给某些人赋予比别人更大权力的特质，不过莫斯比不懂这个题目，还说这只是愚昧罢了。

基京吉首先给他的一位伙伴读了一遍他的演讲，伙伴说他写的东西糟透了。这让他们争论［３８］了一会儿，结果基京吉不得不承认伙伴是对的。他回去重写他的演讲，写了一遍又一遍。最后实在是累了，于是也就放弃了。

在练习写字的时候，基京吉渐渐地明白了莫斯比说的话是什么意思。写字不仅仅能够记载一个人说的话，它也能帮助你在说话以前决定应该怎么说。单词也并不只是语言的片断，它们也是思考的片断。当你把它们写下来，你就能像用手捡起砖头那样掌握它们，并把它们排列成不同的样子。写字让你从一个和谈话不同的角度观察你的想法。一旦你了解了你的想法，你就可以想办法让它变得更加深刻与细致。

［３２］　Ｒｅｉｓｓ。

［３３］　Ｋｏｋｗａ。

［３４］　Ｌｉｎｅａｇｅ。这个词更偏重于血缘关系的传承。

［３５］　原文Ｖｅｒｂａｖｏｌａｎｔ，ｓｃｒｉｐｔａｍａｎｅｎｔ是拉丁语。文中有直译。

［３６］　Ｕｙｅｎｇｉ。应当是一个部族的名称，但译者并未查到更多信息。

［３７］　Ｔｓａｖ。这可能是希伯来语的词，出现在希伯来圣经中。但莫斯比是一位基督教的传教士，似乎并没有道理将希伯来圣经中的内容斥为愚昧，即使它不是基督教圣经（另外如果这是希伯来语，显然基京吉也是通过莫斯比才知道的）。这也可能是一个蒂夫语的词，刚好具有这样的拼写。请对此方面有研究的读者纠正。

［３８］　Ｓｈｏｖｉｎｇｍａｔｃｈ。译者尚未查到这个词组的准确意义。

心理学家告诉我们，可以将人类的记忆分为两类：语义记忆和情节记忆［３９］。语义记忆是关于客观事实的知识，而情节记忆则保存了个人的亲身经历。自从人类学会写字以来，我们使用了各种各样的技术手段完善和扩充我们的语义记忆：首先是纸张和书本，然后是网络和搜索引擎。不过以往我们并没有这样帮助自己进行情节记忆。有很多人都藏了不少书，但很少有人也收藏了那么多的日记或者相册。当然，最显而易见的原因是麻烦——比如说，如果你想要一本关于北美洲鸟类的书，去买或者去借一本鸟类学家写的就行了；但如果你想要一本记录每天生活的日记，就非得自己写不可。不过我也想过，或许还有另一个原因：在潜意识里，我们把情节记忆当作我们自身的一部分，因此我们不愿意把它们外化出来束之高阁，比如记在书里放在书架上，或者写在文件中存在计算机里。

然而，事情大概要变得不一样了。近些年来，父母们时时刻刻地给孩子们录像，所以即使孩子们自己还没戴着个人摄像机，他们的生活日志实际上早已经开始了。现在，父母们越来越早地让孩子们开始使用视网膜投影器，好早点儿得到那些辅助软件的帮助。想象一下吧，如果小孩从小就用记忆盒子检索这样录制的生活日志，那会怎么样——他们的认知模式将会和我们不同，因为他们和我们回忆事情的方法不一样。他们将不用再去回想过去经历过的事，也不再用自己的心去体会当时的场景；他们只需要默读那件事的检索关键词，然后用自己的眼睛看弹出来的视频就够了。情节记忆将完全依赖技术这个载体了。

依赖技术有一个明显的缺点：如果软件出了问题，那人们基本上就失忆了。不过我不但担心技术上的失败，我也同样担心技术上的成功：如果一个人只是通过冷冰冰的摄像机来观看他的过去，那么他对自己的理解将会变成什么样？就像痛苦的记忆可以通过反馈回路变得模糊一样，儿时的记忆也会通过另一个心理回路变得充满浪漫幻想；如果打断这种过程，将会产生怎样的后果呢？

我还记得的第一个生日是我的四岁生日。我记得吹灭蛋糕上的蜡烛，记得撕开礼物包装纸时的紧张和兴奋。这些事情没有录像，只是在家庭相册里有几张照片，照片上的场面和我记得的一样。实际上，我怀疑我并不记得那一天发生的事情本身——大概从我第一次看到照片开始，我就无意中编造了一些新的记忆；随着时间一天天过去，这些记忆和我想象中当天的感受变得密不可分。在不断的回忆中，我逐渐为自己创造了一段快乐的记忆。

我幼年的另一段记忆，是我在起居室地板垫子上玩耍的事情——我把玩具小汽车推来推去，祖母正踩得那台缝纫机“咔哒咔哒”响；她偶尔停下来转过身，对我慈祥地微笑。这个场景没有留下照片，所以我知道，它完全是我自己回想起来的。这是一段温馨可爱、恬静平和的记忆。如果你问我想不想要看那个下午的录像——不，我决不会想看的。

文学批评家罗伊·帕斯卡［４０］评论过人物自传中真实性的地位。他写道：“一方面是实际事情的真实性，另一方面则是作者亲身感受的真实性；两者在哪些情况下相符，是不能由任何外力预先决定的。”我们的记忆就是属于我们自己的私密自传，和祖母一同度过的那个下午正是融入了我的感受才变得对我这样重要。如果从录像片段可以看到，祖母的微笑其实只是敷衍，实际上她正因为手头的活儿不顺利而烦闷——那我该怎么办？对我来说，这段记忆最重要的是它能让我联想到的快乐，我不愿意冒任何破坏它的风险。

如果把我的整个童年都拍成连续的录像，它将充满事实，却缺乏感情——因为摄像机并不能记录事件背后的感情。从摄像机中来看，我和祖母度过的那个下午，大概和成百上千个平常的下午并没有什么区别。如果我是看着这些录像片段长大的，那么我就无法为经历过的每一天添加感情的分量，也便失掉了萌生怀旧之情的基础。

如果人们确实可以准确无误地记得婴儿时代发生的事情，那会怎么样？我已经想好了这样的场景：如果你问一个年轻人他最早记得的事儿是什么，他只会觉得奇怪：你为什么会问出这样的问题——因为他从出生以来的每一天的录像都保存在那儿。人们本来不记得生命中最初的几年，心理学家叫它幼年经验失忆症［４１］；但这或许很快就会成为过去。父母也再不会用“你不记得这事儿，因为那时候你还不会走路呢”开头，来向他们的孩子讲起那些有趣的往事。从整个人类的角度看，幼年经验失忆症好比是人类童年［４２］的一个特征；用埃里希·诺依曼的‘咬尾巴的蛇’的比方［４３］来说，人类的童年［４４］终将从我们的记忆中消失。

我曾经有些想阻止这样的事情，让孩子们对人生的起点仍然保持模糊却美好的回忆，让那些原本的故事不被冰冷苍白的录像取代。不过我又想，就像我珍爱我头脑里那些并不完美的记忆那样，或许他们对那些毫无损失的数字化记忆也怀有温暖的感情。

人是由故事组成的。我们的记忆不是由经过的每一秒钟不分彼此地堆砌出来的，它是我们用自己挑选的瞬间组合出来的。这就是为什么尽管我们可能和别人经历过同样的事情，却不会和他们拥有完全相同的叙述［４５］——因为我们每个人对于选择记忆的瞬间都有不同的标准，它从一个方面体现了我们不同的性格。我们每个人都会注意那些引起自己关注的细节、记住对自己重要的事情；而对事情的不同叙述，反过来又体现了我们不同的性格。

所以，我开始怀疑——如果所有人都能够记住每一件事，那么我们之间的区别是不是就被抹去了？我们对自己的感受会发生什么变化？对我来说，完美无缺的记忆绝对称不上是一种对事实的叙述——就好比没有编辑过的监控录像，是绝对不会有人把它当故事片看的。

［３９］　人类的记忆可以从不同的角度来分类。语义记忆和情节记忆是从一个角度来分的。

［４０］　ＲｏｙＰａｓｃａｌ。曾经在英国伯明翰大学担任德语教授。

［４１］　Ｃｈｉｌｄｈｏｏｄａｍｎｅｓｉａ。指人无法回忆起从出生到三岁左右的事情，是一种正常现象而不是病症。这个名词最早是由弗洛伊德提出的。现代认知心理学的一种观点是，人并非没有那段时期的记忆，但由于幼年时无法用语音作为心理表征的工具，所以长大以后也无法用语文检索记忆。

［４２］　Ｈｕｍａｎｉｔｙｃｈｉｌｄｈｏｏｄ。译者的理解是整个人类发展的初期、不成熟时期。

［４３］　原文中“咬尾巴的蛇”使用了定语形式ｏｕｒｏｂｏｒｉｃ。埃里希·诺依曼（ＥｒｉｃｈＮｅｕｍａｎｎ）是译者加上的，他是荣格学派的心理学家。诺依曼认为咬尾巴的蛇（衔尾蛇，Ｏｕｒｏｂｏｒｏｓ）是“前自我”阶段（Ｐｒｅ——ｅｇｏ）“混沌状态”（ＤａｗｎＳｔａｔｅ）的象征，描绘了无法区分的婴儿时代的经历；它对个人和整个人类均是适用的。

［４４］　Ｏｕｒｙｏｕｔｈ。从前后文来说这里的ｏｕｒ似乎应当作“整个人类”解。Ｙｏｕｔｈ和ｃｈｉｌｄｈｏｏｄ显然不同，但前者在这里翻译成“青春”“青春时代”似并不准确。按译者的理解，整句话的意思是，在人类的发展初期（亦即有人类以来至今），每个人类个体具有幼年经验失忆症的特征；而当人类的发展超越了这个混沌不清的阶段时（即未来——这里特指人们用记忆盒子记住幼年经历后），这一段人类个体会幼年失忆的历史将会被未来的人们淡忘。而从整个人类的角度来看，那个时代的人类又恰恰忘记了人类童年时代的这一部分经历，而这也就成为了整个人类的一种“幼年失忆”。这一段话涉及心理学、哲学等学科的很多方面的知识，请对此方面有研究的读者纠正或建议。

［４５］　Ｎａｒｒａｔｉｖｅ。实际上指个人对事件的理解与感受，不一定表现在外。但从上下文来看，它应当是可以用文字表述的。

基京吉二十岁那年，一位政府官员来到村里找萨伯谈话。他还带了一个在卡西纳阿拉［４６］上过教会学校的蒂夫族小伙子。政府希望把部落法庭裁决过的所有纠纷都编写成册，他们就为每一位酋长都派了这样一位小伙子当书记员。

萨伯把基京吉叫过来，对那位官员说：“蒂夫地区有很多村子，我知道你们没有那么多书记员用。这是基京吉，他学过写字，可以当我们的书记员；你就把你带来的那孩子派到别的村去吧。”

那位官员半信半疑，他考了考基京吉写字的本领。好在莫斯比教得很好，最后官员就同意让他当萨伯的书记员了。

官员走了以后，基京吉问萨伯，为什么他不让卡西纳阿拉来的那个小伙子当他的书记员。

“教会学校里来的人都信不过。”萨伯说。

“为什么信不过？欧洲人教他们说谎吗？”

“欧洲人确实有错，但我们也有。几年前欧洲人为教会学校招募学生的时候，大多数头人都把他们不想留在村子里的人送了出去，那全是些小混混或者刺儿头。现在他们回来了，当然就六亲不认。他们就像挥舞着长枪一样，用写字的本领威胁别人；他们要酋长给他们找老婆，不然就向欧洲人写诬告信，要把酋长罢免掉。”

基京吉认识个小伙子，他整天都抱怨个不停，希望找到个法子，不干活儿还能吃饱；如果这样的家伙比萨伯还有权力，那可真就糟了。他就问：“我能不能把这些事告诉那些欧洲人啊？”

“很多人已经告诉过了，”萨伯回答，“宽迪家族［４７］的玛伊肖［４８］警告过我要提防那些书记员，因为他们早先就被派去他们家族的村子。玛伊肖运气不错，欧洲人相信了他，没有相信他的书记员的鬼话；不过他也听说过有别的酋长并不那么幸运，因为欧洲人往往更相信纸上的字而不是人说的话。我不想冒这个险，”他严肃地看着基京吉，“基京吉，你是我的亲戚，也是村子里所有人的亲戚。我相信你能够老老实实地写下我说的话。”

“是的，萨伯。”

部落法庭每月都会开庭，一连三天从早上到傍晚。总有一些人来旁听，有的时候来了好多人，萨伯不得不让大家都坐下，免得中间连风都吹不进来。基京吉坐在萨伯旁边，在官员留下来的一个本子上记录每一桩纠纷的详细情况。这是件不错的差事：他不但能拿到打官司的人付的一些钱作为报酬，还得到了一把椅子和一张小桌子，即使没有开庭的时候他也能坐在上面写字。

大家因为各种各样的原因向萨伯告状——这个人的自行车被偷了呀，那个人说人家搞坏了他邻居家的庄稼呀——不过大多数还是和老婆有关。在一桩纠纷里，基京吉写了下面的话。

“乌梅姆［４９］的妻子吉尔吉［５０］从家里出走，跑回娘家去了。她娘家的亲戚阿南戈［５１］劝过她回去找她丈夫，但是吉尔吉拒绝，阿南戈也没有办法。乌梅姆要求还给他出的１１镑［５２］钱彩礼。阿南戈说他现在手头没有钱，就算有钱他也只会付６镑。

”萨伯召了双方的证人。阿南戈说他有好几位证人，不过他们都出去旅行去了。乌梅姆请出了一位证人，这位证人发了誓。他作证说，他亲自数了乌梅姆交给阿南戈的１１镑钱。

“萨伯让吉尔吉回到丈夫身边，做一个好妻子。但是她说她已经受够了他了。萨伯就要求阿南戈赔给乌梅姆１１镑钱，限三个月内他家的庄稼可以卖钱时付第一笔。阿南戈同意了。”

这是当天的最后一桩纠纷，当时萨伯显然已经很累了。“卖菜来赔彩礼，”他后来摇着头说，“在我小时候可是从来没有过的事儿。”

基京吉知道萨伯的话是什么意思。头人们说过，在过去人们只会去交换类似的东西：如果你想要一只山羊，你可以用几只鸡去换它；如果你想要和一个女人结婚，你家就得把一个女眷许配给她家才行。后来欧洲人说不能再用蔬菜来交税，必须要用钱币；没用多少时间，什么东西就都可以用钱来交换了——你可以用钱做好多好多事情，从买个葫芦瓢到娶个老婆都行。头人们都觉得，这简直太荒谬了。

“老法子不管用了。”基京吉同意这样的说法。他没有说，其实年轻人更喜欢新法子，因为欧洲人还规定，只有女方同意结婚，才能向她家送彩礼，把她娶回去。在过去，年轻姑娘也可能被许配给得了麻风病烂了手或者蛀了牙齿的老头子，而且除了嫁给他别无选择；现在姑娘们就可以选择嫁给自己喜欢的人了，只要他付得起彩礼钱就行。基京吉自己也在攒钱准备结婚呢。

莫斯比有的时候过来看看，不过他发现打官司的过程总是让人搞不懂，所以他就经常在事后问基京吉一些问题。

“比如说，是乌梅姆和阿南戈在欠了多少彩礼这件事上有争议，为什么只有那个证人发誓？”莫斯比问。

“来保证他准确地说了发生的事情。”

“那如果乌梅姆和阿南戈也都发了誓，就也能保证他们都准确地说了发生过什么。现在阿南戈没有发誓，所以他就能撒谎了。”

“阿南戈没撒谎，”基京吉说，“他说了他觉得对的话，就像乌梅姆一样。”

“可是阿南戈说的和证人说的不一样。”

“但这不是说他就撒谎了，”基京吉忽然想起来欧洲语言的一些事情，明白了莫斯比为什么搞不懂，“我们的语言里有两个词，在你们的语言里都可以称作‘真相［５３］’。一个是对的事情，米米［５４］；一个是准确的事情，沃夫。在纠纷里，双方都会说他们觉得对的话，他们说的是米米；但是证人要发誓说他准确地说了发生的事情，他们说的就是沃夫。萨伯听明白发生了什么以后，他就能决定谁的诉求对大家来说才是米米；但是当事人不说沃夫也不算是撒谎，只要说米米就够了。”

莫斯比显然不能赞成。“在我的老家欧洲，出庭的所有人必须发誓说他们只说……沃夫，即使是当事人也必须如此。”

基京吉没有明白莫斯比想强调什么，他就说：“每个部落都有自己的习惯嘛。”

“没错，习惯是可以不一样，但是真的东西就永远是真的，它不会因为换了一个人就变了。你还记得《圣经》里说的吧：‘真理必叫你们得以自由’［５５］。”

“我记得，”基京吉说。莫斯比说过，欧洲人是因为知道了上帝的真理才变得这样成功的。没错，他们确实有钱有权，可是谁知道原因是什么呢？

［４６］　Ｋａｔｓｉｎａ——Ａｌａ。在尼日利亚东南部。

［４７］　Ｋｗａｎｄｅｃｌａｎ。

［４８］　Ｍａｉｓｈｏ。

［４９］　Ｕｍｅｍ。

［５０］　Ｇｉｒｇｉ。

［５１］　Ａｎｏｎｇｏ。

［５２］　原文中用了英镑符号？？。尼日利亚曾是英国的殖民地，有可能直接流通英镑，但也有可能用本地货币，译者并未查证。谨慎起见，译为“镑”而非“英镑”。尼日利亚现在的货币单位是尼日利亚奈拉，符号是Ｎ打两个横杠。

［５３］　原文中是ｔｒｕｔｈ。Ｔｒｕｔｈ这个词是本文讨论的中心，但考虑到汉语的习惯，译者将其不同的释义译为了不同的汉语词，其实削弱它的了主题性。本节下面的‘真的东西’和‘真理’原文中都是ｔｒｕｔｈ。

［５４］　Ｍｉｍｉ。后面的‘沃夫’拼作Ｖｏｕｇｈ。都应当是蒂夫语，读音是译者仿照英语猜测的。

［５５］　这是《圣经》（新约·约翰福音）中的话。原文的用词与译者手头的《圣经》英文版稍有不同，译文中的话是《圣经》中文版中的原话。

要有理有据地撰写关于记忆盒子的报道，我还是要自己亲身试用它。问题是，我并没有记录过生活日志让它来检索，因为我一般只有在采访或者拍摄特定事件的时候才会用摄像机。不过，我肯定在一些记录生活日志的人的镜头中出现过，我可以利用他们录下的录像。

现在所有的生活日志软件都有隐私控制功能，大多数人也愿意进行基本的分享：如果他们的生活日志中录下了你做的事情，你就可以调取包含你的片段。我用我的ＧＰＳ定位记录作为检索的依据，编写了一个代理程序来帮助我从别人录制的生活日志中寻找和我有关的内容，并将它们按照时间顺序拼接组合在一起。用了大约一周的时间，我的检索请求传遍了社交网络和公开视频网站，我也获得了从几秒钟到几小时长的大量视频片段。其中不仅有监控录像的片段，也有好友的、熟人的，甚至完全陌生的人的生活日志的片段。

最后我拼凑出的这个“生活日志”比起自己录下的视频显然是零碎许多，而且其中的内容都是第三人称的视角，而不像大多数的生活日志都是第一人称；好在记忆盒子本来也可以检索第三人称录像。不出我的意料，近几年的片段显然是最多的，因为用生活日志的人越来越多了。不过让我有些吃惊的是，当我看了那张录像范围的统计图表时，我发现十年以前片段的数量有一个突增。我想起妮可在十几岁的时候开始记录生活日志，从那时以后我就不知不觉地有了许多家庭生活的录像片段。

一开始我有点不确定怎么测试记忆盒子，因为我总不能让它帮我找一个我不记得的视频吧——我就决定，还是先从记住的事情开始。我默读道：“那次文斯［５６］告诉我他去帕劳旅行的事儿……”

我的视网膜投影器在视野左下角显示出一个窗口：我正在和我的朋友文森特［５７］和杰里米［５８］共进午餐。文森特和我一样不记生活日志，所以这个片段是从杰里米的视角来录制的。我听了文森特兴高采烈地讲着他潜水的经历。

下面我又去试了试我记得不大清楚的事情。“我坐在黛博拉［５９］和莱尔［６０］中间的那次晚宴……”我记不得席间还有什么别人，不知道记忆盒子能不能帮我认出他们。

结果相当准确：黛博拉那天晚上录了视频，从她的录像里我可以用一个识别程序认出坐在我们对面的每个人。

在刚开始成功地检索了几次之后，我也遇到了好几次失败。这是理所应当的，毕竟我拼凑出来的日志中间有很多空缺。不过总的来说，在这一个小时检索过去事件的测试中，记忆盒子的性能表现还是给我留下了深刻的印象。

最后，我想我也该试一试记忆盒子检索带有强烈感情的记忆时的表现了。现在我觉得我和妮可的关系已经足够牢固，对于我来说，我可以重新去看她小时候我们的冲突，而不担心出什么麻烦。我决定从我记得的最清楚的那次争吵开始，然后从那里再回过头去测试。

我默读：“那次妮可对我嚷道：‘你害得她走了’。”

窗口里显示出一间厨房里的场景。那是当时我们住的房子的厨房。片段是从妮可的角度录的，我正站在炉子前面。显然我们正在激烈地争吵。

“你害得她走了。你也走，我才不在乎呢。没有你我肯定会过得更好。”

这些话我都清楚地记得。然而说这句话的人不是妮可。

是我。

我的第一反应是这一定是假的，妮可修改了自己的录像，把她说过的话安在了我的头上。她一定发现了我想要访问她的生活日志片段，然后精心编造了这么一个东西来给我一个教训。或者大概这是她做出来给朋友看的一段视频，好让她说的关于我的那些事儿更夸张一些。可是为什么她还对我这么生气，以至她要做这么个东西出来？这事情不是已经过去了吗？

我开始细细地看这一段录像，希望找出剪接的痕迹。接下来片段里妮可跑出了家门，这个我是记得的；所以从这里往后应该都不会剪接过。我重放了录像，开始看前面的争吵。

刚开始看的时候我很生气，妮可怎么可以这么挖空心思来骗我——因为结合前面的那些片段来看，那句话也是我向她嚷的，这样才前后连贯。录像里我说的一句话忽然听起来那么熟悉，以至有些让人不安：我抱怨总是被叫到她的学校去，因为她在学校里惹了麻烦；我说她不该和坏孩子们混在一起。但是——我不是在这时候说这事儿的吧？我只是说了我的担心，并没有骂她一顿。妮可一定是把我在别的时候说的话也切了过来，好让这段冤枉我的视频看起来和真的一样。这是唯一可能的解释，对吧？

我要求记忆盒子检查视频的水印，它报告说视频没有修改过。在我检索的时候，我看见记忆盒子提示我更正检索句：当我说“那次妮可对我嚷道”的时候，它给出的是“那次我对妮可嚷道”。这个更正的提示肯定在我第一次用这个句子检索的时候就有了，不过那次我没有注意。我恨恨地关闭了记忆盒子，对这个产品憋足了火。我想要去找伪造数字水印的方法，来证明这个录像是伪造的，但我还是没这么去做。我慢慢冷静下来，知道这是孤注一掷的不理智行为。

我原本能够把手放在一摞《圣经》上，用任何誓言来发誓，是妮可指责的我，说是由于我才让她妈妈离开我们的。我对那次争吵的记忆十分清晰可靠，而且这还不是我觉得那个录像无法相信的唯一理由；尽管我有这样那样的缺点，我却知道我绝不是一位能对自己孩子说出这种话的父亲。

然而，现在我的面前就有一段视频，可以证明我曾经就是一位这样的父亲。虽然那是过去的事情了，但我也不能否认，那个过去的我就是现在的我。

我可以成功地对自己隐瞒真相许多年，这或许是个比视频更有力的证据。前面我说过，我们选择记下来事情的哪些方面反映了我们的性格。照这个说法，我把我说的话记成是妮可说的，又说明了什么呢？

我记得，这场争吵让我改变了很多。在我过去的想象中，我把自己描绘成拥有一段勇于救赎和自我改进经历的英雄单身父亲，振作地面对着生活的挑战。但是实际上却是什么样子？从那时到现在发生的事情，到底有多少值得我居功自傲呢？

我重新启动了记忆盒子，调出妮可大学毕业时的录像来看。这段录像是我自己录的，可以看到妮可的表情——她在我旁边，看起来确确实实很开心。难道她把真实的感情隐瞒得这么深，让我都没有发现？或者，如果我们的关系真的改善了，那为什么会改善呢——显然十四年前的我是一个比我想象中糟糕得多的父亲；我很想说，是我做出了很大的努力才会有今天，但我已经不敢再相信我的感觉了。

那么，现在妮可对我到底有没有好感呢？

我不打算用记忆盒子来帮我回答这个问题，我需要自己去寻根溯源。我给妮可打了电话，她不在；我就留言说我想和她谈一谈，并问她今晚能不能去她家。

［５６］　Ｖｉｎｃｅ。这是后面‘文森特’的昵称。

［５７］　Ｖｉｎｃｅｎｔ。

［５８］　Ｊｅｒｅｍｙ。

［５９］　Ｄｅｂｏｒａｈ。

［６０］　Ｌｙｌｅ。

又是几年过去了。萨伯去参加了一系列山戈夫家族所有酋长一同出席的会议。他向基京吉解释说，欧洲人不想再和现在这么多的酋长们联络了，他们要求蒂夫地区的所有家族分为八个氏族［６１］。因此，萨伯和其他家族的酋长必须要讨论山戈夫家族要加入哪个氏族。尽管这些会议并不需要记录，出于对他们商谈内容的好奇，基京吉还是问萨伯能不能把他也带上；萨伯同意了。

基京吉从没有见过这么多头人聚在一个地方。有些人和萨伯一样庄重平和，也有些气势汹汹。他们一连争论了好几个小时。

基京吉回到村子之后的那个傍晚，莫斯比问他到底是怎么回事。基京吉叹了口气说：“就算他们不使劲嚷嚷，他们也像野猫一样争个不停。”

“萨伯认为你们应该加入哪边呢？”

“按照我们蒂夫人的习俗，我们应该去投奔和我们关系最近的家族。因为山戈夫是宽迪的儿子，所以我们家族也应该投奔宽迪家族去，他们住在南边。”

“有道理，”莫斯比说，“那还有什么可争论的呢？”

“山戈夫家族的族人不都住在一起。有些住在西边的田地，那儿离杰齐哈家族［６２］的地盘更近；他们的头人也和杰齐哈的头人关系更好。他们想在合并以后的氏族里有更大的影响力，所以他们就希望山戈夫家族投奔杰齐哈家族。”

“我明白了。”莫斯比想了一会儿，说，“那住在西边的山戈夫人和住在南边的山戈夫人能不能加入不同的氏族呢？”

基京吉摇摇头说：“我们山戈夫人都只有一个共同的祖先，所以我们也总要在一起。这一点头人们都是一致同意的。”

“但是如果家系这么重要，那么为什么西边的那些头人还要坚持加入杰齐哈家族？”

“这就是他们现在争论的东西。那边的头人们说山戈夫是杰齐哈的儿子。”

“等等，你是说你们都不知道山戈夫的父母到底是谁？”

“当然知道了！萨伯可以把他的祖先的名字挨着个儿地背下来，一直到蒂夫本人。西边的头人们只是想要从杰齐哈家族那儿得到好处，所以才编造说山戈夫是杰齐哈的儿子。”

“可是如果山戈夫家族投奔了宽迪家族，你们的头人们不也能得到好处吗？”

“是，但山戈夫是宽迪的儿子嘛。”基京吉忽然明白了莫斯比的意思，“你是想说我们的头人们才是编瞎话的人？！”

“不是，没那回事儿。只是听起来两边的主张都挺有道理，我没办法分别谁才是对的。”

“萨伯是对的。”

“当然，”莫斯比说，“可是你们怎么能让别人也承认呢？在我老家欧洲，很多人把它们的家系写在纸上——我们叫它家谱［６３］。这样我们就可以准确地找到我们的祖先都是谁，就算是往上数很多代也可以。”

“嗯，你那本《圣经》上面就写了家系［６４］，从亚伯拉罕追溯到亚当。”

“没错。不过除了《圣经》之外，人们也会把他们的家系编成家谱记在纸上。以后他们想要去查他们是谁的后代的时候，就可以查那张家谱了。如果你们也有记在纸上的家谱，别的头人就必须承认萨伯是对的了。”

基京吉承认这是个好想法——但山戈夫家族必须在很久很久以前就使用纸才能留下家谱吧。忽然他想到一个主意：“欧洲人最早来蒂夫地区是多久以前？”

“我也不太清楚。不过我想至少是四十年以前了。”

“你觉得他们会不会在刚刚来的时候写过一些关于山戈夫家族的家系的东西？”

莫斯比看起来陷入了思考。然后他说：“有可能。政府保存着大量的档案，如果有你想要的东西，它们一定存在卡西纳阿拉的政府驻地。”

卡西纳阿拉每十五天会举办一次集市，这时就会有一辆运货的卡车沿着公路开到那儿去。后天刚好又是赶集的日子，如果基京吉明天早上就出发，他就能赶上那辆卡车，搭便车到卡西纳阿拉去。他问莫斯比：“你觉得他们会让我去查吗？”

“如果有个欧洲人跟着你或许会方便点儿，”莫斯比笑着说，“我们一起去吧？”

［６１］　Ｓｅｐｔ。这个词多用来指苏格兰或爱尔兰的家族。在这里它是比ｃｌａｎ更大的人群。

［６２］　Ｊｅｃｈｉｒａｃｌａｎ。

［６３］　Ｌｉｎｅａｇｅ。在前文中翻译为“家系”，这里为了强调是写在纸上的内容而译为“家谱”。

［６４］　《圣经》原文中没有单独列出的家谱，译者不知是否有版本的附录里有。这些家系是可以从《圣经》原文中摘录整理出的，所以不译为“家谱”。

妮可打开家门请我进去。她明显对我来的原因很好奇：“你来是想和我谈什么呢？”

说真的，我不太确定该怎么开口。我就先说：“大概听起来……会有点怪吧。”

“没问题，你说吧。”

我就把我用记忆盒子看拼凑起来的生活日志、看到她十六岁的时候我们的争吵、我冲她喊叫和她冲出房子的事情都说了。“你还记得那天吧？”

“当然记得。”她看起来不太自在，不知道我说这些是想要做什么。

“我也记得——至少我觉得我记得。不过我记得的不太一样——我记得是你说的。”

“我说的什么？”

“我记得是你跟我说我可以走，你不在乎，没有我你会过得更好的。”

妮可盯着我看了好久。最后她问我：“这些年你一直记得那天是这样吗？”

“是，直到昨天。”

“如果不是这么件伤心的事儿，我准会哈哈大笑的。”

我的胃难受起来了。“对不起。我说不出我有多么的抱歉……”

“是抱歉你说了那些话，还是抱歉你觉得是我说的？”

“都抱歉。”

“你是该觉得抱歉！你想过我是什么感受吗？”

“我想不出。我想象是你说的那些话的时候，就已经感觉很糟糕了。”

“那也只是你想象的。感觉糟糕的是我。”她不信任地摇着头，“真是该死的老样子。”

这听起来真让人不舒服。“嗯……是吗？”

“是啊，”她说，“你都表现得你好像是个受害者，就好像你是个别人都亏欠你的正派人似的——这还不是老样子吗？”

“你说我喜欢妄想？”

“不是妄想。只是盲目地活在自己的世界里。”

我一下子有点恼火：“我到你这来就是要道歉的。”

“没错，没错。都随你。”

“不，你说得对。对不起。”我停下来，直到妮可用手势让我继续，“我想我确实……盲目地活在自己的世界里。我不容易承认的原因大概是……我觉得我已经擦亮了双眼、恢复了正常的态度吧。”

“什么？”她皱眉。

我告诉她，我曾觉得我我作为一位父亲发生了很大的转变，并努力重建我们的关系，最终在她的毕业典礼上收获了应有的亲情。妮可表面上没有嘲笑我，但是她的表情让我停了下来——显然我正在自讨没趣。

“在毕业典礼上你还讨厌我吗？”我问，“难道我们重归于好全都是我的想象？”

“不，毕业典礼上确实处得挺好的。不过那不是因为你忽然就变成了一个好父亲。”

“那么是为什么？”

她停下来深吸了一口气，然后说：“我在上大学的时候去看了一位心理治疗师。”她又停了停，“她差不多救了我一条命。”

我一开始想，为什么妮可会需要心理治疗？但我还是放下这个念头，说：“我不知道你在接受心理治疗。”

“你当然不会知道。你是我想告诉的最后一个人——不管怎么说吧，在我大四那年，她终于说服了我，还是不要继续生你的气好。这才是为什么毕业的时候我和你相处得那么好。”

所以我是确确实实编造了一段和真相毫无关系的的经历。是妮可做了所有的努力，我什么都没做。

“我想，我并不真的了解你。”

她耸耸肩：“你想说你多了解我，你就多了解我。”

这话很伤人，但我也没办法抱怨。“我本该对你更好的。”我说。

妮可惨然一笑：“你知道，在我小时候，我幻想过你会说这句话。可是现在……嗯，这话也解决不了所有问题，你说对吧。”

我意识到我一直在希望她在当时就能原谅我，然后一切就都好了。但是除了道歉之外，我还需要做更多的事情来挽救我们的关系。

我忽然想到一件事：“过去我做的事情已经不能改变了，但至少我可以不再欺骗自己，觉得我没有做过。我要用记忆盒子来描述自己真实的形象，或许列一份个人清单。”

妮可看着我，判断着我是不是诚心诚意。

“很好，”她说，“不过咱们先说清楚：你不能每次你觉得有负罪感了就跑到我这里来，那你把我当什么了？我费了好大力气才不去想这件事，我可不想因为你想要觉得舒服就重新想起它。”

“当然，”我看到她就要哭了，“我很抱歉，我又把这些事情重新翻出来，让你难过了。”

“好啦，没事的，爸爸。我谢谢你做的努力。我们现在就先不去管它了，好吗？”

“嗯。”我向房门走过去想要离开，但我又停了下来，“我就想问一下……如果可能的话，如果我能做什么来将功补过的话……”

“将功补过？”她看起来有些怀疑，“我也不知道。多为别人想想就好了。”

多为别人想想。这也正是我正努力去做的。

政府驻地真的保存了四十年前的纸——欧洲人管它们叫“评估报告”。由于莫斯比在场，他们没费什么力气就可以调阅它们。这些报告是用欧洲文字写的，基京吉看不懂；不过里面还画着不同家族祖先的图表，他大概可以拼出图表上的蒂夫族人的姓名，而且莫斯比告诉他读得没错。

西边农场的头人们说得对，萨伯说错了——山戈夫不是宽迪的儿子，他是杰齐哈的儿子。

一位政府工作人员同意为他们打一份相关页面的内容，这样基京吉就可以拿回去。莫斯比想要留在卡西纳阿拉，好去看望那儿的传教士们；可是基京吉想要立刻就回家。他归心似箭，希望在回去的路上还能搭到卡车，虽然实际上他不得不从公路上走回去。当他终于回到村子里，他就去找萨伯。

他在通往附近农场的小路上找到了萨伯；几个邻居正拦住萨伯，请他裁定要怎么分配一头母羊产的羊羔。最后邻居们都挺满意地走了，萨伯就接着走他的路。基京吉走到他旁边。

“欢迎回来。”萨伯说。

“萨伯，我去卡西纳阿拉了。”

“哦。你怎么去那儿了？”

基京吉把带回来的纸给他看：“这是在很早很早以前——欧洲人刚来这儿的时候就写下来的。他们和当时山戈夫家族的头人们谈话，说起山戈夫家族的历史的时候，头人们说山戈夫是杰齐哈的儿子。”

萨伯的反应很平静。他问：“欧洲人问了谁？”

“巴图［６５］和约迦哈［６６］。”基京吉看着那张纸说。

“我记得他们，”萨伯点着头说，“他们都是贤明的人。他们不应该说过这样的话。”

“可是他们说了！”基京吉指着纸上的字。

“你可能读错了。”

“我没有！我知道怎么读。”

萨伯耸耸肩：“为什么你把这张纸带回来？”

“这上面写的东西很重要——我们应该投奔杰齐哈家族才合理。”

“你觉得整个家族应该在这么大的事情上相信你？”

“我没有让家族相信我。我让他们相信在您年轻的时候当头人的那些人。”

“确实应该相信。可是那些人已经不在了。你现在只有这张纸。”

“这张纸告诉我们他们说过什么——就和他们在这儿一样。”

“是吗？一个人可不仅仅说过一件事。如果巴图和约迦哈在这里，他们会同意我们投奔宽迪家族的。”

“怎么会，山戈夫不是杰齐哈的儿子吗？”基京吉指着手里的那张纸，“杰齐哈家族才是我们更近的亲戚。”

萨伯停了下来，转身面对着基京吉。他说：“家族的事情是不能用纸上写的东西来解决的。因为宽迪家族的玛伊肖让我提防教会学校的那些小年轻，你才成了书记员。要不是我们有同一个父亲，玛伊肖就不会这么关照我们。你的立场是证明我们的家族的关系有多近，可是你忘掉了你的立场。你要考虑什么纸可以告诉你那些你本应该知道的东西。”萨伯拍了拍基京吉的胸膛，“你读的纸太多了，让你忘记了该怎么做蒂夫人了吗？”

基京吉刚想开口反对，但他忽然明白萨伯才是对的。他花在学习写字上的一分一秒都让他的思维方式更像一个欧洲人。他变得更加相信纸上写的东西而不是人们所说的，而这不是蒂夫人的做法。

欧洲人的评估报告是沃夫；它是准确无误的，但它不足以解决问题。选择投奔哪个家族必须有利于整个族群，它必须是米米。只有头人们才能决定什么是米米，因为决定什么对于山戈夫家族更有利才是他们的责任。让萨伯遵从那张纸上写的东西，就是让他去做他认为不对的事。

“您说得对，萨伯。”基京吉说，“请您原谅我。您是我的头人，我认为那张纸比您懂得还多是不对的。”

萨伯点点头，继续在小路上走着。“你想做什么都可以，但是我相信，如果你把这张纸给别人看，将会弊大于利。”

基京吉考虑了一下。西边农场的头人们肯定会说这张评估报告支持了他们的立场，这会让这场已经旷日持久的争论继续下去。可是更重要的是，这会让蒂夫人走上一条路，他们会渐渐习惯把纸当作真相的来源；这样的潮流终于会冲洗掉另一个老法子，而基京吉看不出那样会有什么好处。

“是的，”基京吉说，“我不会给别人看的。”

萨伯点了点头。

基京吉走回了他的小草屋，回想到底发生过什么。即使没有读过教会学校，他也已经开始像欧洲人那样思考；他在记事本上练习写字的时候，不知不觉也开始对自己的头人们有些不敬了。他并不能否认，写字让他可以想得更清楚；但是这还算不上是一个认为纸比人更可信的理由。

作为书记员，基京吉需要留下那些记着萨伯在部落法庭上做的裁决的记事本。不过他并不需要留着其他的本子，那些本子上只记着他自己的想法。他准备用它们当作引火的材料来生火做饭。

［６５］　Ｂａｔｕｒ。

［６６］　Ｉｏｒｋｙａｈａ。

尽管我们一般不这么想，写字却实实在在地是一门技术。会读书写字的人的思维过程受到了技术的影响。其实当我们能够熟练地阅读的时候，我们就已经变成了改造了头脑的半机械人，而这种变化的后果是深远的。

在一个文明掌握写字之前、它的知识还只能口耳相传时，它的历史是很容易被改写的。这不是有意为之，但却不可避免。全世界的诗人和说唱艺人们都为了迎合听众而选择他们的素材，而这又让过去逐渐地适应了现在的需要。过去的记录不应该改变，这种想法是出于书面文明——会书写的文明对文字的尊敬而产生的。人类学家会告诉你，口述文明——只有口语的文明用另一种方式理解过去；对他们来说，他们的历史不必很精确，重要的是整个族群都能够认可对这段历史的理解。所以并不能说他们的历史是不可靠的，他们的历史自有对他们的意义。

现在我们每个人都是一个个人的口述文明。我们为了适应我们的需要，或者支持我们讲给别人听的事情，在心目中改写了我们的过去。或许我们都应为自己记忆中那种“明天会更好”的想法感到愧疚——我们总是认为，过去的自己只是一个阶段，那时的自己总会变成现在这个值得自豪的自己。

然而，这个时代即将过去了。记忆盒子只是第一个新一代的人工记忆——或者说记忆假体；当这种产品被人们广泛地应用时，我们将用完美无缺的数字档案取代头脑里可塑的记忆。我们记录下来的将是实际做过的事情，而不再是被重复讲过许多遍的故事。从这个角度来说，我们每个人都将会从口述文明变成书面文明。

我非常地肯定书面文明比口头文明优越，尽管我承认我带着很明确的偏见——因为我现在就在写字，而没有向你口述。大概我应该这么说：我更容易发现和利用读书写字给我们带来的好处，却不太容易发现它让我们付出的代价。读书写字让一个文明更加重视文献记载的价值，看轻主观的经验——总的来说，我觉得这是利大于弊的。书面记录固然也会有各种各样的错误，对它们的理解也可能变化；但至少写下来的字本身不会变，而这就是其中蕴含的价值。

但是当涉及到我们个人的记忆时，我就变得骑墙不定。一个人的身份认同是建立在他头脑中的记忆上的，我们将来或许无法主观地回忆事件，这让我感到了不安。我曾经认为，人们口头讲述自己的故事是更有价值的，尽管或许这对一个文明没有什么意义。但是我终究只是我的时代的产物，而时代是会变的。就像口述文明不能阻止读书写字的发展那样，我们也不能阻止人们使用数字记忆。所以我能采取的最好的办法就是去发现它有什么正面的作用。

我想我发现了数字记忆真正的好处——重要的并不是证明你是对的；而是承认你是错的。

我们所有人都会在各种场合犯错，其中不乏残忍和伪善；而大多数的场合都已经被我们忘记了。这意味着我们并不真的了解自己。如果连我的记忆都不能信任，我能说我有多少自知之明？你能说你有多少？或许你会想，尽管你的记忆并不完美，但你也从来没有像我这么严重地文过饰非。可是我先前就和你一样确定——结果我错了。或许你会说：“我知道我不是完美的，我犯过错误。”那我就告诉你，你犯的错误比你想得多得多，因为你用来建立自我形象的基础假定本来就在说谎。花点时间用一用记忆盒子，你一定会发现我说的是对的。

不过，我现在推荐使用记忆盒子的原因，并不是它能够提醒你令人惭愧的过去，而是它能帮助你避免你在未来陷入这样的窘境。头脑里的记忆粉饰了我对自己做父亲的能力的认识，但是从现在起我开始使用数字记忆，希望这种事情不再发生。我不再从别人那里看到我做的事的真相，因为那会让我心怀戒备；我也不会偶然发现什么让我震惊的事情，让我必须重新评价自己。记忆盒子提供不加修饰的事实，能从一开始就让我对自己的认识不至于偏离真相太远。

数字记忆并不会阻止我们去讲我们自己的故事。就像我前面说的，我们是由故事组成的，没有什么能改变这一点。只不过原来我们的故事强调好的部分、省略坏的部分；有了数字记忆后，我们将会承认我们的故事也会犯错、并且不再总是评判别人是否犯了错——至少我是这么希望的。

妮可也开始用记忆盒子了，她发现，她对过去的回忆也同样不是完美的。这并没有让她原谅我那么对待她——也确实不应该原谅，因为她记错的事情比起我的这件来都微不足道；但是，这终归让她不再对我记错了我做的事情那么生气了，因为她知道，所有人都会记错。我不得不尴尬地承认，这正是艾丽卡·梅耶斯谈起记忆盒子对人际关系的影响时预言过的事情。

当然这也并不是说我就改变了对数字记忆的缺点的看法；它确实有很多缺点，人们需要注意它。我只是觉得，我没有办法再客观地讨论下去了。我放弃了我想要写的关于人工记忆的文章，把我做的研究交给了一位同事。她写了一篇很漂亮的关于软件的利弊的文章，那是一篇冷静的文章，并没有像我交给她的那些材料一样，充满了焦虑和自我反省。

而我呢，我写了你正在读的这一篇。

我讲的蒂夫族的故事有现实的原型，但它并不是完全准确的。１９４１年，蒂夫族人确实针对山戈夫家族应该投奔哪个家族而有过一场争议。双方提出的家族祖先不同，家族的头人们记得的家谱也确实变得和从前官方的记载不一样了。可是，我在故事里写的很多具体描述都是我虚构的。就像一切真实事件那样，实际发生的事情更加复杂，也没那么有戏剧性；为了写得更好看些，我就杜撰了那些话。我讲这个故事本是想举一个真相的例子——我发现这里有一点儿矛盾。

至于我记下的我和妮可争论的事情呢，我已经试着把它写得尽量地准确了。自从我开始做这件事情起，我就把所有的东西录下来了，在写的时候我也经常去查那些录像。不过你如果问我到底写了哪些细节、又省略了哪些，恐怕我就还得另外写一个故事来说一说。尽管我坚持不懈地努力，我这样描述自己是不是有点自我标榜了？我有没有扭曲事情的经过，让它们变成了一段更像是忏悔的话？你可以评判它的唯一的办法，就是去比较我说的话和录像，所以我正在做一件我从没想过我会做的事情——我征求了妮可的同意，现在正把我的生活日志公开地放在网上，尽管质量不太高。

看一看那段录像，做出你的判断吧。

嗯，如果你认为我不诚实的话，请你告诉我。我想知道。

感谢译者玻璃棱镜（贴吧）

The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling

by Ted Chiang

When my daughter Nicole was an infant, I read an essay suggesting that it might no longer be necessary to teach children how to read or write, because speech recognition and synthesis would soon render those abilities superfluous. My wife and I were horrified by the idea, and we resolved that, no matter how sophisticated technology became, our daughter’s skills would always rest on the bedrock of traditional literacy.

It turned out that we and the essayist were both half correct: now that she’s an adult, Nicole can read as well as I can. But there is a sense in which she has lost the ability to write. She doesn’t dictate her messages and ask a virtual secretary to read back to her what she last said, the way that essayist predicted; Nicole subvocalizes, her retinal projector displays the words in her field of vision, and she makes revisions using a combination of gestures and eye movements. For all practical purposes, she can write. But take away the assistive software and give her nothing but a keyboard like the one I remain faithful to, and she’d have difficulty spelling out many of the words in this very sentence. Under those specific circumstances, English becomes a bit like a second language to her, one that she can speak fluently but can only barely write.

It may sound like I’m disappointed in Nicole’s intellectual achievements, but that’s absolutely not the case. She’s smart and dedicated to her job at an art museum when she could be earning more money elsewhere, and I’ve always been proud of her accomplishments. But there is still the past me who would have been appalled to see his daughter lose her ability to spell, and I can’t deny that I am continuous with him.

It’s been more than twenty years since I read that essay, and in that period our lives have undergone countless changes that I couldn’t have predicted. The most catastrophic one was when Nicole’s mother Angela declared that she deserved a more interesting life than the one we were giving her, and spent the next decade criss-crossing the globe. But the changes leading to Nicole’s current form of literacy were more ordinary and gradual: a succession of software gadgets that not only promised but in fact delivered utility and convenience, and I didn’t object to any of them at the times of their introduction.

So it hasn’t been my habit to engage in doomsaying whenever a new product is announced; I’ve welcomed new technology as much as anyone. But when Whetstone released its new search tool Remem, it raised concerns for me in a way none of its predecessors did.

Millions of people, some my age but most younger, have been keeping lifelogs for years, wearing personal cams that capture continuous video of their entire lives. People consult their lifelogs for a variety of reasons—everything from reliving favorite moments to tracking down the cause of allergic reactions—but only intermittently; no one wants to spend all their time formulating queries and sifting through the results. Lifelogs are the most complete photo album imaginable, but like most photo albums, they lie dormant except on special occasions. Now Whetstone aims to change all of that; they claim Remem’s algorithms can search the entire haystack by the time you’ve finished saying “needle.”

Remem monitors your conversation for references to past events, and then displays video of that event in the lower left corner of your field of vision. If you say “remember dancing the conga at that wedding?”, Remem will bring up the video. If the person you’re talking to says “the last time we were at the beach,” Remem will bring up the video. And it’s not only for use when speaking with someone else; Remem also monitors your subvocalizations. If you read the words “the first Szechuan restaurant you ate at,” your vocal cords will move as if you’re reading aloud, and Remem will bring up the relevant video.

There’s no denying the usefulness of software that can actually answer the question “where did I put my keys?” But Whetstone is positioning Remem as more than a handy virtual assistant: they want it to take the place of your natural memory.

#

It was the summer of Jijingi’s thirteenth year when a European came to live in the village. The dusty harmattan winds had just begun blowing from the north when Sabe, the elder who was regarded as chief by all the local families, made the announcement.

Everyone’s initial reaction was alarm, of course. “What have we done wrong?” Jijingi’s father asked Sabe.

Europeans had first come to Tivland many years ago, and while some elders said one day they’d leave and life would return to the ways of the past, until that day arrived it was necessary for the Tiv to get along with them. This had meant many changes in the way the Tiv did things, but it had never meant Europeans living among them before. The usual reason for Europeans to come to the village was to collect taxes for the roads they had built; they visited some clans more often because the people refused to pay taxes, but that hadn’t happened in the Shangev clan. Sabe and the other clan elders had agreed that paying the taxes was the best strategy.

Sabe told everyone not to worry. “This European is a missionary; that means all he does is pray. He has no authority to punish us, but our making him welcome will please the men in the administration.”

He ordered two huts built for the missionary, a sleeping hut and a reception hut. Over the course of the next several days everyone took time off from harvesting the guinea-corn to help lay bricks, sink posts into the ground, weave grass into thatch for the roof. It was during the final step, pounding the floor, that the missionary arrived. His porters appeared first, the boxes they carried visible from a distance as they threaded their way between the cassava fields; the missionary himself was the last to appear, apparently exhausted even though he carried nothing. His name was Moseby, and he thanked everyone who had worked on the huts. He tried to help, but it quickly became clear that he didn’t know how to do anything, so eventually he just sat in the shade of a locust bean tree and wiped his head with a piece of cloth.

Jijingi watched the missionary with curiosity. The man opened one of his boxes and took out what at first looked like a block of wood, but then he split it open and Jijingi realized it was a tightly bound sheaf of papers. Jijingi had seen paper before; when the Europeans collected taxes, they gave paper in return so that the village had proof of what they’d paid. But the paper that the missionary was looking at was obviously of a different sort, and must have had some other purpose.

The man noticed Jijingi looking at him, and invited him to come closer. “My name is Moseby,” he said. “What is your name?”

“I am Jijingi, and my father is Orga of the Shangev clan.”

Moseby spread open the sheaf of paper and gestured toward it. “Have you heard the story of Adam?” he asked. “Adam was the first man. We are all children of Adam.”

“Here we are descendants of Shangev,” said Jijingi. “And everyone in Tivland is a descendant of Tiv.”

“Yes, but your ancestor Tiv was descended from Adam, just as my ancestors were. We are all brothers. Do you understand?”

The missionary spoke as if his tongue were too large for his mouth, but Jijingi could tell what he was saying. “Yes, I understand.”

Moseby smiled, and pointed at the paper. “This paper tells the story of Adam.”

“How can paper tell a story?”

“It is an art that we Europeans know. When a man speaks, we make marks on the paper. When another man looks at the paper later, he sees the marks and knows what sounds the first man made. In that way the second man can hear what the first man said.”

Jijingi remembered something his father had told him about old Gbegba, who was the most skilled in bushcraft. “Where you or I would see nothing but some disturbed grass, he can see that a leopard had killed a cane rat at that spot and carried it off,” his father said. Gbegba was able to look at the ground and know what had happened even though he had not been present. This art of the Europeans must be similar: those who were skilled in interpreting the marks could hear a story even if they hadn’t been there when it was told.

“Tell me the story that the paper tells,” he said.

Moseby told him a story about Adam and his wife being tricked by a snake. Then he asked Jijingi, “How do you like it?”

“You’re a poor storyteller, but the story was interesting enough.”

Moseby laughed. “You are right, I am not good at the Tiv language. But this is a good story. It is the oldest story we have. It was first told long before your ancestor Tiv was born.”

Jijingi was dubious. “That paper can’t be so old.”

“No, this paper is not. But the marks on it were copied from older paper. And those marks were copied from older paper. And so forth many times.”

That would be impressive, if true. Jijingi liked stories, and older stories were often the best. “How many stories do you have there?”

“Very many.” Moseby flipped through the sheaf of papers, and Jijingi could see each sheet was covered with marks from edge to edge; there must be many, many stories there.

“This art you spoke of, interpreting marks on paper; is it only for Europeans?”

“No, I can teach it to you. Would you like that?”

Cautiously, Jijingi nodded.

#

As a journalist, I have long appreciated the usefulness of lifelogging for determining the facts of the matter. There is scarcely a legal proceeding, criminal or civil, that doesn’t make use of someone’s lifelog, and rightly so. When the public interest is involved, finding out what actually happened is important; justice is an essential part of the social contract, and you can’t have justice until you know the truth.

However, I’ve been much more skeptical about the use of lifelogging in purely personal situations. When lifelogging first became popular, there were couples who thought they could use it to settle arguments over who had actually said what, using the video record to prove they were right. But finding the right clip of video often wasn’t easy, and all but the most determined gave up on doing so. The inconvenience acted as a barrier, limiting the searching of lifelogs to those situations in which effort was warranted, namely situations in which justice was the motivating factor.

Now with Remem, finding the exact moment has become easy, and lifelogs that previously lay all but ignored are now being scrutinized as if they were crime scenes, thickly strewn with evidence for use in domestic squabbles.

I typically write for the news section, but I’ve written feature stories as well, and so when I pitched an article about the potential downsides of Remem to my managing editor, he gave me the go-ahead. My first interview was with a married couple whom I’ll call Joel and Deirdre, an architect and a painter, respectively. It wasn’t hard to get them talking about Remem.

“Joel is always saying that he knew it all along,” said Deirdre, “even when he didn’t. It used to drive me crazy, because I couldn’t get him to admit he used to believe something else. Now I can. For example, recently we were talking about the McKittridge kidnapping case.”

She sent me the video of one argument she had with Joel. My retinal projector displayed footage of a cocktail party; it’s from Deirdre’s point of view, and Joel is telling a number of people, “It was pretty clear that he was guilty from the day he was arrested.”

Deirdre’s voice: “You didn’t always think that. For months you argued that he was innocent.”

Joel shakes his head. “No, you’re misremembering. I said that even people who are obviously guilty deserve a fair trial.”

“That’s not what you said. You said he was being railroaded.”

“You’re thinking of someone else; that wasn’t me.”

“No, it was you. Look.” A separate video window opened up, an excerpt of her lifelog that she looked up and broadcast to the people they’ve been talking with. Within the nested video, Joel and Deirdre are sitting in a café, and Joel is saying, “He’s a scapegoat. The police needed to reassure the public, so they arrested a convenient suspect. Now he’s done for.” Deidre replies, “You don’t think there’s any chance of him being acquitted?” and Joel answers, “Not unless he can afford a high-powered defense team, and I’ll bet you he can’t. People in his position will never get a fair trial.”

I closed both windows, and Deirdre said, “Without Remem, I’d never be able to convince him that he changed his position. Now I have proof.”

“Fine, you were right that time,” said Joel. “But you didn’t have to do that in front of our friends.”

“You correct me in front of our friends all the time. You’re telling me I can’t do the same?”

Here was the line at which the pursuit of truth ceased to be an intrinsic good. When the only persons affected have a personal relationship with each other, other priorities are often more important, and a forensic pursuit of the truth could be harmful. Did it really matter whose idea it was to take the vacation that turned out so disastrously? Did you need to know which partner was more forgetful about completing errands the other person asked of them? I was no expert on marriage, but I knew what marriage counselors said: pinpointing blame wasn’t the answer. Instead, couples needed to acknowledge each other’s feelings and address their problems as a team.

Next I spoke with a spokesperson from Whetstone, Erica Meyers. For a while she gave me a typically corporate spiel about the benefits of Remem. “Making information more accessible is an intrinsic good,” she says. “Ubiquitous video has revolutionized law enforcement. Businesses become more effective when they adopt good record-keeping practices. The same thing happens to us as individuals when our memories become more accurate: we get better, not just at doing our jobs, but at living our lives.”

When I asked her about couples like Joel and Deirdre, she said, “If your marriage is solid, Remem isn’t going to hurt it. But if you’re the type of person who’s constantly trying to prove that you’re right and your spouse is wrong, then your marriage is going to be in trouble whether you use Remem or not.”

I conceded that she may have had a point in this particular case. But, I asked her, didn’t she think Remem created greater opportunities for those types of arguments to arise, even in solid marriages, by making it easier for people to keep score?

“Not at all,” she said. “Remem didn’t give them a scorekeeping mentality; they developed that on their own. Another couple could just as easily use Remem to realize that they’ve both misremembered things, and become more forgiving when that sort of mistake happens. I predict the latter scenario will be the more common one with our customers as a whole.”

I wished I could share Erica Meyers’ optimism, but I knew that new technology didn’t always bring out the best in people. Who hasn’t wished they could prove that their version of events was the correct one? I could easily see myself using Remem the way Deirdre did, and I wasn’t at all certain that doing so would be good for me. Anyone who has wasted hours surfing the internet knows that technology can encourage bad habits.

#

Moseby gave a sermon every seven days, on the day devoted to resting and brewing and drinking beer. He seemed to disapprove of the beer drinking, but he didn’t want to speak on one of the days of work, so the day of beer brewing was the only one left. He talked about the European god, and told people that following his rules would improve their lives, but his explanations of how that would do so weren’t particularly persuasive.

But Moseby also had some skill at dispensing medicine, and he was willing to learn how to work in the fields, so gradually people grew more accepting of him, and Jijingi’s father let him visit Moseby occasionally to learn the art of writing. Moseby offered to teach the other children as well, and for a time Jijingi’s age-mates came along, mostly to prove to each other that they weren’t afraid of being near a European. Before long the other boys grew bored and left, but because Jijingi remained interested in writing and his father thought it would keep the Europeans happy, he was eventually permitted to go every day.

Moseby explained to Jijingi how each sound a person spoke could be indicated with different marks on the paper. The marks were arranged in rows like plants in a field; you looked at the marks as if you were walking down a row, made the sound each mark indicated, and you would find yourself speaking what the original person had said. Moseby showed him how to make each of the different marks on a sheet of paper, using a tiny wooden rod that had a core of soot.

In a typical lesson, Moseby would speak, and then write what he had said: “When night comes I shall sleep.” Tugh mba a ile yo me yav. “There are two persons.” Ioruv mban mba uhar. Jijingi carefully copied the writing on his sheet of paper, and when he was done, Moseby would look at his paper.

“Very good. But you need to leave spaces when you write.”

“I have.” Jijingi pointed at the gap between each row.

“No, that is not what I mean. Do you see the spaces within each line?” He pointed at his own paper.

Jijingi understood. “Your marks are clumped together, while mine are arranged evenly.”

“These are not just clumps of marks. They are… I do not know what you call them.” He picked up a thin sheaf of paper from his table and flipped through it. “I do not see it here. Where I come from, we call them ‘words.’ When we write, we leave spaces between the words.”

“But what are words?”

“How can I explain it?” He thought a moment. “If you speak slowly, you pause very briefly after each word. That’s why we leave a space in those places when we write. Like this: How. Many. Years. Old. Are. You?” He wrote on his paper as he spoke, leaving a space every time he paused: Anyom a ou kuma a me?

“But you speak slowly because you’re a foreigner. I’m Tiv, so I don’t pause when I speak. Shouldn’t my writing be the same?”

“It does not matter how fast you speak. Words are the same whether you speak quickly or slowly.”

“Then why did you say you pause after each word?”

“That is the easiest way to find them. Try saying this very slowly.” He pointed at what he’d just written.

Jijingi spoke very slowly, the way a man might when trying to hide his drunkenness. “Why is there no space in between an and yom?”

“Anyom is one word. You do not pause in the middle of it.”

“But I wouldn’t pause after anyom either.”

Moseby sighed. “I will think more about how to explain what I mean. For now, just leave spaces in the places where I leave spaces.”

What a strange art writing was. When sowing a field, it was best to have the seed yams spaced evenly; Jijingi’s father would have beaten him if he’d clumped the yams the way the Moseby clumped his marks on paper. But he had resolved to learn this art as best he could, and if that meant clumping his marks, he would do so.

It was only many lessons later that Jijingi finally understood where he should leave spaces, and what Moseby meant when he said “word.” You could not find the places where words began and ended by listening. The sounds a person made while speaking were as smooth and unbroken as the hide of a goat’s leg, but the words were like the bones underneath the meat, and the space between them was the joint where you’d cut if you wanted to separate it into pieces. By leaving spaces when he wrote, Moseby was making visible the bones in what he said.

Jijingi realized that, if he thought hard about it, he was now able to identify the words when people spoke in an ordinary conversation. The sounds that came from a person’s mouth hadn’t changed, but he understood them differently; he was aware of the pieces from which the whole was made. He himself had been speaking in words all along. He just hadn’t known it until now.

#

The ease of searching that Remem provides is impressive enough, but that merely scratches the surface of what Whetstone sees as the product’s potential. When Deirdre fact-checked her husband’s previous statements, she was posing explicit queries to Remem. But Whetstone expects that, as people become accustomed to their product, queries will take the place of ordinary acts of recall, and Remem will be integrated into their very thought processes. Once that happens, we will become cognitive cyborgs, effectively incapable of misremembering anything; digital video stored on error-corrected silicon will take over the role once filled by our fallible temporal lobes.

What might it be like to have a perfect memory? Arguably the individual with the best memory ever documented was Solomon Shereshevskii, who lived in Russia during the first half of the twentieth century. The psychologists who tested him found that he could hear a series of words or numbers once and remember it months or even years later. With no knowledge of Italian, Shereshevskii was able to quote stanzas of The Divine Comedy that had been read to him fifteen years earlier.

But having a perfect memory wasn’t the blessing one might imagine it to be. Reading a passage of text evoked so many images in Shereshevskii’s mind that he often couldn’t focus on what it actually said, and his awareness of innumerable specific examples made it difficult for him to understand abstract concepts. At times, he tried to deliberately forget things. He wrote down numbers he no longer wanted to remember on slips of paper and then burnt them, a kind of slash-and-burn approach to clearing out the undergrowth of his mind, but to no avail.

When I raised the possibility that a perfect memory might be a handicap to Whetstone’s spokesperson, Erica Meyers, she had a ready reply. “This is no different from the concerns people used to have about retinal projectors,” she said. “They worried that seeing updates constantly would be distracting or overwhelming, but we’ve all adapted to them.”

I didn’t mention that not everyone considered that a positive development.

“And Remem is entirely customizable,” she continued. “If at any time you find it’s doing too many searches for your needs, you can decrease its level of responsiveness. But according to our customer analytics, our users haven’t been doing that. As they become more comfortable with it, they’re finding that Remem becomes more helpful the more responsive it is.”

But even if Remem wasn’t constantly crowding your field of vision with unwanted imagery of the past, I wondered if there weren’t issues raised simply by having that imagery be perfect.

“Forgive and forget” goes the expression, and for our idealized magnanimous selves, that was all you needed. But for our actual selves the relationship between those two actions wasn’t so straightforward. In most cases we had to forget a little bit before we could forgive; when we no longer experienced the pain as fresh, the insult was easier to forgive, which in turn made it less memorable, and so on. It was this psychological feedback loop that made initially infuriating offences seem pardonable in the mirror of hindsight.

What I feared was that Remem would make it impossible for this feedback loop to get rolling. By fixing every detail of an insult in indelible video, it could prevent the softening that’s needed for forgiveness to begin. I thought back to what Erica Meyers said about Remem’s inability to hurt solid marriages. Implicit in that assertion was a claim about what qualified as a solid marriage. If someone’s marriage was built on—as ironic as it might sound—a cornerstone of forgetfulness, what right did Whetstone have to shatter that?

The issue wasn’t confined to marriages; all sorts of relationships rely on forgiving and forgetting. My daughter Nicole has always been strong-willed; rambunctious when she was a child, openly defiant as an adolescent. She and I had many furious arguments during her teen years, arguments that we have mostly been able to put behind us, and now our relationship is pretty good. If we’d had Remem, would we still be speaking to each other?

I don’t mean to say that forgetting is the only way to mend relationships. While I can no longer recall most of the arguments Nicole and I had—and I’m grateful that I can’t—one of the arguments I remember clearly is one that spurred me to be a better father.

It was when Nicole was sixteen, a junior in high school. It had been two years since her mother Angela had left, probably the two hardest years of both our lives. I don’t remember what started the argument—something trivial, no doubt—but it escalated and before long Nicole was taking her anger at Angela out on me.

“You’re the reason she left! You drove her away! You can leave too, for all I care. I sure as hell would be better off without you.” And to demonstrate her point, she stormed out of the house.

I knew it wasn’t premeditated malice on her part—I don’t think she engaged in much premeditation in anything during that phase of her life—but she couldn’t have come up with a more hurtful accusation if she’d tried. I’d been devastated by Angela’s departure, and I was constantly wondering what I could have done differently to keep her.

Nicole didn’t come back until the next day, and that night was one of soul searching for me. While I didn’t believe I was responsible for her mother leaving us, Nicole’s accusation still served as a wake-up call. I hadn’t been conscious of it, but I realized that I had been thinking of myself as the greatest victim of Angela’s departure, wallowing in self-pity over just how unreasonable my situation was. It hadn’t even been my idea to have children; it was Angela who’d wanted to be a parent, and now she had left me holding the bag. What sane world would leave me with sole responsibility for raising an adolescent girl? How could a job that was so difficult be entrusted to someone with no experience whatsoever?

Nicole’s accusation made me realize her predicament was worse than mine. At least I had volunteered for this duty, albeit long ago and without full appreciation for what I was getting into. Nicole had been drafted into her role, with no say whatsoever. If there was anyone who had a right to be resentful, it was her. And while I thought I’d been doing a good job of being a father, obviously I needed to do better.

I turned myself around. Our relationship didn’t improve overnight, but over the years I was able to work myself back into Nicole’s good graces. I remember the way she hugged me at her college graduation, and I realized my years of effort had paid off.

Would those years of repair have been possible with Remem? Even if each of us could have refrained from throwing the other’s bad behavior in their faces, the opportunity to privately rewatch video of our arguments seems like it could be pernicious. Vivid reminders of the way she and I yelled at each other in the past might have kept our anger fresh, and prevented us from rebuilding our relationship.

#

Jijingi wanted to write down some of the stories of where the Tiv people came from, but the storytellers spoke rapidly, and he wasn’t able to write fast enough to keep up with them. Moseby said he would get better with practice, but Jijingi despaired that he’d ever become fast enough.

Then, one summer a European woman named Reiss came to visit the village. Moseby said she was “a person who learns about other people” but could not explain what that meant, only that she wanted to learn about Tivland. She asked questions of everyone, not just the elders but young men, too, even women and children, and she wrote down everything they told her. She didn’t try to get anyone to adopt European practices; where Moseby had insisted that there were no such thing as curses and that everything was God’s will, Reiss asked about how curses worked, and listened attentively to explanations of how your kin on your father’s side could curse you while your kin on your mother’s side could protect you from curses.

One evening Kokwa, the best storyteller in the village, told the story of how the Tiv people split into different lineages, and Reiss had written it down exactly as he told it. Later she had recopied the story using a machine she poked at noisily with her fingers, so that she had a copy that was clean and easy to read. When Jijingi asked if she would make another copy for him, she agreed, much to his excitement.

The paper version of the story was curiously disappointing. Jijingi remembered that when he had first learned about writing, he’d imagined it would enable him to see a storytelling performance as vividly as if he were there. But writing didn’t do that. When Kokwa told the story, he didn’t merely use words; he used the sound of his voice, the movement of his hands, the light in his eyes. He told you the story with his whole body, and you understood it the same way. None of that was captured on paper; only the bare words could be written down. And reading just the words gave you only a hint of the experience of listening to Kokwa himself, as if one were licking the pot in which okra had been cooked instead of eating the okra itself.

Jijingi was still glad to have the paper version, and would read it from time to time. It was a good story, worthy of being recorded on paper. Not everything written on paper was so worthy. During his sermons Moseby would read aloud stories from his book, and they were often good stories, but he also read aloud words he had written down just a few days before, and those were often not stories at all, merely claims that learning more about the European god would improve the lives of the Tiv people.

One day, when Moseby had been eloquent, Jijingi complimented him. “I know you think highly of all your sermons, but today’s sermon was a good one.”

“Thank you,” said Moseby, smiling. After a moment, he asked, “Why do you say I think highly of all my sermons?”

“Because you expect that people will want to read them many years from now.”

“I don’t expect that. What makes you think that?”

“You write them all down before you even deliver them. Before even one person has heard a sermon, you have written it down for future generations.”

Moseby laughed. “No, that is not why I write them down.”

“Why, then?” He knew it wasn’t for people far away to read them, because sometimes messengers came to the village to deliver paper to Moseby, and he never sent his sermons back with them.

“I write the words down so I do not forget what I want to say when I give the sermon.”

“How could you forget what you want to say? You and I are speaking right now, and neither of us needs paper to do so.”

“A sermon is different from conversation.” Moseby paused to consider. “I want to be sure I give my sermons as well as possible. I won’t forget what I want to say, but I might forget the best way to say it. If I write it down, I don’t have to worry. But writing the words down does more than help me remember. It helps me think.”

“How does writing help you think?”

“That is a good question,” he said. “It is strange, isn’t it? I do not know how to explain it, but writing helps me decide what I want to say. Where I come from, there’s a very old proverb: verba volant, scripta manent. In Tiv you would say, ‘spoken words fly away, written words remain.’ Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Jijingi said, just to be polite; it made no sense at all. The missionary wasn’t old enough to be senile, but his memory must be terrible and he didn’t want to admit it. Jijingi told his age-mates about this, and they joked about it amongst themselves for days. Whenever they exchanged gossip, they would add, “Will you remember that? This will help you,” and mimic Moseby writing at his table.

On an evening the following year, Kokwa announced he would tell the story of how the Tiv split into different lineages. Jijingi brought out the paper version he had, so he could read the story at the same time Kokwa told it. Sometimes he could follow along, but it was often confusing because Kokwa’s words didn’t match what was written on the paper. After Kokwa was finished, Jijingi said to him, “You didn’t tell the story the same way you told it last year.”

“Nonsense,” said Kokwa. “When I tell a story it doesn’t change, no matter how much time passes. Ask me to tell it twenty years from today, and I will tell it exactly the same.”

Jijingi pointed at the paper he held. “This paper is the story you told last year, and there were many differences.” He picked one he remembered. “Last time you said, ‘the Uyengi captured the women and children and carried them off as slaves.’ This time you said, ‘they made slaves of the women, but they did not stop there: they even made slaves of the children.’”

“That’s the same.”

“It is the same story, but you’ve changed the way you tell it.”

“No,” said Kokwa, “I told it just as I told it before.”

Jijingi didn’t want to try to explain what words were. Instead he said, “If you told it as you did before, you would say ‘the Uyengi captured the women and children and carried them off as slaves’ every time.”

For a moment Kokwa stared at him, and then he laughed. “Is this what you think is important, now that you’ve learned the art of writing?”

Sabe, who had been listening to them, chided Kokwa. “It’s not your place to judge Jijingi. The hare favors one food, the hippo favors another. Let each spend his time as he pleases.”

“Of course, Sabe, of course,” said Kokwa, but he threw a derisive glance at Jijingi.

Afterwards, Jijingi remembered the proverb Moseby had mentioned. Even though Kokwa was telling the same story, he might arrange the words differently each time he told it; he was skilled enough as a storyteller that the arrangement of words didn’t matter. It was different for Moseby, who never acted anything out when he gave his sermons; for him, the words were what was important. Jijingi realized that Moseby wrote down his sermons not because his memory was terrible, but because he was looking for a specific arrangement of words. Once he found the one he wanted, he could hold on to it for as long as he needed.

Out of curiosity, Jijingi tried imagining he had to deliver a sermon, and began writing down what he would say. Seated on the root of a mango tree with the notebook Moseby had given him, he composed a sermon on tsav, the quality that enabled some men to have power over others, and a subject which Moseby hadn’t understood and had dismissed as foolishness. He read his first attempt to one of his age-mates, who pronounced it terrible, leading them to have a brief shoving match, but afterwards Jijingi had to admit his age-mate was right. He tried writing out his sermon a second time and then a third before he became tired of it and moved on to other topics.

As he practiced his writing, Jijingi came to understand what Moseby had meant; writing was not just a way to record what someone said; it could help you decide what you would say before you said it. And words were not just the pieces of speaking; they were the pieces of thinking. When you wrote them down, you could grasp your thoughts like bricks in your hands and push them into different arrangements. Writing let you look at your thoughts in a way you couldn’t if you were just talking, and having seen them, you could improve them, make them stronger and more elaborate.

#

Psychologists make a distinction between semantic memory—knowledge of general facts—and episodic memory—recollection of personal experiences. We’ve been using technological supplements for semantic memory ever since the invention of writing: first books, then search engines. By contrast, we’ve historically resisted such aids when it comes to episodic memory; few people have ever kept as many diaries or photo albums as they did ordinary books. The obvious reason is convenience; if we wanted a book on the birds of North America, we could consult one that an ornithologist has written, but if we wanted a daily diary, we had to write it for ourselves. But I also wonder if another reason is that, subconsciously, we regarded our episodic memories as such an integral part of our identities that we were reluctant to externalize them, to relegate them to books on a shelf or files on a computer.

That may be about to change. For years parents have been recording their children’s every moment, so even if children weren’t wearing personal cams, their lifelogs were effectively already being compiled. Now parents are having their children wear retinal projectors at younger and younger ages so they can reap the benefits of assistive software agents sooner. Imagine what will happen if children begin using Remem to access those lifelogs: their mode of cognition will diverge from ours because the act of recall will be different. Rather than thinking of an event from her past and seeing it with her mind’s eye, a child will subvocalize a reference to it and watch video footage with her physical eyes. Episodic memory will become entirely technologically mediated.

An obvious drawback to such reliance is the possibility that people might become virtual amnesiacs whenever the software crashes. But just as worrying to me as the prospect of technological failure was that of technological success: how will it change a person’s conception of herself when she’s only seen her past through the unblinking eye of a video camera? Just as there’s a feedback loop in softening harsh memories, there’s also one at work in the romanticization of childhood memories, and disrupting that process will have consequences.

The earliest birthday I remember is my fourth; I remember blowing out the candles on my cake, the thrill of tearing the wrapping paper off the presents. There’s no video of the event, but there are snapshots in the family album, and they are consistent with what I remember. In fact, I suspect I no longer remember the day itself. It’s more likely that I manufactured the memory when I was first shown the snapshots and over time, I’ve imbued it with the emotion I imagine I felt that day. Little by little, over repeated instances of recall, I’ve created a happy memory for myself.

Another of my earliest memories is of playing on the living room rug, pushing toy cars around, while my grandmother worked at her sewing machine; she would occasionally turn and smile warmly at me. There are no photos of that moment, so I know the recollection is mine and mine alone. It is a lovely, idyllic memory. Would I want to be presented with actual footage of that afternoon? No; absolutely not.

Regarding the role of truth in autobiography, the critic Roy Pascal wrote, “On the one side are the truths of fact, on the other the truth of the writer’s feeling, and where the two coincide cannot be decided by any outside authority in advance.” Our memories are private autobiographies, and that afternoon with my grandmother features prominently in mine because of the feelings associated with it. What if video footage revealed that my grandmother’s smile was in fact perfunctory, that she was actually frustrated because her sewing wasn’t going well? What’s important to me about that memory is the happiness I associated with it, and I wouldn’t want that jeopardized.

It seemed to me that continuous video of my entire childhood would be full of facts but devoid of feeling, simply because cameras couldn’t capture the emotional dimension of events. As far as the camera was concerned, that afternoon with my grandmother would be indistinguishable from a hundred others. And if I’d grown up with access to all the video footage, there’d have been no way for me to assign more emotional weight to any particular day, no nucleus around which nostalgia could accrete.

And what will the consequences be when people can claim to remember their infancy? I could readily imagine a situation where, if you ask a young person what her earliest memory is, she will simply look baffled; after all, she has video dating back to the day of her birth. The inability to remember the first few years of one’s life—what psychologists call childhood amnesia—might soon be a thing of the past. No more would parents tell their children anecdotes beginning with the words “You don’t remember this because you were just a toddler when it happened.” It’ll be as if childhood amnesia is a characteristic of humanity’s childhood, and in ouroboric fashion, our youth will vanish from our memories.

Part of me wanted to stop this, to protect children’s ability to see the beginning of their lives filtered through gauze, to keep those origin stories from being replaced by cold, desaturated video. But maybe they will feel just as warmly about their lossless digital memories as I do of my imperfect, organic memories.

People are made of stories. Our memories are not the impartial accumulation of every second we’ve lived; they’re the narrative that we assembled out of selected moments. Which is why, even when we’ve experienced the same events as other individuals, we never constructed identical narratives: the criteria used for selecting moments were different for each of us, and a reflection of our personalities. Each of us noticed the details that caught our attention and remembered what was important to us, and the narratives we built shaped our personalities in turn.

But, I wondered, if everyone remembered everything, would our differences get shaved away? What would happen to our sense of selves? It seemed to me that a perfect memory couldn’t be a narrative any more than unedited security-cam footage could be a feature film.

#

When Jijingi was twenty, an officer from the administration came to the village to speak with Sabe. He had brought with him a young Tiv man who had attended the mission school in Katsina-Ala. The administration wanted to have a written record of all the disputes brought before the tribal courts, so they were assigning each chief one of these youths to act as a scribe. Sabe had Jijingi come forward, and to the officer he said, “I know you don’t have enough scribes for all of Tivland. Jijingi here has learned to write; he can act as our scribe, and you can send your boy to another village.” The officer tested Jijingi’s ability to write, but Moseby had taught him well, and eventually the officer agreed to have him be Sabe’s scribe.

After the officer had left, Jijingi asked Sabe why he hadn’t wanted the boy from Katsina-Ala to be his scribe.

“No one who comes from the mission school can be trusted,” said Sabe.

“Why not? Did the Europeans make them liars?”

“They’re partly to blame, but so are we. When the Europeans collected boys for the mission school years ago, most elders gave them the ones they wanted to get rid of, the layabouts and malcontents. Now those boys have returned, and they feel no kinship with anyone. They wield their knowledge of writing like a long gun; they demand their chiefs find them wives, or else they’ll write lies about them and have the Europeans depose them.”

Jijingi knew a boy who was always complaining and looking for ways to avoid work; it would be a disaster if someone like him had power over Sabe. “Can’t you tell the Europeans about this?”

“Many have,” Sabe answered. “It was Maisho of the Kwande clan who warned me about the scribes; they were installed in Kwande villages first. Maisho was fortunate that the Europeans believed him instead of his scribe’s lies, but he knows of other chiefs who were not so lucky; the Europeans often believe paper over people. I don’t wish to take the chance.” He looked at Jijingi seriously. “You are my kin, Jijingi, and kin to everyone in this village. I trust you to write down what I say.”

“Yes, Sabe.”

Tribal court was held every month, from morning until late afternoon for three days in a row, and it always attracted an audience, sometimes one so large that Sabe had to demand everyone sit to allow the breeze to reach the center of the circle. Jijingi sat next to Sabe and recorded the details of each dispute in a book the officer had left. It was a good job; he was paid out of the fees collected from the disputants, and he was given not just a chair but a small table too, which he could use for writing even when court wasn’t in session. The complaints Sabe heard were varied—one might be about a stolen bicycle, another might be about whether a man was responsible for his neighbor’s crops failing—but most had to do with wives. For one such dispute, Jijingi wrote down the following:

Umem’s wife Girgi has run away from home and gone back to her kin. Her kinsman Anongo has tried to convince her to stay with her husband, but Girgi refuses, and there is no more Anongo can do. Umem demands the return of the ￡11 he paid as bridewealth. Anongo says he has no money at the moment, and moreover that he was only paid ￡6.

Sabe requested witnesses for both sides. Anongo says he has witnesses, but they have gone on a trip. Umem produces a witness, who is sworn in. He testifies that he himself counted the ￡11 that Umem paid to Anongo.

Sabe asks Girgi to return to her husband and be a good wife, but she says she has had all that she can stand of him. Sabe instructs Anongo to repay Umem ￡11, the first payment to be in three months when his crops are saleable. Anongo agrees.

It was the final dispute of the day, by which time Sabe was clearly tired. “Selling vegetables to pay back bridewealth,” he said afterwards, shaking his head. “This wouldn’t have happened when I was a boy.”

Jijingi knew what he meant. In the past, the elders said, you conducted exchanges with similar items: if you wanted a goat, you could trade chickens for it; if you wanted to marry a woman, you promised one of your kinswomen to her family. Then the Europeans said they would no longer accept vegetables as payment for taxes, insisting that it be paid in coin. Before long, everything could be exchanged for money; you could use it to buy everything from a calabash to a wife. The elders considered it absurd.

“The old ways are vanishing,” agreed Jijingi. He didn’t say that young people preferred things this way, because the Europeans had also decreed that bridewealth could only be paid if the woman consented to the marriage. In the past, a young woman might be promised to an old man with leprous hands and rotting teeth, and have no choice but to marry him. Now a woman could marry the man she favored, as long as he could afford to pay the bridewealth. Jijingi himself was saving money to marry.

Moseby came to watch sometimes, but he found the proceedings confusing, and often asked Jijingi questions afterwards.

“For example, there was the dispute between Umem and Anongo over how much bridewealth was owed. Why was only the witness sworn in?” asked Moseby.

“To ensure that he said precisely what happened.”

“But if Umem and Anongo were sworn in, that would have ensured they said precisely what happened too. Anongo was able to lie because he was not sworn in.”

“Anongo didn’t lie,” said Jijingi. “He said what he considered right, just as Umem did.”

“But what Anongo said wasn’t the same as what the witness said.”

“But that doesn’t mean he was lying.” Then Jijingi remembered something about the European language, and understood Moseby’s confusion. “Our language has two words for what in your language is called ‘true.’ There is what’s right, mimi, and what’s precise, vough. In a dispute the principals say what they consider right; they speak mimi. The witnesses, however, are sworn to say precisely what happened; they speak vough. When Sabe has heard what happened can he decide what action is mimi for everyone. But it’s not lying if the principals don’t speak vough, as long as they speak mimi.”

Moseby clearly disapproved. “In the land I come from, everyone who testifies in court must swear to speak vough, even the principals.”

Jijingi didn’t see the point of that, but all he said was, “Every tribe has its own customs.”

“Yes, customs may vary, but the truth is the truth; it doesn’t change from one person to another. And remember what the Bible says: the truth shall set you free.”

“I remember,” said Jijingi. Moseby had said that it was knowing God’s truth that had made the Europeans so successful. There was no denying their wealth or power, but who knew what was the cause?

#

In order to write about Remem, it was only fair that I try it out myself. The problem was that I didn’t have a lifelog for it to index; typically I only activated my personal cam when I was conducting an interview or covering an event. But I’ve certainly spent time in the presence of people who kept lifelogs, and I could make use of what they’d recorded. While all lifelogging software has privacy controls in place, most people also grant basic sharing rights: if your actions were recorded in their lifelog, you have access to the footage in which you’re present. So I launched an agent to assemble a partial lifelog from the footage others had recorded, using my GPS history as the basis for the query. Over the course of a week, my request propagated through social networks and public video archives, and I was rewarded with snippets of video ranging from a few seconds in length to a few hours: not just security-cam footage but excerpts from the lifelogs of friends, acquaintances, and even complete strangers.

The resulting lifelog was of course highly fragmentary compared to what I would have had if I’d been recording video myself, and the footage was all from a third-person perspective rather than the first-person that most lifelogs have, but Remem was able to work with that. I expected that coverage would be thickest in the later years, simply due to the increasing popularity of lifelogs. It was somewhat to my surprise, then, that when I looked at a graph of the coverage, I found a bump in the coverage over a decade ago. Nicole had been keeping a lifelog since she was a teenager, so an unexpectedly large segment of my domestic life was present.

I was initially a bit uncertain of how to test Remem, since I obviously couldn’t ask it to bring up video of an event I didn’t remember. I figured I’d start out with something I did remember. I subvocalized, “The time Vince told me about his trip to Palau.”

My retinal projector displayed a window in the lower left corner of my field of vision: I’m having lunch with my friends Vincent and Jeremy. Vincent didn’t maintain a lifelog either, so the footage was from Jeremy’s point of view. I listened to Vincent rave about scuba diving for a minute.

Next I tried something that I only vaguely remembered. “The dinner banquet when I sat between Deborah and Lyle.” I didn’t remember who else was sitting at the table, and wondered if Remem could help me identify them.

Sure enough, Deborah had been recording that evening, and with her video I was able to use a recognition agent to identity everyone sitting across from us.

After those initial successes, I had a run of failures; not surprising, considering the gaps in the lifelog. But over the course of an hour-long trip survey of past events, Remem’s performance was generally impressive.

Finally it seemed time for me to try Remem on some memories that were more emotionally freighted. My relationship with Nicole felt strong enough now for me to safely revisit the fights we’d had when she was young. I figured I’d start with the argument I remembered clearly, and work backwards from there.

I subvocalized, “The time Nicole yelled at me ‘you’re the reason she left.’”

The window displays the kitchen of the house we lived in when Nicole was growing up. The footage is from Nicole’s point of view, and I’m standing in front of the stove. It’s obvious we’re fighting.

“You’re the reason she left. You can leave too, for all I care. I sure as hell would be better off without you.”

The words were just as I remembered them, but it wasn’t Nicole saying them.

It was me.

My first thought was that it must be a fake, that Nicole had edited the video to put her words into my mouth. She must have noticed my request for access to her lifelog footage, and concocted this to teach me a lesson. Or perhaps it was a film she had created to show her friends, to reinforce the stories she told about me. But why was she still so angry at me, that she would do such a thing? Hadn’t we gotten past this?

I started skimming through the video, looking for inconsistencies that would indicate where the edited footage had been spliced in. The subsequent footage showed Nicole running out of the house, just as I remembered, so there wouldn’t be signs of inconsistency there. I rewound the video and started watching the preceding argument.

Initially I was angry as I watched, angry at Nicole for going to such lengths to create this lie, because the preceding footage was all consistent with me being the one who yelled at her. Then some of what I was saying in the video began to sound queasily familiar: complaining about being called to her school again because she’d gotten into trouble, accusing her of spending time with the wrong crowd. But this wasn’t the context in which I’d said those things, was it? I had been voicing my concern, not berating her. Nicole must have adapted things I’d said elsewhere to make her slanderous video more plausible. That was the only explanation, right?

I asked Remem to examine the video’s watermark, and it reported the video was unmodified. I saw that Remem had suggested a correction in my search terms: where I had said “the time Nicole yelled at me,” it offered “the time I yelled at Nicole.” The correction must have been displayed at the same time as the initial search result, but I hadn’t noticed. I shut down Remem in disgust, furious at the product. I was about to search for information on forging a digital watermark to prove this video was faked, but I stopped myself, recognizing it as an act of desperation.

I would have testified, hand on a stack of Bibles or using any oath required of me, that it was Nicole who’d accused me of being the reason her mother left us. My recollection of that argument was as clear as any memory I had, but that wasn’t the only reason I found the video hard to believe; it was also my knowledge that—whatever my faults or imperfections—I was never the kind of father who could say such a thing to his child.

Yet here was digital video proving that I had been exactly that kind of father. And while I wasn’t that man anymore, I couldn’t deny that I was continuous with him.

Even more telling was the fact that for many years I had successfully hidden the truth from myself. Earlier I said that the details we choose to remember are a reflection of our personalities. What did it say about me that I put those words in Nicole’s mouth instead of mine?

I remembered that argument as being a turning point for me. I had imagined a narrative of redemption and self-improvement in which I was the heroic single father, rising to meet the challenge. But the reality was…what? How much of what had happened since then could I take credit for?

I restarted Remem and began looking at video of Nicole’s graduation from college. That was an event I had recorded myself, so I had footage of Nicole’s face, and she seemed genuinely happy in my presence. Was she hiding her true feelings so well that I couldn’t detect them? Or, if our relationship had actually improved, how had that happened? I had obviously been a much worse father fourteen years ago than I’d thought; it would be tempting to conclude I had come farther to reach where I currently was, but I couldn’t trust my perceptions anymore. Did Nicole even have positive feelings about me now?

I wasn’t going to try using Remem to answer this question; I needed to go to the source. I called Nicole and left a message saying I wanted to talk to her, and asking if I could come over to her apartment that evening.

#

It was a few years later that Sabe began attending a series of meetings of all the chiefs in the Shangev clan. He explained to Jijingi that the Europeans no longer wished to deal with so many chiefs, and were demanding that all of Tivland be divided into eight groups they called ‘septs.’ As a result, Sabe and the other chiefs had to discuss who the Shangev clan would join with. Although there was no need for a scribe, Jijingi was curious to hear the deliberations and asked Sabe if he might accompany him, and Sabe agreed.

Jijingi had never seen so many elders in one place before; some were even-tempered and dignified like Sabe, while others were loud and full of bluster. They argued for hours on end.

In the evening after Jijingi had returned, Moseby asked him what it had been like. Jijingi sighed. “Even if they’re not yelling, they’re fighting like wildcats.”

“Who does Sabe think you should join?”

“We should join with the clans that we’re most closely related to; that’s the Tiv way. And since Shangev was the son of Kwande, our clan should join with the Kwande clan, who live to the south.”

“That makes sense,” said Moseby. “So why is there disagreement?”

“The members of the Shangev clan don’t all live next to each other. Some live on the farmland in the west, near the Jechira clan, and the elders there are friendly with the Jechira elders. They’d like the Shangev clan to join the Jechira clan, because then they’d have more influence in the resulting sept.”

“I see.” Moseby thought for a moment. “Could the western Shangev join a different sept from the southern Shangev?”

Jijingi shook his head. “We Shangev all have one father, so we should all remain together. All the elders agree on that.”

“But if lineage is so important, how can the elders from the west argue that the Shangev clan ought to join with the Jechira clan?”

“That’s what the disagreement was about. The elders from the west are claiming Shangev was the son of Jechira.”

“Wait, you don’t know who Shangev’s parents were?”

“Of course we know! Sabe can recite his ancestors all the way back to Tiv himself. The elders from the west are merely pretending that Shangev was Jechira’s son because they’d benefit from joining with the Jechira clan.”

“But if the Shangev clan joined with the Kwande clan, wouldn’t your elders benefit?”

“Yes, but Shangev was Kwande’s son.” Then Jijingi realized what Moseby was implying. “You think our elders are the ones pretending!”

“No, not at all. It just sounds like both sides have equally good claims, and there’s no way to tell who’s right.”

“Sabe’s right.”

“Of course,” said Moseby. “But how can you get the others to admit that? In the land I come from, many people write down their lineage on paper. That way we can trace our ancestry precisely, even many generations in the past.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the lineages in your Bible, tracing Abraham back to Adam.”

“Of course. But even apart from the Bible, people have recorded their lineages. When people want to find out who they’re descended from, they can consult paper. If you had paper, the other elders would have to admit that Sabe was right.”

That was a good point, Jijingi admitted. If only the Shangev clan had been using paper long ago. Then something occurred to him. “How long ago did the Europeans first come to Tivland?”

“I’m not sure. At least forty years ago, I think.”

“Do you think they might have written down anything about the Shangev clan’s lineage when they first arrived?”

Moseby looked thoughtful. “Perhaps. The administration definitely keeps a lot of records. If there are any, they’d be stored at the government station in Katsina-Ala.”

A truck carried goods along the motor road into Katsina-Ala every fifth day, when the market was being held, and the next market would be the day after tomorrow. If he left tomorrow morning, he could reach the motor road in time to get a ride. “Do you think they would let me see them?”

“It might be easier if you have a European with you,” said Moseby, smiling. “Shall we take a trip?”

#

Nicole opened the door to her apartment and invited me in. She was obviously curious about why I’d come. “So what did you want to talk about?”

I wasn’t sure how to begin. “This is going to sound strange.”

“Okay,” she said.

I told her about viewing my partial lifelog using Remem, and seeing the argument we’d had when she was sixteen that ended with me yelling at her and her leaving the house. “Do you remember that day?”

“Of course I do.” She looked uncomfortable, uncertain of where I was going with this.

“I remembered it too, or at least I thought I did. But I remembered it differently. The way I remembered it, it was you who said it to me.”

“Me who said what?”

“I remembered you telling me that I could leave for all you cared, and that you’d be better off without me.”

Nicole stared at me for a long time. “All these years, that’s how you’ve remembered that day?”

“Yes, until today.”

“That’d almost be funny if it weren’t so sad.”

I felt sick to my stomach. “I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“Sorry you said it, or sorry that you imagined me saying it?”

“Both.”

“Well you should be! You know how that made me feel?”

“I can’t imagine. I know I felt terrible when I thought you had said it to me.”

“Except that was just something you made up. It actually happened to me.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Fucking typical.”

That hurt to hear. “Is it? Really?”

“Sure,” she said. “You’re always acting like you’re the victim, like you’re the good guy who deserves to be treated better than you are.”

“You make me sound like I’m delusional.”

“Not delusional. Just blind and self-absorbed.”

I bristled a little. “I’m trying to apologize here.”

“Right, right. This is about you.”

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry.” I waited until Nicole gestured for me to go on. “I guess I am…blind and self-absorbed. The reason it’s hard for me to admit that is that I thought I had opened my eyes and gotten over that.”

She frowned. “What?”

I told her how I felt like I had turned around as a father and rebuilt our relationship, culminating in a moment of bonding at her college graduation. Nicole wasn’t openly derisive, but her expression caused me to stop talking; it was obvious I was embarrassing myself.

“Did you still hate me at graduation?” I asked. “Was I completely making it up that you and I got along then?”

“No, we did get along at graduation. But it wasn’t because you had magically become a good father.”

“What was it, then?”

She paused, took a deep breath, and then said, “I started seeing a therapist when I went to college.” She paused again. “She pretty much saved my life.”

My first thought was, why would Nicole need a therapist? I pushed that down and said, “I didn’t know you were in therapy.”

“Of course you didn’t; you were the last person I would have told. Anyway, by the time I was a senior, she had convinced me that I was better off not staying angry at you. That’s why you and I got along so well at graduation.”

So I had indeed fabricated a narrative that bore little resemblance to reality. Nicole had done all the work, and I had done none.

“I guess I don’t really know you.”

She shrugged. “You know me as well as you need to.”

That hurt, too, but I could hardly complain. “You deserve better,” I said.

Nicole gave a brief, rueful laugh. “You know, when I was younger, I used to daydream about you saying that. But now…well, it’s not as if it fixes everything, is it?”

I realized that I’d been hoping she would forgive me then and there, and then everything would be good. But it would take more than my saying sorry to repair our relationship.

Something occurred to me. “I can’t change the things I did, but at least I can stop pretending I didn’t do them. I’m going to use Remem to get a honest picture at myself, take a kind of personal inventory.”

Nicole looked at me, gauging my sincerity. “Fine,” she said. “But let’s be clear: you don’t come running to me every time you feel guilty over treating me like crap. I worked hard to put that behind me, and I’m not going to relive it just so you can feel better about yourself.”

“Of course.” I saw that she was tearing up. “And I’ve upset you again by bringing all this up. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Dad. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Just…let’s not do it again for a while, okay?”

“Right.” I moved toward the door to leave, and then stopped. “I just wanted to ask…if it’s possible, if there’s anything I can do to make amends…”

“Make amends?” She looked incredulous. “I don’t know. Just be more considerate, will you?”

And that what I’m trying to do.

#

At the government station there was indeed paper from forty years ago, what the Europeans called “assessment reports,” and Moseby’s presence was sufficient to grant them access. They were written in the European language, which Jijingi couldn’t read, but they included diagrams of the ancestry of the various clans, and he could identify the Tiv names in those diagrams easily enough, and Moseby had confirmed that his interpretation was correct. The elders in the western farms were right, and Sabe was wrong: Shangev was not Kwande’s son, he was Jechira’s.

One of the men at the government station had agreed to type up a copy of the relevant page so Jijingi could take it with him. Moseby decided to stay in Katsina-Ala to visit with the missionaries there, but Jijingi came home right away. He felt like an impatient child on the return trip, wishing he could ride the truck all the way back instead of having to walk from the motor road. As soon as he had arrived at the village, Jijingi looked for Sabe.

He found him on the path leading to a neighboring farm; some neighbors had stopped Sabe to have him settle a dispute over how a nanny goat’s kids should be distributed. Finally, they were satisfied, and Sabe resumed his walk. Jijingi walked beside him.

“Welcome back,” said Sabe.

“Sabe, I’ve been to Katsina-Ala.”

“Ah. Why did you go there?”

Jijingi showed him the paper. “This was written long ago, when the Europeans first came here. They spoke to the elders of the Shangev clan then, and when the elders told them the history of the Shangev clan, they said that Shangev was the son of Jechira.”

Sabe’s reaction was mild. “Whom did the Europeans ask?”

Jijingi looked at the paper. “Batur and Iorkyaha.”

“I remember them,” he said, nodding. “They were wise men. They would not have said such a thing.”

Jijingi pointed at the words on the page. “But they did!”

“Perhaps you are reading it wrong.”

“I am not! I know how to read.”

Sabe shrugged. “Why did you bring this paper back here?”

“What it says is important. It means we should rightfully be joined with the Jechira clan.”

“You think the clan should trust your decision on this matter?”

“I’m not asking the clan to trust me. I’m asking them to trust the men who were elders when you were young.”

“And so they should. But those men aren’t here. All you have is paper.”

“The paper tells us what they would say if they were here.”

“Does it? A man doesn’t speak only one thing. If Batur and Iorkyaha were here, they would agree with me that we should join with the Kwande clan.”

“How could they, when Shangev was the son of Jechira?” He pointed at the sheet of paper. “The Jechira are our closer kin.”

Sabe stopped walking and turned to face Jijingi. “Questions of kinship cannot be resolved by paper. You’re a scribe because Maisho of the Kwande clan warned me about the boys from the mission school. Maisho wouldn’t have looked out for us if we didn’t share the same father. Your position is proof of how close our clans are, but you forget that. You look to paper to tell you what you should already know, here.” Sabe tapped him on his chest. “Have you studied paper so much that you’ve forgotten what it is to be Tiv?”

Jijingi opened his mouth to protest when he realized that Sabe was right. All the time he’d spent studying writing had made him think like a European. He had come to trust what was written on paper over what was said by people, and that wasn’t the Tiv way.

The assessment report of the Europeans was vough; it was exact and precise, but that wasn’t enough to settle the question. The choice of which clan to join with had to be right for the community; it had to be mimi. Only the elders could determine what was mimi; it was their responsibility to decide what was best for the Shangev clan. Asking Sabe to defer to the paper was asking him to act against what he considered right.

“You’re right, Sabe,” he said. “Forgive me. You’re my elder, and it was wrong of me to suggest that paper could know more than you.”

Sabe nodded and resumed walking. “You are free to do as you wish, but I believe it will do more harm than good to show that paper to others.”

Jijingi considered it. The elders from the western farms would undoubtedly argue that the assessment report supported their position, prolonging a debate that had already gone too long. But more than that, it would move the Tiv down the path of regarding paper as the source of truth; it would be another stream in which the old ways were washing away, and he could see no benefit in it.

“I agree,” said Jijingi. “I won’t show this to anyone else.”

Sabe nodded.

Jijingi walked back to his hut, reflecting on what had happened. Even without attending a mission school, he had begun thinking like a European; his practice of writing in his notebooks had led him to disrespect his elders without him even being aware of it. Writing helped him think more clearly, he couldn’t deny that; but that wasn’t good enough reason to trust paper over people.

As a scribe, he had to keep the book of Sabe’s decisions in tribal court. But he didn’t need to keep the other notebooks, the ones in which he’d written down his thoughts. He would use them as tinder for the cooking fire.

#

We don’t normally think of it as such, but writing is a technology, which means that a literate person is someone whose thought processes are technologically mediated. We became cognitive cyborgs as soon as we became fluent readers, and the consequences of that were profound.

Before a culture adopts the use of writing, when its knowledge is transmitted exclusively through oral means, it can very easily revise its history. It’s not intentional, but it is inevitable; throughout the world, bards and griots have adapted their material to their audiences, and thus gradually adjusted the past to suit the needs of the present. The idea that accounts of the past shouldn’t change is a product of literate cultures’ reverence for the written word. Anthropologists will tell you that oral cultures understand the past differently; for them, their histories don’t need to be accurate so much as they need to validate the community’s understanding of itself. So it wouldn’t be correct to say that their histories are unreliable; their histories do what they need to do.

Right now each of us is a private oral culture. We rewrite our pasts to suit our needs and support the story we tell about ourselves. With our memories we are all guilty of a Whig interpretation of our personal histories, seeing our former selves as steps toward our glorious present selves.

But that era is coming to an end. Remem is merely the first of a new generation of memory prostheses, and as these products gain widespread adoption, we will be replacing our malleable organic memories with perfect digital archives. We will have a record of what we actually did instead of stories that evolve over repeated tellings. Within our minds, each of us will be transformed from an oral culture into a literate one.

It would be easy for me to assert that literate cultures are better off than oral ones, but my bias should be obvious, since I’m writing these words rather than speaking them to you. Instead I will say that it’s easier for me to appreciate the benefits of literacy and harder to recognize everything it has cost us. Literacy encourages a culture to place more value on documentation and less on subjective experience, and overall I think the positives outweigh the negatives. Written records are subject to every kind of error and their interpretation is subject to change, but at least the words on the page remain fixed, and there is real merit in that.

When it comes to our individual memories, I live on the opposite side of the divide. As someone whose identity was built on organic memory, I’m threatened by the prospect of removing subjectivity from our recall of events. I used to think it could be valuable for individuals to tell stories about themselves, valuable in a way that it couldn’t be for cultures, but I’m a product of my time, and times change. We can’t prevent the adoption of digital memory any more than oral cultures could stop the arrival of literacy, so the best I can do is look for something positive in it.

And I think I’ve found the real benefit of digital memory. The point is not to prove you were right; the point is to admit you were wrong.

Because all of us have been wrong on various occasions, engaged in cruelty and hypocrisy, and we’ve forgotten most of those occasions. And that means we don’t really know ourselves. How much personal insight can I claim if I can’t trust my memory? How much can you? You’re probably thinking that, while your memory isn’t perfect, you’ve never engaged in revisionism of the magnitude I’m guilty of. But I was just as certain as you, and I was wrong. You may say, “I know I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes.” I am here to tell you that you have made more than you think, that some of the core assumptions on which your self-image is built are actually lies. Spend some time using Remem, and you’ll find out.

But the reason I now recommend Remem is not for the shameful reminders it provides of your past; it’s to avoid the need for those in the future. Organic memory was what enabled me to construct a whitewashed narrative of my parenting skills, but by using digital memory from now on, I hope to keep that from happening. The truth about my behavior won’t be presented to me by someone else, making me defensive; it won’t even be something I’ll discover as a private shock, prompting a reevaluation. With Remem providing only the unvarnished facts, my image of myself will never stray too far from the truth in the first place.

Digital memory will not stop us from telling stories about ourselves. As I said earlier, we are made of stories, and nothing can change that. What digital memory will do is change those stories from fabulations that emphasize our best acts and elide our worst, into ones that—I hope—acknowledge our fallibility and make us less judgmental about the fallibility of others.

Nicole has begun using Remem as well, and discovered that her recollection of events isn’t perfect either. This hasn’t made her forgive me for the way I treated her—nor should it, because her misdeeds were minor compared to mine—but it has softened her anger at my misremembering my actions, because she realizes it’s something we all do. And I’m embarrassed to admit that this is precisely the scenario Erica Meyers predicted when she talked about Remem’s effects on relationships.

This doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about the downsides of digital memory; there are many, and people need to be aware of them. I just don’t think I can argue the case with any sort of objectivity anymore. I abandoned the article I was planning to write about memory prostheses; I handed off the research I’d done to a colleague, and she wrote a fine piece about the pros and cons of the software, a dispassionate article free from all the soul-searching and angst that would have saturated anything I submitted. Instead, I’ve written this.

The account I’ve given of the Tiv is based in fact, but isn’t precisely accurate. There was indeed a dispute among the Tiv in 1941 over whom the Shangev clan should join with, based on differing claims about the parentage of the clan’s founder, and administrative records did show that the clan elders’ account of their genealogy had changed over time. But many of the specific details I’ve described are invented. The actual events were more complicated and less dramatic, as actual events always are, so I have taken liberties to make a better narrative. I’ve told a story in order to make a case for the truth. I recognize the contradiction here.

As for my account of my argument with Nicole, I’ve tried to make it as accurate as I possibly could. I’ve been recording everything since I started working on this project, and I’ve consulted the recordings repeatedly when writing this. But in my choice of which details to include and which to omit, perhaps I have just constructed another story. In spite of my efforts to be unflinching, have I flattered myself with this portrayal? Have I distorted events so they more closely follow the arc expected of a confessional narrative? The only way you can judge is by comparing my account against the recordings themselves, so I’m doing something I never thought I’d do: with Nicole’s permission, I am granting public access to my lifelog, such as it is. Take a look at the video, and decide for yourself.

And if you think I’ve been less than honest, tell me. I want to know.

The fiction of Ted Chiang

Why you should read his stories

Dec 16th 2013, 16:36 by B.D. | WASHINGTON, DC

UNLESS you read science-fiction magazines, you probably have not have heard of Ted Chiang. He is not terribly prolific. His longest works are novellas of about 50,000 words, and he publishes one or two short stories every few years. But when he writes, the results are profound. His stories are perennial winners of the Locus and Nebula Awards—top prizes for science fiction and fantasy works in America. His readers are few, but they are devoted.

Mr Chiang's short story “The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling”, available in the autumn issue of Subterranean Press Magazine, a genre-fiction quarterly, involves a journalist who investigates a futuristic gadget. Called "Remem", it is a tool that searches one's personal "lifelog" (a real-time account of one's life captured by a personal camera) and projects memories the moment they come to mind. It is like Google Glass, a continuous-filming camera and search engine rolled into one. Mr Chiang's narrator frets that having constant access to past events will take away his power to forget, and so to forgive.

A parallel strand in the story concerns the introduction of writing to the Tiv people of Nigeria. To document experience in writing also changes how memory works. “We don’t normally think of it as such, but writing is a technology,” Mr Chiang writes. A “literate person is someone whose thought processes are technologically mediated.” This subtle thread ties the two stories together. The moment of revelation feels powerful, as if the reader has suddenly understood something new.

Science fiction is a genre that often works well off the page. Spaceships and robots are just as thrilling on screen as in books. But Mr Chiang’s approach is irreplaceable. His stories mirror the process of scientific discovery: complex ideas emerge from the measured, methodical accumulation of information until epiphany strikes.

Hefty scientific principles buttress Mr Chiang’s works, yet he draws from them a startling humanism. "Story of Your Life" (1998), a tale about learning an alien language, came from thinking about Fermat's last theorem; "The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate" (2007) considers the nature of time. The laws of nature are fixed. But Mr Chiang's stories remind us that the world need not be as it is. Time did not have to be so that we experience it linearly. Consciousness need not have been possible. What we take for granted is often miraculous.

"Exhalation", a short story from 2008, describes a world of sentient mechanical beings. The pressure in their atmosphere allows air to pass through their brains; thoughts emerge from the whirls and patterns of these eddies. But the pressure of this universe is decreasing. When it is gone, consciousness will follow. "The universe began as an enormous breath being held," Mr Chiang writes. "I am glad that it did... until this great exhalation is finished, my thoughts live on."

Alas, Mr Chiang does not write convincing dialogue. Conversation is weighted with exposition, as stilted as in a "Star Trek" film ("Suppose I gave you an hour's worth of recordings; how long would it take you to determine if we need this sound spectrograph or not?"). The genre's typical weakness on this front—together with its reliance on invented realities and creatures—invites critics to scoff that science fiction is childish and un-literary. But this criticism misses the point. The best science fiction inspires awe for the natural properties of the universe; it renders the fundamentals of science poignant and affecting. Mr Chiang's writing manages all of this. He deserves to be more widely read.

《大都会科幻评论》对话Ted Chiang

前言：《大都会科幻评论》的编辑李梦琪在11月份与美国知名华裔科幻作家Ted Chiang（姜峯楠）进行了一次精彩的对话，Ted是一个甚为低调的人物，他是一个似乎更注重自我感受和向往宁静生活的幻想家。这次，他难得地敞开心扉和MSFR的读者们分享了自己创作的故事，他也谈到了自己对生活、宗教和中国的各种看法。 （2011年第12期《大都会科幻评论》）

M=MSFR

T=Ted

M：你更喜欢自己的短篇还是中篇作品？哪种形式更加适合你的写作？今后你有写长篇小说的计划吗？

T：目前我没有写长篇小说的打算，因为我认为自己目前发现的点子最适合写成短篇故事。如果我想到了一个可以支撑起长篇小说的点子，我会尝试写一篇长篇。

M：你读其他科幻作者的作品吗？你对于阅读科幻书籍的态度是什么？你最喜欢的作品是什么？

T：我读过许多科幻作品。我阅读其他类型的虚构作品，但是我最欣赏科幻。科幻能够戏剧化地阐述哲学问题，我喜欢这种方式。它可以成功地同时激发我的强烈情感和理性思考，这是其他类型的虚构作品所做不到的。我无法提名最喜爱的作品，但我最喜欢的科幻作家之一是格雷格·伊根。我认为他是当今最棒的硬科幻作家。

M：你如何判断写出的故事就是自己想要的？在写作的时候，你心目中的读者是什么样的？你会在写作的过程中考虑到潜在读者的期待吗？你认为理想的科幻小说读者应该是什么样的？

T：我不会为潜在读者的期望过分忧虑。我认为如果过分关心怎样精确给予读者们他们想要的东西，就有写出能被猜到的作品的风险。同样的道理，许多好莱坞电影也是这样。我表示自己的工作是写出一个故事。它能够描述出一个特定点子里我感兴趣的东西。我也希望这会让其他人感兴趣。但我假设不是所有人都会喜欢某个特定的故事，即使他们喜欢我之前所有的故事。我有着不寻常的兴趣，他们也许并不流行，但是作者的价值就在于任何人都有着一套独特的兴趣，这会导致他们以独特的方法看待世界。所以我认为作者应该追寻他们自己的兴趣而不是读者的期待。我唯一对读者的要求是带着开阔的思想来阅读，并有接受挑战的意愿，而不是去确认他们固有的看法。

M：作为一个没有孩子的男性无神论者，你为何能够细腻生动地写出女性，父母和有信仰的人的心理？

T：这是虚构写作的特性。如果作者们局限于写作他们自己的生活经历，就没有虚构故事存在了，只会有自传。在探究一个主题的时候，我和其他作者一样，阅读关于这个主题的书籍并和其他有此经验的人讨论。在写作《地狱是上帝不在的地方》之前我读了一些基督徒的作品。在写作《软件体的生命周期》的时候，我与许多将孩子养大成人的妇女进行了交谈。

M：有持续影响你写作的想法或点子吗？激发你创造的动机是什么？我注意到《软件体的生命周期》与现今的技术潮流有一些联系，这是你目前关注的东西吗？

T：当我写一篇故事的时候，通常是因为我已经对一个点子进行了数年的思考。最初的动机可能是任何东西，但如果我长期地重复思考某样事物，我就知道它是我想要写的东西。对于《软件体的生命周期》，激发我创作的不是现今的科技，近期之内我们不可能创造出人工智能。这个故事的创造动机主要源于对科幻对人工智能预想方式的不满。人工智能通常被描写成兼有人类的计算机软件的最好品质。我认为这与我们对人类知觉和软件工作方式的认知是很不一致的。

M：在出色的科幻创造之余，你的正职是什么？

T：我为C++程序员写参考资料。程序员们创造软件库。软件库需要详细的解释说明以便其他程序员能够使用它们。我编写这些说明文件。

M：你的许多作品是基于基督教背景，西式传奇及阿拉伯文明的。当然也有许多其他故事没有明显的文化背景。你曾经想过写作关于中国的作品吗？如果有机会，你可有兴趣来访中国？你能够讲中文吗？

T：在1980年我还是个孩子的时候，曾在中国生活过几个月。显然中国此后发生了彻底的转变，我可能会再次访问中国。当我很小的时候，我讲中文，但我的父母希望他们的子女融入美国文化，所以他们没有强迫我们继续讲中文。随着时间的推移我彻底丧失了这项技能。

M：你如果看待万物有灵？

T：我个人并不相信万物有灵。我认为人们倾向于将类人的属性归属在其他东西上，是因为我们的大脑被进化来处理和其他人的关系，我们只会看见那些我们在寻找的东西。在这种意义上，万物有灵论很像其他的宗教信仰。通常情况下我尊重宗教信仰，只要它们不命令一个人去做伤害他人的事情，所以我对于万物有灵论没有特别的反感。

M：你的作品中的哲学观点与写作技法与博尔赫斯有许多相似之处，他对你有任何影响吗？

T：当我开始写作之前我没有读过多少博尔赫斯的作品，而且某种程度上我很庆幸自己没有读过。因为一旦读过的话，我可能不会成为一个作家。我认为他的作品阐述了与我完全相同的想法，但他的作品如此之好以至于我可能会放弃讨论这些话题的希望。幸运的是，等到我读他的作品的时候，我已经足够成熟到理解每个话题总有留给其他作者的阐述空间。“就具体影响而言，他的《巴别图书馆》”给了我如何构建《呼吸》的点子

M：你曾经感受到文化冲击吗？你受到过东方文化的影响吗？

T：我认为文化冲击这种现象主要发生在你去另一个国家居住一段较长的时间的时候。我作为一个观光者去其他国家旅行的时候，只呆上一到两个星期而那些经历通常很愉快，没有收到文化冲击的负面影响。东方文化并没有直接地影响我多少，我生在美国并作为一个美国人长大。

M：在《领悟》中，你提到过儒家思想中仁的概念，这在现今的流行文化中并不常见。你认为是什么导致了中国哲学在当今社会的式微？你认为中国哲学有可能与人类发展的进程调和吗？还是它会以幻灭告终？

T：据我所知，历史学家们长期考证过为什么中国不能在几个世纪之前发展为当今世界的主要文明，但我并不熟悉他们的理论。现在中国可能会成为世界上未来最大的经济体，但是如果它成功的话，我觉得这将部分源于对儒家思想的背离。在现代商业社会中，当有礼有德的人与残酷贪婪的人竞争的时候，后者通常获胜；在西方社会中情况是这样，在东方社会中情况也很可能是这样。改变这种现象是非常困难的，我不知道解决的办法，但是我希望人们能够找到它。

M：《软件体的生命周期》与《你一生的故事》有着类似的形式和主题。这是你心中一直存在的一个既定模式吗？

T：对我来说，这两个故事的相似的是他们都探索了为人父母的主题。尽管我不是一个父亲，我觉得这是一个有趣的话题。抚养一个孩子是极为困难的，而且错误做法的后果会比我们在生命中其他任何东西上犯错的后果持续得长久。尽管几乎所有人都会承担这个任务，因为（为人父母）这种行为是如此的寻常，他们几乎不会收到任何报偿。有话说，如果人们彻底理解了为人父母所需要的付出，就没人会选择成为父母了。我认为确实如此。幸运的是，人们持续地这样做。

姜峯楠关于Exhalation的访谈

◎谢谢你花时间来跟我们谈谈你的小说《呼吸——宇宙的毁灭》，这篇小说有着怎样的源起？

这篇小说源自我的两个灵感。第一个是菲利普·K·迪克的小说《电子蚁》。故事讲述了一个人去看医生，结果却被告知自己其实是一个机器人。这令他大吃一惊，不过他平静下来以后决定打开自己的胸膛看一下自己的内部结构。在身体里，他可以看见一小卷打孔纸带缓慢地展开。在某种程度上，那就是他的意识。我一直认为这是一幕绝妙的场景，我久久都不能忘怀。

第二个是罗杰·彭罗斯所著的《皇帝新脑》中讲述熵的那一章。他指出，我们通常认为进食是因为我们需要食物中的能量，但是这种说法不完全准确。人体辐射能量的速率跟吸收能量的速率大体相当，我们其实没有增加体内的能量，进食的原因是我们辐射高熵能量，却需要补充低熵能量；我们就是熵增的始作俑者。我觉得这个结论很有意思，所以想尝试以更加具体的形式把它呈现出来。

◎文中主人公和他机器结构的同伴们给我一种阿西莫夫笔下正电子脑机器人的感觉：为什么在想象中，我们会觉得这些类型的生命形式会受限于逻辑，而我们自身却不这样？

问得好。机器人没有感情这种想法甚至比机器人这个词还要古老。《绿野仙踪》里的嘀嗒人是一个不具有感情的机器人，比洽佩克在作品里提出机器人（robot）一词要早许多年。我猜这也许是因为我们把冰冷的金属和冷酷的情感联系在一起。我敢打赌，在布娃娃获得生命这种故事的早期版本里他们一定不会被描绘得毫无感情。

我不认为在《呼吸——宇宙的毁灭》中，人物的行为方式与机器人特别类似。诚然，这篇小说不以情感为中心，它更象哲学幻想，类似博格斯和卡尔维诺的作品。在我看来，文中人物拥有金属躯体这个事实令你觉得他们的行为类似机器人，然而他们是跟我们一样的生物。

（还值得牢记的是，我们这座宇宙中的生物同样面对着故事中人物遇到的问题。我们的宇宙远远大于他们的，所以时间尺度也要长得多。不过热寂是谁也逃不脱的。）

◎文中的叙述者努力达到现实尽头，这极有可能改变他自己对现实的认知。一个智慧生物真的能够完全理解他自身周围的世界吗？

叙述者改进他的身体，却没有改变自己对现实的认知。他最终理解了与他那座宇宙性质有关的一些基本事实。

至于能否真正理解世界，这取决于你如何解释“真正理解”。我觉得我们深入理解了关于世界的许多事情，当然未解之谜也仍然存在，但我不认为这意味着我们的理解是有瑕疵的，它只是还不够完整。

◎接下来我们应该关注你的那些作品呢？

我有一个新的短中篇小说《双面真相》，几个月前发表在Subterranean Online。其他待发表的作品就没有了。

◎Thank you for taking the time to speak with us about your story, “Exhalation”! Where did this one come from?

There were two inspirations for the story. The first was the Philip K. Dick story “The Electric Ant.” It’s about a guy who goes in to see his doctor and is told he’s actually a robot. This comes as a shock to him, but once he gets over his surprise, he decides to open up his chest and take a look at his inner workings. He can see a little spool of punch-tape slowly unrolling inside of himself, and that’s his consciousness, more or less. I always thought that was a terrific image, and it stuck with me for years.

The second was the chapter in Roger Penrose’s book The Emperor’s New Mind in which he talks about entropy. He notes that we usually say that we eat food because we need the energy it contains, but that’s not completely accurate. We radiate energy at pretty much the same rate that we absorb it; we’re not actually increasing the amount of energy we contain. We eat food because we’re radiating a high-entropy form of energy, and we need a low-entropy form of energy to compensate; we’re entropy generators. I thought that was an interesting observation, and I wanted to try presenting it in a more concrete form.

◎Your protagonist and his fellow mechanical beings remind me a little of Asimov’s positronic robots: Why do we envision these sorts of beings as confined to logic, whereas we’re not?

That’s a good question. The idea that robots don’t feel emotions is even older than the word “robot”; Tik-Tok, the mechanical man of Baum’s Oz, predates ??apek’s work by many years, and Tik-Tok was described as being incapable of emotion. I think it might be because we associate the coldness of metal with emotional coldness; I’d bet that the earliest stories of rag dolls coming to life didn’t portray them as being unemotional.

I don’t think the characters in “Exhalation” behave in a particularly robotic manner. Admittedly the story is not centered around emotion; it’s more of a philosophical fantasy, like a Borges or Calvino story. I think it’s the fact that the characters are made of metal that makes you perceive them as acting like robots, but they’re living beings just like us.

(It’s also worth remembering that living beings in our universe face the exact same problem as the characters in the story. Our universe is vastly larger than theirs so the timescale is vastly longer, but heat death awaits us all.)

◎The narrator here is trying to get to the bottom of reality while potentially altering his own perception of reality. Can a sentient being ever truly understand the world around one’s self?

The narrator makes modifications to his body, but he doesn’t alter his own perception of reality; he comes to understand something fundamental about the nature of his universe.

As for whether it’s possible to truly understand the world, that depends on what you mean by “truly understand.” We understand a lot of things about the world quite well, I think. There are still unanswered questions, but I don’t think that means our understanding is flawed; just incomplete.

◎What do you have coming up next that we should keep an eye out for?

I had a new novelette, “The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling” appear on Subterranean Online a few months ago. Nothing else in the publication pipeline, alas.

Ted Chiang Interview

By Rani Graff

December 13, 2003

Rani Graff: Where does your writing start? What or who are your sources of inspiration?

Ted Chiang: You mean, where do I get my ideas? I don’t know; I just write about what I’m interested in. Annie Dillard once wrote, “Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.”

Rani Graff: You are regarded by many as a new and unique voice in contemporary SF. Who, among other contemporary SF or Fantasy writers, do you consider to be a unique and interesting voice?

Ted Chiang: The SF/F field is full of writers with distinctive voices. Some of my favorites are Greg Egan, Karen Joy Fowler, John Crowley, Gene Wolfe, and Ken MacLeod.

Rani Graff: What SF or Fantasy writings (books, stories or novelettes—contemporary or classic) made it to your all time personal favorites short list? What non-SF writings made it to that list?

Ted Chiang: I don’t really have an “all-time personal favorites” list, so I’ll just mention some books that I’ve read recently. In the SF/F genre, I enjoyed China Miéville’s The Scar, a wonderful depiction of a world filled to the brim with wonders. Outside of SF/F, I enjoyed Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones; there’s been a bit of a backlash against it because of its overwhelming success, but I found it genuinely moving.

Rani Graff: What was the effect Clarion had on your writing? Can you tell us about the Clarion experience?

Ted Chiang: For me, Clarion encouraged me to keep on writing. Before I was accepted to the workshop, I hadn’t received any encouragement about my writing, and I was on the verge of giving up. Clarion was the first time anyone told me they liked my work. Clarion also introduced me to the SF community. Before I attended, I hadn’t known anyone who read SF, let alone wanted to write it, so meeting my fellow students there was like discovering a family I’d never known I’d had.

Rani Graff: When reading your stories, especially “Seventy Two Letters,” “Tower of Babylon,” and “Hell is the Absence of God,” one gets a distinct cynical notion towards organized religion and God. What is your attitude towards religions? And if I may: What is your attitude towards God, or the notion of God? Do you yourself believe in God?

Ted Chiang: I wasn’t raised in any religion, so I don’t have such strong feelings toward religion that many people do. When I was younger I had a vague belief in God, but as I grew older, it seemed to me that the idea of God didn’t explain anything that couldn’t be explained otherwise, so I’m currently an atheist. I think religion is interesting, but my interest in it is strictly abstract. I recently had a conversation with someone who said she had occasionally experienced epiphanies, moments when she felt the presence of the divine. I have never experienced anything like that, which probably keeps my interest in religion from becoming more than abstract.

Rani Graff: In “Seventy Two Letters” you are using some cabalistic elements and Hebrew words. What is your connection to Cabala and Hebrew?

Ted Chiang: I have no background in either. In preparation for writing the story I did some research in the Golem myth, and of course that involves Kabbalah/Cabala and Hebrew. Before that I didn’t know much about either subject.

Rani Graff: How did you come up with the idea for “Seventy Two Letters”? What made you combine the Golem idea and the preformation theory into one story?

Ted Chiang: As I describe in the story notes in the collection, I realized that both of these ideas have relevance to the notion of self-replication. The process by which one organism gives rise to another is one that we don’t fully understand even today; the complexities involved are truly astonishing. I’m interested in how people in the past tried to understand the phenomenon, and I can see how both the golem and the theory of preformation reflect people’s thoughts about the concept.

Rani Graff: Seems to me that the main character in “Story Of Your Life” is a tragic one. She can see the course of her life before it actually occurred, and probably knows how and when it will end, all the result of her learning the alien language. This is a very heavy burden for a person to carry. Do you feel that ordinary people like us would be able to carry such a burden? Would you have learnt that language yourself if you had a choice?

Ted Chiang: In a sense, ordinary people already carry such a burden, because we all know we’re going to die. We can also expect to experience many losses before we die, and—with luck—happiness too. The ability to anticipate the future is part of what it is to be human, I think; how many of us would be willing to give that up?

I don’t see “Story of Your Life” as being purely a tragedy. Living life is about accepting the bad with the good. Sometimes that’s a hard thing to do, but the alternative seems far worse.

Rani Graff: One of the very distinct elements of “Hell is the Absence of God” is the total lack of dialog. What made you write it that way?

Ted Chiang: Partly it was an attempt to try something new as a writer. Nowadays a lot of SF is written using either first-person narration, or third-person limited narration, which is almost the same except for changing some pronouns. I wanted to try something different, and for a short story about three different characters, having a separate “storyteller” do the narration seemed appropriate.

Rani Graff: “Hell is the Absence of God” is set in an alternate universe where the meaning of faith seems to be a bit different than the meaning it has in our universe. Care to elaborate on this?

Ted Chiang: I wanted to explore the idea of a universe in which religion doesn’t require faith. In our world, religion relies on faith because definitive proof is unavailable. As a result, some people choose their religion based on which one makes them feel better, e.g. “I don’t like the judgemental god of Religion A, so I’m going to worship the kind and gentle god of Religion B.” That option exists because neither deity is unambiguously present, but if a particular god were here right now, we’d have to deal with him whether we liked him or not.

Of course, not everyone opts for the most comforting religion. Many people follow religions that sometimes make them feel terrible about themselves. There are probably many reasons for this, but I think one reason is that such religions describe a universe in which there is clarity, and many people find that clarity more valuable than sweeping reassurances. And I think the same situation would exist even after the appearance of a deity: no matter what action a god took, people would have widely differing interpretations of that action.

Rani Graff: “Liking What You See: A Documentary” seems to be sending a somewhat poisoned arrow towards the western notion of external human beauty, but at the same time sends another arrow towards some extreme PC trends that seems to take place in America. Where do you stand in all that?

Ted Chiang: There will always be people who take things to extremes, but there are also good arguments to be made on every side. To me the essential problem is that it’s hard to reconcile our reaction to beauty, which is deeply ingrained, with our desire for to reward merit rather than appearance. A feminist writer once said, “Allowing beautiful women their beauty may turn out to be one of the most difficult aspects of personal liberation.” I thought that was a very good point.

Rani Graff: You withdrew “Liking What You See: A Documentary” from the Hugo nomination. Why?

Ted Chiang: The story that was published isn’t the story I wanted it to be. When my editor and I originally set a deadline for a new story for the collection, he told me to make up a date, and he’d give me an extension if I wanted one. I made up a date; later, I told him I needed an extension. He refused. So I was forced to turn in a story I wasn’t happy with.

This doesn’t mean that I’m ashamed of “Liking What You See”; I’m not. And as with many writers, I can look back on any of my stories and imagine how it could have been done better. But with those other stories, at least I know that, at the time I submitted them for publication, I had done the best I could. That’s not the case with “Liking What You See.” I had a different story in mind, one which I think would have been better. And I didn’t think it’d be appropriate for me to accept a nomination for a story that I wanted to do differently.

Rani Graff: What is your notion of Human evolution, and where do you think it will lead us? Where would you like it to go?

Ted Chiang: Culture has been shaping human evolution for a long time; the classic example is how the spread of slash-and-burn agriculture led to an increase in malaria-bearing mosquitoes, which led to an increased occurrence of the sickle-cell gene which imparts partial resistance to malaria. What this example illustrates is that our effect on human evolution won’t necessarily reflect our intentions; no one expected agricultural technique to have an effect on the prevalence of sickle-cell anemia. I think that, no matter what anyone tries to do with genetic engineering, the ultimate effect of our actions on human evolution will only be apparent in retrospect.

As for where I would like it to go, I think an important thing to remember about evolution is that it doesn’t optimize individual happiness. Evolution is concerned only with reproductive success, and you can have a lot of children without being happy. So I don’t want the human genome to move in any specific direction. I just hope that a better understanding of our evolutionary history, and how genetics affects human behavior, will help us create a social environment that lets us be happier.

Rani Graff: You seem to create unique worlds in every new story that you write, fully detailed and everything. Were you ever tempted to write a story that is set in a world already created in one of your previous works?

Ted Chiang: I have sometimes thought about further exploring the universe of “Seventy-Two Letters,” but so far I haven’t come up with a story idea that satisfies me.

Rani Graff: Looking back at all your stories to date, do you find any common themes?

Ted Chiang: I don’t know of a single common theme that runs through all my stories, but perhaps what I most often wind up exploring is the relationship between the world as it is and the world as we perceive it to be. To understand the world we have to rely on the data provided by our senses and the concepts generated by our reasoning; you could say that my stories are attempts to examine the strengths and limitations of those resources.

Rani Graff: Will we ever read a novel written by you?

Ted Chiang: Maybe, if I ever get an idea for one, but if I don’t, I won’t mind. I have no aspirations of ever making a living writing fiction, so I’m content to just write a short story once in a while.

Rani Graff: Tell me something we don’t know about Ted Chiang.

Ted Chiang: I’m left-handed.

A Conversation With Ted Chiang

An interview with Lou Anders

In person, Ted Chiang is friendly and soft-spoken. He comes across as somewhat reserved while being neither shy nor aloof. And he is very hard to read. But "hard to read" is hardly a suitable phrase when speaking about his new collection Stories of Your Life and Others. Released this past July from Tor Books, this is as "solid" a collection as you can hope to find. There isn't a bad tale in the lot, and each is told with a superbly polished narrative craft. So who is this virtuoso, whose debut story won the Nebula? Maddeningly, his author blurb on the jacket says only "Ted Chiang lives near Seattle, WA." Not a lot of help. So if we're to know any more, we've going to have to go to the source:

You're a Clarion graduate and a damn good writer, and I'm guessing you've got degrees in mathematics. And that's it. Care to tell me a little bit about your background?

I was born and raised in a small town called Port Jefferson, New York. I attended Brown University, where I wound up with a degree in computer science. Nowadays, I work as a freelance technical writer, writing documentation for programmers.

I first began reading SF in the sixth grade and began submitting stories to the magazines a few years later. I collected nothing but rejection slips for years and was considering giving up writing when I was accepted at Clarion. Before then I hadn't known anyone who even read SF, let alone wanted to write it, so for me, attending Clarion was like meeting a family I didn't know I had. Since then, I've always felt that SF is where I belong.

So who are your influences? What science fiction authors do you read?

When I first started to read SF, I imprinted on Asimov and Clarke. Then when I was in college, John Crowley and Gene Wolfe made a big impression on me, and I still think of them as the titans. I also like Greg Egan, Bruce Sterling, Karen Joy Fowler, Ken MacLeod and a bunch of others.

Your debut story "Tower of Babylon" won the Nebula in 1990. What was it like to receive such a prestigious award your first time "out of the gate," so to speak? Did this put pressure on you to make sure subsequent works met or raised the bar? (I noticed that the first three stories in the book are from 1990 and 1991. Then we jump to 1998 and forward for the remainder.)

Winning the Nebula was bewildering. After years of receiving form-letter rejections, suddenly winning an award like that made me wonder if something were wrong somewhere; it's okay for art to be surreal, but uncomfortable when real life is. And yes, afterwards I felt the weight of expectation on me, which made writing difficult for me. It was so difficult for me, in fact, that I found it easier to put all my energy into my day job. At the time, I was an on-staff technical writer at a company where long hours were the norm. I focused on that for a number of years before I felt a desire to write fiction again.

You say that "Understand" is an examination of the point at which quantitative improvements results in qualitative differences. This story seems to me to be an updated, thoughtful reworking of the classic science fiction trope that "there are some things that man was not meant to know." In those tales, the superhuman that achieves absolute power is always absolutely corrupted. But do you think this has to be the case -- or can the trans-human evolution occur without the evolved looking back at the rest of us as insects? What's interesting to me about "Understand" is that the protagonist develops almost a "turn on, tune in, drop out" attitude regarding the general populace -- envisioning but not implementing quite a few "life enhancing" technologies but opting instead for improvements in his own internal landscapes.

I hadn't thought about "Understand" in terms of the "there are things man was not meant to know" trope before. While the story is about the search for knowledge, its message is not that some forms of knowledge are intrinsically corrupting or destructive. It's true that the story's protagonist feels little kinship with ordinary humanity, but many people feel the same way right now, without having enhanced intelligence.

There have been a lot of different ideas about how high intelligence would affect one's moral behavior. One is that it would make you cold, unfeeling, even amoral, e.g. the cliché of the mad scientist. Another is that it would make you kind and altruistic, e.g. the cliché of the benevolent, super-intelligent alien race. I don't believe there's a correlation in either direction. I think superintelligent people would, if anything, vary more than ordinary people in their behavior; after all, humans probably have a broader range of behavior than, say, dogs.

One could claim that enhanced intelligence implies an increased moral obligation ("with great power comes great responsibility," ála Spiderman). This certainly sounds plausible, but I'd need to hear more argument to be convinced of its truth. Where is the line between the obligatory (what we must do) and the supererogatory (what is above and beyond the call of duty)? I don't know.

"Division by Zero" may be my favorite story in the collection. It typifies for me the way you blend the scientific and the poignantly human. Strangely, it's also the least "sci-fi." Tell me how this story came about.

What I wanted to do was draw a parallel between the way we value consistency in mathematics and the way we value it in human behavior. At the time I wrote it, I was thinking of the stories in Ed Bryant's collection Particle Theory. Nowadays Bryant is perhaps best known for reviewing horror fiction for LOCUS, but in the late 70s he primarily wrote SF short stories.

Those stories were among the first that showed me how SF could use science metaphorically to illuminate human experience. I sought out a copy of Particle Theory after reading Barry Malzberg's recommendation of the title story in his Engines Of The Night; Bryant's collection had been out of print for several years at that point, and in the days before the Internet, it wasn't easy to find an out-of-print paperback, but it was definitely worth the effort.

In your Story Notes at the end of the collection, you talk about the physics underlying "Story of Your Life," but what really fascinated me about the piece was the discussion of linguistics. What is your background in this field and how did you go about constructing the grammatical oddities of the heptapod's written language?

I have no formal background in linguistics, but I'm interested in the subject. I did some reading about how field linguists study a new language, and it occurred to me that if we ever meet a technologically sophisticated species and try to learn their language, we might make better progress by learning its written form. However, I wanted the writing system to be really alien, just as I wanted the heptapods themselves to be, so I tried to make it as different from human writing systems as possible. One particular inspiration was sign language, which has a three-dimensional grammar unlike anything in spoken languages. There's no good way to transcribe sign language; written English has about as much to do with American Sign Language as written Chinese does. I was fascinated by the differences between sign language and spoken language, and tried to imagine an analogous form of language that was designed purely to be written, without being a transcription of speech.

"The Evolution of Human Science" almost seems like a companion piece to "Understand." What are you thoughts on the coming metahuman evolution? If writers like Greg Egan and Charles Stross are even partially correct in their prognostication, we really are living in the last century where one can speak meaningfully about a single human race.

I don't think of Egan and Stross as being similar, but I guess both of them (like many other SF writers, going back to Wells and Stapledon) envision major changes in the human species. Certainly technology will continue to force us to reconsider our ideas of what constitutes a human being. I'm skeptical, however, of some of the more extreme "Singularity" scenarios that have been offered (although they can be entertaining to explore in fiction), and I'm wary whenever anyone claims that an ascent to godhood is our destiny.

I think you're right to imply that the human race will diverge, rather than simply ascend as a group. I'm reminded of Steven Jay Gould's response to the assertion that evolution inevitably produces greater complexity. Gould argued that evolution proceeds in all directions, with some species becoming simpler, others becoming more complex, and most staying the same. The overall increase in biological complexity over time is simply a consequence of the fact that life started at the level of minimal complexity -- organisms can't get much simpler than bacteria -- and to focus on humans is to get a skewed picture of evolution. Complexity isn't the best evolutionary strategy for everyone; there are also niches in which simplicity works well. It's possible that in the future, there will be humans living across an enormous range of technology levels, and there will be little correlation between individual happiness and technology level.

Notions of religion factor into several of your tales. "Tower of Babylon" seems to be a very pro-Deity piece, while "Hell is the Absence of God" takes a more judgmental view of the Almighty. What's your view on religion and its place in your life?

I'd say that, as far as divine intervention goes, the world in "Tower of Babylon" operates the way I see our universe operating, while the world in "Hell is the Absence of God" operates the way certain other people see our universe operating. Good and bad things happen in both universes. In the former, it's unclear whether any of them are the result of divine intervention; in the latter, it's clear that many of them are. That accounts for some, if not all, of the difference between those stories' depictions of religion.

I wasn't raised in any religion, so I don't have the love/hate relationship with it that many people do. When I was younger I had a vague belief in God that I'd acquired through cultural osmosis, but I'm currently an atheist. I think religion is interesting, but primarily in an abstract way. I haven't encountered a solution to the question of innocent suffering that I find satisfactory, and perhaps that prevents me from finding religion really compelling. I wonder if I'm fortunate, in a way; there are people who are also frustrated by the problem of innocent suffering, while still feeling a strong belief in God. That seems to me to be a difficult position to be in. Which is what "Hell is the Absence of God" is all about.

"Liking What You See: A Documentary" may be tied with "Division by Zero" as my favorite in the book. It was particularly effective when I read it, perhaps, because I was in the Los Angeles airport, surrounded by examples of enhanced humans from the most appearance-conscious city on earth. What I responded to the most about the tale was its ambiguity. I really found myself consistently shifting my allegiance from one side of the debate to the other. In fact, I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel by the stories resolution. In your story notes, you say you yourself would try calliagnosia, and I was a little surprised by this admission. You would try it, but would you keep it?

That would depend on what the actual experience of being calliagnosic was like. I couldn't guarantee that I'd keep it, but I wouldn't be averse to trying it out.

I think having ambiguous feelings about beauty is appropriate, so if the story evokes that in the reader, I'm satisfied. The idea of voluntary calliagnosia initially strikes most people as bizarre: why would anyone give up one of the pleasures of life? But I think the issue is worth examining. There's an analogy to be made with sweetness. Many people find that their attraction to sugary foods diminishes as they grow from childhood to adulthood. To a child, this seems like a tragedy, but does it seem that way to most adults? Are we as adults actually poorer for not enjoying sugar as intensely as when we were kids? Or can one legitimately claim to be just as well off, or maybe even better, for having outgrown that sugar craving?

And it goes further. In the recent book The Botany of Desire, author Michael Pollan describes how the advent of cheap sugar changed what we mean by "sweet." Before sugar was widely available, "sweetness" described an unalloyed good, even a noble quality. Nowadays, it has far more mixed connotations, having been cheapened, almost debased, by sugar's ubiquity. It occurs to me that the same thing that happened to taste may be happening to appearance.

We seem to be entering a period where there is a lot of innovation and excitement in science fiction. Whether we are at the start of a "next wave" as some people have suggested remains to be seen, but what are you thoughts on the current "state of the genre" and your place among it?

I don't know how to judge the current state of the genre, and I'm not sure anyone can; it's probably safe to say that it's the best of times and the worst of times. As for my place in it, as long as no more than a few people claim I'm making it worse, I'll be satisfied.

What's next for you? And will we get to see a novel at some point?

If I get an idea that I think will sustain a novel, I'll try writing one. But I'm in no hurry; I'm content writing short fiction.

Lou Anders has written, directed, and edited articles, plays, screenplays, books and websites. He hasn't taken over the world yet, but he thinks he should get points for trying.

Interview: Ted Chiang

Posted on May 24, 2013 by chloe

AALR proudly presents a new series of interviews with four young Asian American writers of speculative fiction: Ken Liu, E. Lily Yu, Charles Yu, and Ted Chiang. All under 45, these writers have amassed numerous major science fiction and literary award nominations and awards–evidence of their ability to bridge the parallel universes of speculative and mainstream literatures. Their work differs radically, ranging from peculiar fables to intricate meditations on the relationship between humans and technology.

But taken together, that work exemplifies the kind of intersectionist worldview that shifts conventionalized perceptions, encouraging us to think across traditional social and literary categories.

Conducting the interviews is Betsy Huang, Associate Professor of English at Clark University, author of Contesting Genres in Contemporary Asian American Fiction (Palgrave, 2010).

Interview (Part One of Two): Ted Chiang

One of the most decorated writers of contemporary science fiction, Ted Chiang has won an absurd number of major science fiction awards since he collected his first Nebula for “Tower of Babylon” in 1990: four Nebulas, four Hugos, three Locus Awards, and the prestigious John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 1992. Yet Chiang is notoriously un-prolific, publishing an average of about one story or novella every two years. But while some see the slow pace of literary production as a phenomenon that only adds to Chiang’s mystique and rarity, I see it as the very basis of the scrupulous storytelling for which he has come to be known.

The British fantasy writer China Miéville rightly describes Chiang’s universe as one in which “humanism is inextricable from rationalism.”1 Indeed, often it is precisely those stories organized around an abstract mathematical theorem or philosophical postulation that seem to reach the most poignant emotional heights. Chiang’s Nebula winner “Story of Your Life” is a case in point. His authorial notes on the story cite his interest in the variational principles of physics and in Fermat’s Principle of Least Time specifically as its seeds—a signal to prepare the reader for an intellectual workout. By the end of the story, however, the reader is deeply moved by the ways in which one’s view of the world, the family, and the self can be profoundly shifted by learning an alien language—a transformation that Chiang somehow manages to link elegantly to Fermat’s Principle. And in his latest novella, The Lifecycle of Software Objects (2010), in which two programmers attempt to prolong the lifespan of their sentient digital creations against an industry that renders them obsolete with every new upgrade, a theoretical interrogation of the relationship between the virtual and the real gives way to the perennially difficult questions of how to hold on to and let go of those you love.

Contrary to the old complaint leveled at science fiction that depth and nuance of characterization are sacrificed in service of the development of the idea, Chiang’s characters are never subordinate to nor merely embody the governing concept. Instead, Chiang hits the sweet spot between cerebral exercise and emotional investment squarely and consistently. For at the center of all of his stories is a relationship between people made vulnerable by the implications of the concept or novum, whether it be a device that deactivates our discernment of facial beauty, a mathematical formula the paradoxical mysteries of which threaten to disintegrate a marriage, a hormone enhancement that produces two “supermen” who hold diametrically opposing moral views of their existence, or a Borgesian gate of time-travel that compels a re-evaluation of what it means to know the story of your life—before you’ve lived it.

Chiang and I met via Skype over two separate sessions last fall. As measured in conversation as he is in writing, he takes his time processing the questions, his head clearly inhabiting another space as he does so. And while I had endless questions to ask about his work, we spent the first hour talking about video games, the science fiction “tribe,” and why Star Wars and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road are not really science fiction before delving into the nitty gritties of his fiction. Below is the first of this two-part interview.

Betsy Huang: Please share with us where your life began, where you consider your hometown, and how you found your way from there to the Seattle area where you currently live and work.

Ted Chiang: I was born in Port Jefferson, New York, a small town on Long Island about 50 miles east of Manhattan. I lived there until I went to Brown University for college. After Brown, I moved out to the Seattle area where I got a job working as a technical writer for Microsoft. Eventually, I switched from being a permanent employee to a freelancer so that I could free up some time to write fiction.

I guess Port Jefferson is my hometown. It’s the only other place where I’ve lived for a significant stretch of time. My family has lived overseas for short periods—a year in Switzerland when I was six, another in Cambridge, England when I was thirteen.

BH: Have you been back?

TC: I don’t get back there very often these days. I don’t have anything against Port Jefferson, but I don’t feel a strong connection or emotional bond to it. My father still lives in the area; he’s been a professor of engineering at SUNY Stony Brook for many years. My mom and sister live in Denver.

BH: Port Jefferson strikes me as a very different place, culturally, than Seattle.

TC: Yes, I suppose they are very different. The Seattle area suits me. Some people are surprised to learn that I’m from New York, I think because they associate New Yorkers with a more aggressive, always-in-a-hurry kind of attitude. Whereas the stereotypical Seattleite is more low-key and laid back. So, to the extent those stereotypes hold, I guess I am more stereotypically a Seattleite just by my own disposition. In any case, I like it here.

BH: Hobbies? Hobbyhorses?

TC: I can’t say I have any really interesting hobbies. I like movies, I watch TV. I recently became a fan of video games …

BH: Only recently?

TC: I didn’t play them as a kid. I only got into them as an adult, in the last few years.

BH: What do you play?

TC: I’ve been trying a bunch of different games. Recently I played a very interesting game called Papo y Yo. It’s set in a Brazilian favela, and you play a boy who has to lead a monster around to accomplish certain tasks, and sometimes the monster attacks you. It’s explicitly a metaphor for coping with an alcoholic father, and the gameplay creates this feeling of anxiety, of walking on eggshells, as you try to avoid triggering the monster’s rage. It’s the first time I’ve seen a subject like this addressed in a video game, and it’s not one that I would have thought video games could tackle, but I feel that the game handled it very well.

BH: That sounds like an unconventional but emotionally powerful premise. And it doesn’t seem like any shooting is involved. These days it seems that most of the really popular story-driven games are combined with shooters and that you have to shoot your way through a story.

The first game I ever played was Myst. Remember that game?

TC: Yeah, I remember that one.

BH: I liked that game because it was all story reconstruction and no shooting. You’re given no information or premises at the start of the game and have to figure your way into and out of the story.

This is related to something I’m planning to ask you about—that is, in most of these games, the entire story has been plotted. You might be given different plots to follow, but ultimately you are still playing out a plot written by someone else. You are not the author of any of it.

TC: Yes. There is actually very little player agency in video games. They try and give you the illusion of agency but for the most part there is very little that you can do to change the story in most video games.

BH: There was a Blade Runner game I played that had several possible outcomes. The outcome hinged on whether you sympathize with Deckard or with the replicants.

TC: The game that I think did the best job of offering different outcomes was Heavy Rain. It’s a crime story, and it follows four separate characters who are all working on the same case, trying to find a serial killer who’s kidnapped a child. You alternate between these four characters. There’s almost no combat in the game, but there are a few occasions where the characters do have to fight for their lives. If you fail, then that character simply vanishes from the game, and then you continue playing the remaining characters. The game has endings where different combinations of the characters make it to the end, and they may or may not save the child. There’s an ending where the serial killer gets away scot free. I replayed it multiple times to see all the endings, which is not something I usually do.

But just recently I played a game that took a very different approach to player agency, called The Walking Dead. I was never a fan of the comics or the TV series, but I gave the game a try because I’d read good things about it, and it turns out to be very interesting. A lot of games present you with very black-and-white choices, letting you be either really good or really evil. In this game, you’re faced with situations where there are no good options. You have to choose between two bad alternatives, so it’s not an easy decision. Ultimately, your choices don’t change the outcome of the story in any material way, because the game has only one ending. But it did a really good job of making those decisions feel consequential when you were making them, and of reminding you of your choices later on, far more so than I would have thought possible in a game with only one ending.

BH: This is intriguing because questions of agency seem so very crucial in your work. When did you start writing—or reading—science fiction?

TC: I started becoming a reader of science fiction in the fifth or sixth grade, when I was eleven or twelve. It was also about that time when I started to try to write science fiction. It wasn’t that long between when I became a reader and when I became an aspiring writer. Isaac Asimov’s Foundation trilogy had a big impact on me. My recollection is that before that, I was reading mostly children’s books. Back then, the young adult genre didn’t exist in the way it exists now. So I think a lot of kids who were twelve or so graduated from children’s books directly to adult books. For me, I wound up reading science fiction novels – Asimov, Clarke. Those were the ones that really blew my mind, and I very much wanted to write science fiction after reading those. So I’ve been reading and writing science fiction for about the same length of time.

BH: Did you show your early work to your friends, to anybody?

TC: Not many, just to a couple of people. I didn’t know anyone who really read science fiction, so I didn’t know anyone who would understand where I was coming from. Certainly no one else I knew had any interest in writing science fiction.

BH: Sounds like it was a pretty solitary experience for you. Some people come to science fiction because it was a very communal experience, because many of their friends were reading it, but for you it wasn’t that way.

TC: Yes, I know that a lot of people found community going to science fiction conventions. I was aware of science fiction conventions as a teenager; when I was in high school I attended a small, local science fiction convention held on the Stony Brook campus, but I didn’t talk to anyone while I was there, not a soul. I just listened to panel discussions.

So yes, it was pretty much a solitary experience for me. There was no social dimension to my interest in science fiction until after I graduated from college, when I attended Clarion. Clarion was the first time I met other people who had read the books I’d read and were interested in the things I was interested in. So Clarion really introduced me to science fiction as a community instead of just a genre of literature.

BH: Sounds like you were a reader and observer of science fiction culture long before you got to Clarion, where you were able to participate fully in the culture. When you got to Clarion, was it immediately wonderful, or was it terrifying that you have to share your work and such?

TC: It was amazing. I definitely consider Clarion to be a life-changing experience. I felt like – this is kind of a cliché – I felt like I found the family I didn’t know I had. I was surrounded by people with whom I had more in common than anyone else I’d known in my entire life. That was great. Many people say that science fiction is their tribe, and I definitely feel that way. These people are my people; this is my tribe.

BH: Who did you meet and work with there that shaped you as a writer, that had an influence over the way you think?

TC: My Clarion instructors were Tom Disch, Karen Joy Fowler, Octavia Butler, Spider Robinson, Kate Wilhelm, and Damon Knight. I became friends with Karen Joy Fowler and am in regular contact with her. I certainly learned a lot from all of my instructors, but I wouldn’t say that my work strongly resembles any of their work. So in that sense I can’t point to a visible influence; the influence was more indirect.

BH: Clarion is still going strong …

TC: Yes. I actually taught it for the first time just a few months ago.

BH: How was that experience like, being on the other side of the workshop?

TC: It was interesting. I was definitely a little nervous, but I enjoyed it. I had a good class of students and I was impressed by how sophisticated they were. I’ve heard it said that the caliber of students attending Clarion has risen steadily over the years and I can easily believe it, because the class I taught was definitely stronger than the class I was a part of as a student.

I had a good time teaching. For a long time, I was resistant to the idea of teaching writing because I just feel like writing is so subjective. I felt that if I were to teach anything, it’d be math or physics, because there I could tell you why this is the right answer and that’s the wrong answer, whereas in writing things are not so clear cut. And when I was a student I was in awe of my instructors, and one reason I resisted teaching was that I didn’t feel qualified to make the kind of pronouncements my instructors made. Eventually I was persuaded that Clarion students nowadays know that no instructor has the definitive word on whether a story works or not. And that turned out to be true. My students, who weren’t in awe of me, understood that anything I said was just one opinion.

I’ve also been to a number of workshops over the years—like the Sycamore Hill Workshop and the Rio Hondo Workshop, which are one-week, invitation-only workshops where writers work together, share stories and critique each other’s work. The experience that provided of reading drafts of other writers’ stories and giving them feedback on it was what made me feel like I could teach Clarion.

BH: I certainly sympathize as a teacher. To respond to others’ writing and to be able to explain how and why it does or doesn’t work is an art unto itself. But it is so rewarding when reader and writer reach that point where being awestruck is not part of the exchange and they get each other and connect in a meaningful way.

So at Clarion, you talk to and work with science fiction devotees. How would you tell folks who don’t know much about science fiction why you make the genre your home?

TC: I make science fiction my home because it’s been said that a genre is an ongoing conversation, one where novels and stories are responses to previous works. And in that sense, science fiction is a conversation that I continue to pay attention to, and that I want to participate in.

Shortly after teaching Clarion last summer I attended a science and technology conference in South Korea, where I’d been invited to speak about science fiction. One of the things I talked about was how my sense of science fiction differs from the popular conception of it. I think most people’s ideas of science fiction are formed by Hollywood movies, so they think most science fiction is a special effects-driven story revolving around a battle between good and evil, or something along those lines. While I like a story of good versus evil as much as the next guy, I don’t think of that as a science fiction story. You can tell a good-versus-evil story in any time period and in any setting. Setting it in the future and adding robots to it doesn’t make it a science fiction story.

I think science fiction is fundamentally a post-industrial revolution form of storytelling. Some literary critics have noted that the good-versus-evil story follows a pattern where the world starts out as a good place, evil intrudes, the heroes fight and eventually defeat evil, and the world goes back to being a good place. Those critics have said that this is fundamentally a conservative storyline because it’s about maintaining the status quo. This is a common story pattern in crime fiction, too—there’s some disruption to the order, but eventually order is restored.

Science fiction offers a different kind of story, a story where the world starts out as recognizable and familiar but is disrupted or changed by some new discovery or technology. At the end of the story, the world is changed permanently. The original condition is never restored. And so in this sense, this story pattern is progressive because its underlying message is not that you should maintain the status quo, but that change is inevitable. The consequences of this new discovery or technology—whether they’re positive or negative—are here to stay and we’ll have to deal with them.

This is a quintessentially science fiction storyline and it makes sense only in the wake of the industrial revolution. To a pre-industrial society, this kind of story would be incomprehensible, because no one had ever seen the world change in their lifetime. After the industrial revolution, we understand this story because we’ve all seen the world change. That’s what I think is at the heart of science fiction and what I usually tell people who aren’t familiar with it, whose ideas are mostly informed by Hollywood.

There’s also a subset of this progressive story pattern that I’m particularly interested in, and that’s the “conceptual breakthrough” story, where the characters discover something about the nature of the universe which radically expands their understanding of the world. This is a classic science fiction storyline. In Asimov’s “Nightfall,” for example, the characters undergo a conceptual breakthrough. They discover that their world is merely one planet in a universe that is vastly larger than what they had imagined before. Or James Blish’s “Surface Tension,” in which the characters are microscopic organisms living in a pond. They build a craft to leave the pond, which means overcoming the powerful surface tension of the water’s surface. When they do, they discover that the world is vastly larger than they had conceived.

That is a story pattern I like a lot, because one of the cool things about science fiction is that it lets you dramatize the process of scientific discovery, that moment of suddenly understanding something about the universe. That is what scientists find appealing about science, and I enjoy seeing the same thing in science fiction.

BH: Your description of the boilerplate Hollywood good-versus-evil story pattern is essentially the structure of a medieval romance, from which these modern romance patterns spring. And as you say, the struggle between clearly delineated good and evil, or, more specifically, the structure of the hero’s trials and eventual victory, are immediately recognizable no matter what new tropes or settings you wrap it in. Star Wars is probably the most well-known example of this. Star Wars offers no new way of seeing our world, no conceptual breakthrough in our understanding of it. In spite of the droids and Wookies and the Millenium Falcon, its moral and existential scopes are not far from the familiar romance patterns. It’s one of the oldest stories ever told.

TC: Just curious: Have your students seen Star Wars? When I was talking with some college students in South Korea, many of the said they’ve never seen Star Wars because it predates them.

BH: Well, most of the students who end up in my science fiction classes are self-selecting, so most have not only seen it, but know it inside out. Some are aware that Star Wars is a very familiar form of romance in the way you talked about, while for others this is not something they’d thought about because they are, well, romanced by the stories of rebellion, royalty, and roguery. But when you point out to them that this is not the kind of science fiction that, say, you write, or the kind that “Nightfall” represents, they see the distinctions.

The class discussions on “Nightfall” in my classes have been interesting. For one thing, you really see the influence of binary paradigms like the good versus evil pattern on ways of reading fiction. Some students reduce the story to a fable about a battle between scientific and religious explanations of the world, and impose the good and the evil on one or the other depending on their religious or secular persuasions. A few bristle against what they see as Asimov’s condescending attack on religion. The atheist students, of course, think that this is exactly what makes the story great. [Both laugh]

I ask the students to take a closer look at whether the scientists in the story deliberately set out to disprove the religious cult’s version of the impending “nightfall” or if they are after something else. The students do point out that the attack is felt by the cult and not necessarily intended by the scientists. But everyone agrees that the scientists’ methods and findings do threaten to invalidate the cult’s narrative of the phenomenon. So the central tension is between the cult’s narrative, which freezes the event in myth and discourages new discoveries, and the scientists’ narrative, which is still being written and is open to new conceptions of the world.

Star Wars is a myth. It formularizes and makes static a particular type of story about our human experience.

TC: Yes. At the conference in South Korea, I also mentioned that, with the good-versus-evil story, it’s very easy to tell a sequel to that story. The world is a good place again until another evil comes along and it’s up to the heroines to defeat this evil again, and they defeat it, and you’re back where you started, and you can tell it over and over again. But in a science fiction story–especially in a conceptual breakthrough story—the sequel would not, cannot look the same because at the end of the first story, we’re in a completely different place relative to where we started. You can tell a different story as a sequel, but you can’t tell the same story over again.

Again, this is only comprehensible to someone who has lived since the industrial revolution. In the past, people didn’t conceive of the future as being different from the present. The only way they imagined the future might be different was if the world were going to end, like if they were a millenialist cult who thought they were living in the end times.

So when you mention myth or mythic structure, yes, I don’t think myths can do that, because in general, myths reflect a pre-industrial view of the world. I don’t know if there is room in mythology for a strong conception of the future, other than an end-of-the-world or Armageddon scenario …

BH: Eschatological projections …

TC: Yes.

BH: In terms of stories that move you out of your comfort or familiar zone, what other types of science fiction do you read and enjoy—even if you don’t write that type of science fiction?

TC: [Laughs] When you say “other types of science fiction,” I’m not sure what you mean. What other types are there? What type of science fiction do you see me writing?

BH: Well, one distinction that’s out there, whether people consciously make them or not, is the kind of mainstream speculative narrative that offers a consideration of a hot topic in social or environmental politics or is driven by a particular point of view. The post-apocalyptic narrative has quite a lot of cachet right now because it expresses various concerns about our environment and taps into that anxiety about the end times you just mentioned.

The print fiction that gets adapted to film these days are usually post-apocalyptic stories conducive to spectacular cinematic representations. They are usually billed as science fiction, but they are really disaster films dressed up with some familiar science fictional tropes such as alien invasions or collisions with objects in space. And since these are usually big Hollywood studio films, they share very similar structural patterns with the mythic narratives we talked about earlier. The disasters are essentially disruptions of peace and order, and so the desire produced in the audience is the desire to restore the world to the state before the cataclysm, a desire for the return of the status quo.

And there are the space operas and the political allegories that dramatize encounters with difference, with alienness of some form, and with the inevitable social conflicts that arise.

Your fiction, to me at least, is that you start with a scientific concept and not necessarily a social concept. “Story of Your Life,” for instance, begins with Fermat’s Principle of Least Time, which serves as a governing metaphor for the entire story. As the framing concept, it helped me understand the story as both a scientific and a narrative exercise. That’s a different approach than, say, Octavia Butler’s work, which is largely based on current developments in genetics and human biology; but I would say that her main preoccupation is social relations concerning race, gender and the consequences of social and biological mixing.

TC: Yeah, I’d say that’s a fair assessment.

BH: There is also a current trend in which writers who don’t write in the genres of science fiction or speculative fiction more broadly contribute a novel that appears to participate in the exercise of speculative thinking, if not scientific thinking. There’s Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go, or Colson Whitehead’s Zone One. There’s Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, which is often read as a consideration of how life and social relations might be realigned after a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions.

TC: It’s interesting that you mention McCarthy’s The Road, because I’ve had a number of conversations with people about it. To me, it’s not science fiction at all; it’s a novel about McCarthy’s protective feelings toward his son. My reading is that McCarthy is not interested in writing about the end of the world. He’s not interested in nuclear war or environmental disasters. He depicts this desolate landscape as a metaphor for the hostility of the world, the world he is trying to protect his son from.

It might be worth talking about this in the context of other science fiction novels that get a lot of mainstream attention. In a post-apocalyptic science fiction novel, the author is often putting together a cautionary tale about some social trend, the destruction of the environment for example, that is currently underway and against which the author is trying to warn us. But McCarthy isn’t interested in any of that.

BH: Yes. Because he never points to the causes of the destruction. The destroyed world is just a premise.

TC: Yeah. In The Road, in some ways it’s a nonsensical premise because every living thing on earth, except for human beings, has died. All the animals are dead, and all the plants have been turned to ash. How could this possibly have happened? There’s no way a nuclear war or an ecological disaster could cause that. But he’s not interested in explaining that. He’s interested in the image of the world as unremittingly hostile and incredibly bleak, and about a father trying to protect his son in that world.

BH: That’s consistent with his aesthetic. No country for old men and their sons.

TC: Yeah. So he’s not actually interested in the future at all.

BH: What about the child? Is the child in some way a figure of his vision of the future?

TC: That’s not a child that grew up in a post-apocalyptic world, that’s a child that grew up in the here and now. There’s a scene in the novel where someone else is hurt and the child wants the father to help him. This is a child who ostensibly has lived his entire life in this nightmarish landscape. Every single human being that they have ever met, his father has treated as a threat; it has always been kill or be killed. A child raised under those circumstances would never ever think, “oh, there’s someone who’s hurt, let’s help them.” He wouldn’t feel compassion or empathy for anyone.

BH: He doesn’t have experiences of that. But at the beginning of the novel, there are descriptions of his father reading “stories of courage and justice” to him …

TC: On how to be a “good guy.”

BH: Yeah, on “carrying the fire.” The suggestion is that the child has vicarious memory of the residues of a moral system through his father’s storytelling. Whether this is plausible is up for debate. Probably not. But thematically this is, I think, a writer’s way of demonstrating the power of narrative as a vehicle for passing down values, ethics, beliefs.

TC: I agree. It’s not a psychologically realistic account of a child raised in a blasted hellscape, it’s McCarthy’s way of saying that his son gives him hope. That’s not to say that it’s not worth writing about. But it’s not really a science fiction story.

BH: Yes. Philip K. Dick had said that science fiction is a protest medium for criers of doom. If The Road is read as such, the protest would be the projections of readers.

Most readers tend to see science fiction in that light—as cautionary tales. I don’t necessarily read your fiction in that light. Do you see any of your stories as cautionary?

TC: I’m weary of the cautionary science fiction you see in Hollywood because much of that is very anti-technology. The message of many of those cautionary tales is that technology is bad and science causes nothing but trouble, and that’s not a message I agree with at all. That kind of story is easy to sell to Hollywood because it offers a very straightforward bogey-man that people can be afraid of. If there’s someone we can easily blame, then that’s a very comforting story, a very reassuring and familiar kind of story.

BH: We’re back to the good-versus-evil story pattern.

TC: Realistically speaking, no technology is all bad or all good. The more interesting science fiction story tries to show both sides of technology—the positive and negative consequences, and an ambiguous future as a result. To me, that is the more honest kind of science fiction. But ambiguity doesn’t make for a Hollywood blockbuster.

BH: We’ve spent a lot of time so far talking about other people’s work. Which of your stories are you most proud of? Which were the most difficult to write?

TC: I’d say “Story of Your Life” is my high water mark. That is the story that aimed the highest and achieved the most. There are some stories of mine which were more successful at doing what I wanted them to do, but they had more modest aims. In “Story of Your Life,” I’m not sure I achieved all that I set out to do, but I had very high aspirations for it.

BH: You said in another interview that that was a tremendously difficult story for you to write.

TC: It definitely was.

BH: What was the nature of the difficulty? What did you set out to achieve?

TC: I had an ending in mind and an effect I wanted to achieve, but I was aware that it would be very difficult to do. Writing about losing a child is risky, and the unconventional narrative structure was also a challenge. On top of that it was from the point of view of a woman, and a linguist. I didn’t know much about linguistics when I started, so I was conscious of the high degree of difficulty.

BH: I’m intrigued by your choice of a linguist for your first-person narration when you say you know little about linguistics. How did you come to connect it with the governing concept of the story?

TC: The initial concept had to do with Fermat’s Principle, which is something I’d read about many years ago that I thought was a fascinating bit of physics. I’ve always wanted to write a story about it, but I didn’t know how. Eventually, it occurred to me that I could use it to write a story about a person who could see her future and who would face a very tough choice because of that. She has to consider whether to go ahead with a decision, knowing that it would bring a lot of joy, but also a lot of pain. That was the initial impulse.

Then I decided it should be a parent deciding whether to have a child. It seemed that that would be the most dramatic situation of that type—deciding whether to have a child, knowing that that child would die before them.

Then I had to decide how this character comes to be able to know the future. I briefly considered a mind-altering drug, or a form of meditation, but neither of those seemed interesting to me. Then I remembered the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis, which posits that the language you speak influences the way you see the world. I thought it’d be interesting if my protagonist gained the ability to see the future through learning an alien language. That was where the linguistics came in.

BH: The new way of seeing the world in the story involves a radical temporal shift, too. Louise, the linguist, learns from the alien Heptapods not only a way to see the future, but perhaps more challengingly, a way to know the future, the past and the present simultaneously.

Many of my students read Louise’s newfound condition of knowing the future to be a tragedy. They know that Louise does not see it that way. I don’t see it as a tragedy either. But many of the students do. What were some of the reactions to this story and to some of your other work that deal with this idea of knowing the future, of knowing how things will end, of knowing one’s path, that you are aware of?

TC: To this question of whether knowing your future is thought of as a tragedy, I guess that depends on what your future is. If your future is going to be all happy and wonderful and puppies in a rose garden, then knowing that would probably be great. But if your future is filled with misery, then knowing that would be, well, not great. Most of us fall somewhere in between; we know that there’s going to be both happiness and sadness in our future. We don’t know specifically what types, but most of us reasonably assume that both lie ahead of us.

BH: Louise does decide to go ahead and “make” her daughter (she and her husband Gary decide to “make a baby” despite what she knows about the fate of the child). But here is the paradox at the heart of Louise’s story: I just said that she decided—she chose—to go ahead and make the child, suggesting that there is agency on her part to create the future. But, on the other hand, the future has been set and theoretically there is nothing she could change. Or, perhaps a different way to look at it is that there is no reason for her to try to change anything because her path has been laid. There is perhaps no way of knowing whether her decisions precede the path or the path precedes her decisions.

TC: That is one of the things the story is about. When we say that bad things are going to happen in the future, implicit in that is the notion that you can’t change it, you can’t avoid it. Because if you could avoid it, well then of course there’d be no tragedy. You could say, “well, I’ll simply take all the necessary steps to avoid any unhappiness from this point on,” and your life will be a bed of roses.

BH: Somehow we understand that to be absurd. In a way, “Story of Your Life” was comforting to me because it allows me to see the life we live as a combination of autonomy and fate, and how the two are mutually constituted and enabled. The two concepts are somehow fused rather than set in opposition, as they often are in stories about free will and determinism. It’s less about finding out something about the future so that you can choose to change or keep it, but more about achieving a greater understanding of the arc of your life.

This reminds me of another story of yours, “The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate,” in which one character tells another that using the time-travel Gate is not about trying to change things, but about understanding the present in relation to the past and the future.

TC: In a sense, both “Story of Your Life” and “The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate” are attempts to depict a scenario where knowing your own future is not a tragedy. Because at first glance, if you knew your own future and couldn’t change it, it seems like it’d be a tragedy because you’d live in dread of the inevitable. But the two stories try to frame the situation in a way that is not about awaiting your doom. They are attempts to find the positive in this predicament, to find some way of living with it.

BH: I’m sure this strikes a heavy chord with folks who believe that the future is not yet set and is completely contingent on the choices they make of their own free will. Those enamored with the illusion that they are sovereign agents of free will would of course bristle against stories that suggest otherwise. There’s this primarily Western attachment of individualistic “choice” or “will” to the very reason for a good life. If you cannot exercise will, then you have no reason to live. The other side of free will can only be oppression and enslavement. Less celebrated is the idea that you have a role to play in an arc, a community, a history—a role you can play abjectly or subjectively.

TC: Well, the question of free will of course has been turned over by philosophers for pretty much forever. Everyone wants to believe we have free will. Everyone resists the idea that our futures are determined. But the more you understand about the world, the weaker the case for free will becomes – at least the na??ve notion of free will. The goal is to find a definition of free will that is satisfying to us and is compatible with everything else we know about the universe. So, yes, there’s a sense in which those two stories of mine are fictional attempts to argue for the compatibility of free will and determinism.

BH: I ask my students if they would learn the Heptapod language (the language that enables one to see past, present, and future simultaneously) if they had the opportunity, and most say a resounding no, consistent with their belief that to know the future is to have no reason to go on living. If you had to opportunity to learn it, would you?

TC: [Laughs] I don’t know. As I was saying earlier, as you get older you get a stronger sense of what lies ahead of you in your life. You know tragedies will befall you. To that extent, we already know our futures. Not in detail, but in very broad strokes. We know what our future holds, and we continue anyway.

BH: Mortality is of course the knowledge we all have. Those with terminal illnesses who are aware of the time left to them nevertheless go on living.

TC: There’s a sense in which we’re all in that situation already. And people don’t kill themselves.

BH: You’ve said in other interviews that you begin the writing process for a story by writing the ending first.

TC: Yes.

BH: This seems to map nicely onto the themes you deal with in “Story of Your Life”—knowing the ending, knowing the future.

TC: Well, I don’t really see writing in those terms. The way I see it, if you’re writing a mystery story and you have no idea who the murderer is and are hoping to figure it out along the way, then the odds are not good that the culprit you eventually decide on will match all the clues you laid out. Not all stories are mysteries or whodunits, but I tend to approach my stories in a similar fashion. I need to know “who done it” before I can start.

Obviously, not all writers do it this way, and it works for them. But I suppose I write the way a mystery writer does.

BH: I’m curious, then, about some of the stories I see as more open-ended, such as “Liking What You See: A Documentary,” or The Lifecycle of Software Objects, in which a range of views is presented and no view emerges at the end that appears to be the one you wholly endorse. How do you determine the endings of these stories? There is a sense that these stories haven’t concluded. In “Liking What You See,” for instance, why did you end with Tamara Lyons’s voice? And in Lifecycle, there is a sustained ambivalence between whether Derek or Ana represented the best course forward for the digients. They aren’t foreclosed in the way that the time-oriented stories like “Story of Your Life” and “The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate” are.

TC: Yes, these are ambivalent stories. In those cases, I wanted to end on a feeling of uncertainty, of having to decide between two opposing positions. And in that respect, I would say that the ending of these stories actually has something in common with the ending of “Story of Your Life.” The end of “Story of Your Life” asks you to choose between two interpretations: is this a tragedy, or is this a happy ending? Is it a good thing or a bad thing for Louise to have a child? “Liking What You See” and Lifecycle offer a different category of choice, but the intention is still to create the feeling that there is a legitimate case for both sides.

BH: Which is why these stories are realistically discomfiting for me, but also satisfying in their truthfulness. Nothing is settled in the end because you’ve made such a strong case for both sides. In the case of Lifecycle, I swung between Ana’s and Derek’s points of view throughout the story, and I’m still swinging.

TC: That was the reaction I was hoping for. I don’t think most issues are clear cut, because usually there are good arguments to be made on both sides. This ties in with what I said earlier about science fiction that depicts both the positive and negative consequences of technology, as opposed to only the negative ones. That’s actually my underlying position on most things. When I propose these thought experiments in my stories, it’s not because I have a definitive conclusion. I think there’s merit to examining an idea from different angles.

BH: Let me focus on “Liking What You See: A Documentary” for a moment. You are aware that Clark University, my home institution, has used the story as the reading that incoming first-year students respond to in their essays for their writing placement, right?

TC: Yes.

BH: In the essays, students generally oppose the mandated use of “calli”—an abbreviation of “calliagnosia,” a device, named after the condition it enables, that “shuts off” the ability to discern and evaluate facial beauty. In my classes, I also assigned your interview with Interzone, in which you make the useful distinction between the perceiver and the perceived and calls out the power of the gaze and the person doing the looking, to help students try to sort out the benefits and detriments of calli from the position of the perceiver and the perceived.

In class discussions, generally it has been the women who tended to be more open to trying calli, while the men took much more convincing to entertain the idea to try it. This may be predicable because women, on the whole, understand more deeply how it’s like to be the object of the male gaze. The men understand it intellectually, but feel that the price of giving up the ability to distinguish beauty is too high a price to pay for something like gender equality. And many – this includes both the men and the women – say that doing away with the ability to see facial beauty will only redirect our natural discriminatory tendencies elsewhere. Most decide in the end that they would not use calli. What are some of the readers’ responses to calli that you’re aware of?

TC: That sounds pretty consistent with what I’ve heard. Most people’s instinctive reaction to the idea of calli is: Why would you ever want that? When I was writing the story, I knew most people’s reaction would be anti-calli, and so I put a lot of thought into making the case for calli. Because who doesn’t like looking at a pretty face? And we all want to believe that our judgment is not impaired by that, that we are still able to judge people on their merits. But there’s a lot of data that shows that that is not the case. And yet most people instinctively feel that they don’t need such a device, and don’t want to consider the possibility that their instinctive reactions may be unjust. It makes total sense to me that people would oppose the use of calli and would not be interested in trying it …

BH: Because they see the proposal to use calli as an accusation of their inability to be fair. To agree to its use would be to acknowledge that their judgments are impaired.

TC: It’s definitely an odd thing to ask people to think about, because this is something that very few people give much thought to. Yet it’s been a subject of interest to me for a long time.

BH: So are you more swayed by one position?

TC: Well, I’m sincere in my arguments for the use of calli. I sympathize with all the characters in the story that make an argument for calli. I feel the way they feel and identify with all of them. And I do think that lookism—discrimination based on attractiveness—exists and is a legitimate issue, a locus of actual injustice in the same way that sexism and racism are. But no one ever talks about lookism that way. It is a form of prejudice that we’re all happy with. We have a preference for attractive people over unattractive people and we are unashamed to admit it. People would be very reluctant to admit a preference for one race over another, but no one has any compunction about saying that they prefer attractive people to unattractive people. It seems like the most natural thing in the world. We can’t help it, and we don’t even want to help it. But I think it is an injustice. We all agree that racism and sexism are something we need to work against, but hardly anyone takes up lookism.

BH: Perhaps a distinction between racism and lookism is that the prevailing understanding of racism is that it is learned, whereas lookism is, as you put it, more instinctual. Our racial hierarchies are social constructed and our racial prejudices are learned through that social system. The same could be said of sexism too. But beauty – you seem to suggest that our responses to beauty are not learned, but instinctual. Positive reactions to beauty—which studies have shown to be defined in terms of symmetry and proportions—are not socially indoctrinated. Rather, it’s something we’re hardwired for.

TC: Yes.

BH: And so it feels egregious to tamper with the hardwiring?

TC: Yes. To the extent that racism is socially constructed, we feel that the cure ought to be social as well. By comparison, our preference for attractive people has a stronger biological basis than racism, but there is definitely a social component to it too. Every culture in the world has a preference for beauty, but the degree of preference and the emphasis on it vary quite a lot. America worships beauty in a way that most other countries do not, and that is definitely socially constructed. The media environment we live in shapes our attitudes beyond our hardwiring. Once I had a conversation with a Cuban writer about her reaction to “Liking What You See.” She had spent much of her life in Cuba, but she now lives in the U.S. She said that after some time in the U.S., she became much more conscious of her appearance than she was when she lived in Cuba.

This is similar to a story I once saw on 60 Minutes about two friends from Cuba who moved to the U.S. One is white, the other black. When they were in Cuba, the racial difference wasn’t an obstacle to their friendship. But after living in the U.S. for a while, they found it hard to remain friends because race is a much bigger issue here than it is in Cuba. Likewise, beauty is a bigger issue here than it is in Cuba. We have a socially constructed lookism which Cuba does not have. In that respect, there is definitely a social component to lookism, which should be correctable through purely social means rather than through neurological alterations.

BH: And yet, despite so much evidence to the fact that lookism is prevalent, even the women in my classes who are open to trying calli equivocate because they feel that they are going against some kind of sacrosanct belief in our culture …

TC: Certainly in our country, we don’t want anyone infringing on our personal autonomy.

BH: That is still the reigning ideology.

TC: Yes. America is a very individualistic society. Our entire culture is built on individualism.

BH: This is a good way into the other open-ended story, The Lifecycle of Software Objects, which is about, among other things, the autonomy of the titular “software objects.”

What are the seeds of it? I read elsewhere that you have been unhappy with the way artificial intelligence is represented in popular media.

TC: I’ve had a longstanding dissatisfaction with depictions of artificial intelligence in science fiction, because they are usually depicted as very easy and convenient to create and use. You just flip a switch and you have an absolutely loyal and competent butler at your service. But based on what we know about intelligence, we’re pretty sure that’s never going to happen.

If we’re talking about an artificial being that is actually conscious, all evidence indicates that it would have to be taught the way an infant is taught. It’ll have to learn how to talk, how to walk. It’ll have to learn that objects fall when you drop them, the way an infant learns. Not necessarily the exact same way, but it’ll have to go from a state of knowing nothing to gradually gaining the everyday knowledge that we have. Teaching an artificial intelligence all of this is going to take years, and those will be years of hard work. Who would put that much effort to do this? Why would anyone spend that much time teaching an A.I. how to walk and talk? What’s the business case for doing that? It would be extraordinarily expensive to pay someone to spend years teaching an A.I. what parents teach their children, and it’d be an enormous risk if you have no guarantee that the results will be useful. And the first time around, you won’t have any guarantee.

BH: So why do people like Derek and Ana do it?

TC: Well, if a business could get people to do that work for free, then it might make more fiscal sense. For that to happen, the A.I.s would have to be cute, like virtual pets. People spend a lot of time with Tamagotchis and Nintendogs or the Sims—software that is cute but not conscious at all. If a company makes its A.I.s sufficiently cute, people will want to spend time training them. They might even pay the company for the opportunity to do so.

A company that sells Nintendogs or Tamagotchis wants its customers to form attachments with the products. Virtual pets are designed to make you feel guilty if you neglect them. But as long as the virtual pets aren’t conscious, that sense of guilt or obligation is an illusion. Once you have a virtual pet that’s conscious, your obligation is real. I would say you have an ethical duty to it, in the same way that you have an ethical duty to a cat or dog you adopt. And that will inevitably complicate the situation for all the reasons described in the story.

Because the digients—the A.I. virtual pets in the story—are completely artificial, many people will feel free to treat them as purely disposable and deserving of no protection at all. Their being artificial also means that you’re going to run into problems like technological obsolescence and platform migration—issues that don’t arise with cats or dogs. And if you have an ethical obligation and an emotional attachment to something that is platform dependent, then you’ll be faced with some tough decisions.

BH: A way to overcome the platform dependency is for the digients to be housed permanently in a robotic carapace. I can’t recall why it was impossible for them to be permanently downloaded into one of those…

TC: It wasn’t impossible, but unsatisfactory. They couldn’t go around unattended, and their options are actually more limited than if they were in a virtual environment where they could play, go anywhere and do what they wanted. In a robot body, they can’t really leave the house, and none of their friends are there.

BH: So, in a sense, for them to permanently inhabit the real world in a robot body would be the equivalent of exchanging a life with more freedom and ease in the virtual environment for a life of a handicapped child that needs constant parental supervision.

TC: Yes, because our world is not their natural environment. Their primary existence is in a virtual world and they’re always going to be at a disadvantage in the physical world. A physical body is expensive and it’s easy to damage, and our world is not set up for autonomous robots to run around unsupervised.

BH: I’m also thinking about Marco and Polo, the digients who at the end of the story decide to take the offer of Binary Desire, a company that makes virtual and physical sex dolls, as a gesture toward determining their own fates, versus Jax, who was not given that opportunity by his guardian, parent, owner—I’m not sure what to call their human caretakers.

TC: Yes, Ana decides not to let him. It’s not so much up to the digients as it is up to the humans who own them. Ana makes one decision and Derek makes another. Derek lets Marco and Polo choose, but he’s the one who gives them that choice. He decides that they are mature enough for it. Ana decides that Jax is not. So the difference is not so much between Jax and Marco and Polo, but between Ana and Derek. I don’t know that Marco and Polo are more mature than Jax.

BH: Do you still remain suspended between Ana’s and Derek’s viewpoints?

TC: Well, I hope I’ve made a case for both sides. The scenario in the story is really unexplored territory in terms of human experience. We have no precedents for what to do in that situation, we don’t know what is ethical or what constitutes good parenting for an artificial intelligence.

BH: You’d have to know the capacities of your “child”…

TC: Yes, and the thing is, the first time we do it, we’ll have no idea what their capacities are. If people continue to raise artificial intelligences later on, they’ll know more about the potential capabilities of the artificial intelligence. Based on that, they could make more informed decisions. But in the absence of any of that information, what do we have to go on? For the first generation, people will just have to go on their gut. And that’s what Ana and Derek do.

Interview (Part Two of Two): Ted Chiang

My conversation with Ted Chiang continues with extended discussions of Chiang’s Hugo-winning works, including the novella The Lifecycle of Software Objects and the short stories “Exhalation,” and “Hell is the Absence of God.” Chiang also shares his thoughts on a wide variety of subjects directly or elliptically related to SF: AIs and robots, slavery and equal rights, the dearth of SF writers of color, social experiments gone bad, and the struggle with publishers over creative control.

Accompanying this part of the interview is an excerpt from Min Hyoung Song’s new book, The Children of 1965: On Writing, and Not Writing, as an Asian American (Duke UP, 2013), in which Song offers a reading of Chiang’s novella, The Lifecycle of Software Objects.

Betsy Huang: Let’s pick up where we left off. We were talking about The Lifecycle of Software Objects, about obsolescence, ethical obligations and emotional attachments. Any lingering thoughts on Lifecycle from our last conversation?

Ted Chiang: One of things I was thinking about when I was writing the story was this conversation I had with a friend many years ago. I said to this friend, “How do you know when a relationship is serious? How can you tell when it’s more than just a casual thing?” And she said, “I think it’s when you can have a big fight and get over it.” I thought this was a very interesting observation. Your ability to get over a fight is an indicator of how much effort you are willing to put into maintaining a relationship.

I think this criterion—how much effort you are willing to put into it—can be applied to a lot of different types of relationships, not just romantic ones. Let’s say you are involved in a child’s life, maybe it’s your nephew or niece or something like that. Are you willing to continue to sustain that relationship even when it becomes inconvenient and frustrating for you? If you are, that indicates the relationship is something you value, something you take seriously.

Or think about being a pet owner. Some people get rid of their pets as soon as the pets become inconvenient, and we tend to regard them as poor pet owners. Other people will stick with their pets even when they’re sick and require a lot of care, and we regard them as good pet owners because they take their obligations to their pets seriously. So I think of this as generally a useful metric for evaluating the seriousness of all types of relationships.

One of the things that occurred to me is that the relationships depicted in science fiction between human beings and artificial intelligences never have that dimension to it. It’s always an entirely one-sided relationship, with the AIs as obedient servants. Of course there are also stories in which the AIs are malevolent, but let’s leave those aside. Among the stories in which the AIs aren’t the enemy, I can’t recall a story in which human characters had to really make an effort to maintain their relationship with an AI, one where it would have been easier to give up, but the humans made the choice to work through some obstacle to keep the relationship going.

It seems to me that unless human beings are willing to do that, I’m not sure that we can say that we really respect AIs. It doesn’t matter whether their capabilities are comparable to or less than those of humans. If you’re claiming that they have real status as agents and aren’t simply objects or things, at some point you’ll have to endure some inconvenience. You have to accept that that your relationship with them isn’t solely about you. If no one is willing to do that, you cannot make a credible claim that AIs have any real legitimacy as persons.

This is what I wanted to explore when I worked on Lifecycle. The protagonists make significant efforts on behalf of their AIs and have real relationships with them.

BH: The relationships you depict in the novel—are they ways of exploring the degree to which humans are capable of forming attachments and acknowledging obligations to non-human beings?

TC: Well, it’s not so much about whether we are capable of that level of commitment, but about whether we are willing. It’s an indication of whether you view the other party as just a tool, or as something more than that. For example, the relationship between employers and employees can be pretty asymmetrical; a lot of companies feel they have no ethical obligations to the people who work for them. If you treat AIs as employees that you can turn off whenever you want, then you can’t say that you are thinking them as persons.

BH: We’ve been trained to see them as servants, employees, objects. The whole history of AI in SF is very rooted in AIs as servants or some class or form of menial labor. Or intellectual labor.

TC: Yes, definitely.

BH: They are always depicted in some kind of a service role. This started with Rossum’s Universal Robots all the way through Asimov’s robots to Clarke’s and Kubrick’s HAL 9000 to Dick’s androids. The entrenched notion about AIs is that they are slaves and, in more polite company, servants. It’s difficult to overcome this perception of them in the popular imagination. What you are doing in Lifecycle, then, is going against this long historical grain of why we create AIs.

But in Lifecycle, the digients are created for entertainment. Currently there seems to be two classes of AIs that people create for different purposes: one is for work, the other for entertainment.

TC: Yes. As I said last time, I don’t think you can create an AI that’s a useful servant right off the bat. I don’t think it’s possible to have a program that, the minute you flip it on, is fully conscious and competent and absolutely loyal….

BH: An employer’s fantasy of the perfect employee….

TC: Right. It’s also worth remembering that, in the real world, the robots and software created to do work don’t resemble people at all. On the assembly line, it’s more useful to have a robot that looks like a giant arm tipped with a pneumatic drill, not one that’s shaped like a human being. And when programmers in the real world talk about AI, they’re not talking about conscious software, they’re talking about stuff like the algorithms that let Google guess the rest of your query after you’ve typed in the first word.

BH: So why is there such a fascination in the popular SF imagination to create AIs in the likeness of humans? There is the familiar rationale of interface—that machines bearing human likeness would make it easier for humans to interact with them. There is also the rationale of building robots in our likeness in order to understand the functions and processes of the human mind and body. This is largely what guides the work of robotics researchers like Cynthia Breazeal and her Kismet.

I think it’s more than just the improvement of interactivity or the curiosity about human functionality. If we are creating AI for companionship that’s similar to what a real-life human can give you, what is behind that desire?

TC: As you noted, it’s a convention that goes back to Rossum’s Universal Robots. And I think the reason for the convention was that it was a metaphor for slavery. That was the original promise and appeal of robots—that they would be slaves without the guilt. You can call them servants, but they are essentially slaves because they have no options and no real autonomy. I think that is the unexamined assumption of science fiction that depicts humanoid robots or human-like AI. These works are suggesting that it might be possible to have slavery without guilt.

I don’t believe that that’s possible. I think that if an AI is both conscious and as capable as a person, then there will be ethical obligations and you will have just as much guilt. You would be just as ethically culpable as if you had enslaved a human being. I don’t think you can have one without the other. You can’t have conscious beings serving you without there being an ethical dimension to it.

BH: The reality is that historically, you had people who had slaves but who didn’t feel any guilt.

TC: Yes, of course. And we consider those people to have been behaving unethically.

BH: There are robot narratives that do explicitly address the ethical implications of a slave class. Some are parables or fables about slavery that are spun around a liberation plot and are essentially neo-slave narratives. And in these narratives, the ethical dimension is actually foregrounded because the question these stories take up is how we could have an entire class of people work for you without any rights and privileges and not feel any guilt about it. It’s a kind of shame that these narratives try to reveal.

TC: Yes, there is definitely a class of stories about AIs gaining rights. But there is a bigger class of stories in which AIs are purely servants and the issue of them getting rights is not addressed at all. They simply serve as helpful butlers. It’s this latter class of stories I’m thinking of and writing in response to—the kind that engages in the perpetuation of guilt-free slavery.

BH: Yes, I can see that. We aren’t encouraged to regard the digients in the same way we think of service robots and AI, like, say, HAL.

TC: Because HAL was competent and mature from the moment he was turned on. The androids in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? were also apparently fully competent the moment they were turned on. When you can activate something so easily, you feel you can deactivate it just as easily. But I don’t think that type of activation is actually possible. I think a competent, conscious being can only come about through twenty years of training, being “raised” by others and gaining experience over its lifetime. And once you have a being that was raised over a twenty-year period, then you will feel an ethical obligation to it.

BH: Electric Sheep makes a modest attempt at addressing this notion of growth and maturity. The androids are supposedly emotionally “immature” even though they are fully formed physically. That immaturity supposedly contributes to the perception that they can’t control their emotions and act out like small children.

TC: Or that they lack empathy and therefore fail the Voight-Kampff test.

BH: What do you think about empathy as a metric of humanness and the idea of a Voight-Kampff Test in general?

TC: If empathy were used as a test for humanity, we all know people who would fail it. There are plenty of people who are deficient in empathy. We can have a philosophical debate about whether we should deprive those people of human rights, but for the most part, we’re reluctant to do so. That may be related to the fact that we possess empathy.

Babies don’t possess empathy. Children don’t possess empathy, depending on the context, for a number of years. But we don’t consider that grounds to destroy them. Our pets often don’t possess empathy, but we keep them around anyway.

BH: John W. Campbell wrote an essay called “What Do You Mean … Human?”, which features a facetious chart in which he compares the humanness of an idiot, a robot, a chimpanzee, a human baby, and a man with prosthetic aids based on a set of criteria. The criteria include such things as capacity for logical thought and speech, the “’Do I Not Bleed’ Merchant of Venice test,” and so on.

TC: Let me see if I can find it on the web. [Googles it]

Found it. [Scans it] Interesting. Historically, we have never given rights to any disenfranchised group on the basis of a test. No one, for example, drew up a list and asked “Do slaves meet these criteria?” and decided that the slaves would be emancipated if they passed the test. For the women’s vote, no one drew up a list of capacities one needs to have in order to vote and then decided that women would deserve the right to vote when they passed the test. That has never been how disenfranchised groups gained rights.

BH: Campbell’s essay doesn’t come to that conclusion specifically but it makes the same point you do—that such lists are essentially useless, even in a purely philosophical discussion, let alone one about civil and human rights.

There have been “tests” that aimed to measure and “prove” subhumanness—the measure of cranial size and some would argue the I.Q. test as well. But these were used to take away rights or privileges, or to justify the discrimination or ill treatment of a target group.

TC: Right. When American slaves got emancipated, or when women got the right to vote, it had nothing to do with their ability to pass tests. It was the result of a popular emotional reaction against unjust laws. Before slavery could be outlawed, a large number of people had to feel that slavery was wrong. Before women could get the right to vote, a large number of people had to feel that depriving women of the right to vote was wrong. I think that in order for the disenfranchised to gain rights, there has to be a growing popular sentiment to support it.

BH: Yes. But let me add that the steps down that avenue are often first taken by the disenfranchised who come to realize the conditions of inequality that bind them, a realization that leads them to rise up. And they rise up often against the prevailing popular sentiment that they ought to stay in their place. Popular sentiment works both ways. The popular sentiment on their side always begins as a minority sentiment against a stronger, more pervasive one.

TC: Of course, and I don’t mean to discount that aspect. My point is that it was never based on some list of criteria. Even the disenfranchised have never drawn up a list and said, “Look at this list. We meet all these criteria. Therefore we deserve rights.” That has never been an effective strategy.

Take gay marriage. For someone opposed to gay marriage, one of the things that can change their mind is learning that someone in their family is gay. It is having extended interaction with a gay person that leads them to realize that gay people are just like straight people. And so eventually they come around to the idea that marriage is a right that gay people deserve. That type of personal experience is effective in a way that no intellectual argument can be.

Similarly, hypothetical rights for AI would not be based on passing a test. It won’t be a matter of a judge deciding whether a particular AI can compose a sonnet or tell a joke or give the right answer to a question about its feelings, and then granting it freedom. It’ll be when enough people have spent time with these AIs and come to realize that it is wrong for us to enslave them.

I’m not saying that this is a particularly likely future scenario. It’s more likely that we’ll never create conscious software, and if we do, it’s likely that we’ll treat it badly. But if we were ever to create actual conscious software, and if it were ever to get rights, I think it’ll have to come through that avenue, rather than the list or test that is often depicted.

BH: Large-scale robot uprisings, then, would seem equally implausible, particularly in the way they are depicted in popular science fiction such as The Matrix or the new Battlestar Galactica. More plausible and historically accurate are the neo-slave narratives of, say, Octavia Butler’s Kindred or Maureen McHugh’s Nekropolis, in which rights are gained slowly or in the interstices of an inflexible and entrenched system.

But why do we want conscious AIs? Conscious AI appear even in the more plausible imaginations of McHugh’s Nekropolis and, of course, your Lifecycle.

TC: I’m not sure that we do.

BH: In your novel, after the creation of the digients, other types of AI were developed that didn’t value consciousness in terms of social awareness. I’m thinking of the Sophonce AIs that were created after the digients became obsolete. The Sophonce AIs reminded me of, say, autistic savants—AI that have minimal or no social skills but are presumably very efficient in performing intellectual tasks.

TC: Yes, but even then there’s difficulty in finding any commercial application for them. There are efforts made to commercialize them, but it’s not at all a foregone conclusion. They may have certain autistic-savant capabilities, but a lot of autistic savants are not readily employable.

I put those in the story to make the point that an AI can be good at a lot of things, but still not be a useful servant. Being a useful servant is very, very difficult. And I don’t know that there is a good business case for conscious software. Google, for example, is very useful, but we don’t want Google to be conscious. People love their iPhones and find them extremely useful, but I don’t think people would find the phones more useful if they became conscious or self-aware. I don’t think consciousness is an asset in the context of productivity applications.

The only business case I can see for conscious software is on the entertainment side of things. And even for entertainment purposes, the business case for conscious AI would depend on a lot of things. We’d have to see if it actually is, say, more entertaining than non-conscious AI. People play with Nintendogs and Tamagotchis, which are not conscious, and those have sold very well. The question is, would conscious software be more entertaining than non-conscious software? If you had a Nintendog that was actually conscious, would that be more fun to have than a non-conscious one?

BH: My gut reaction is no. Perhaps there would be some initial fascination with the specific ways that the conscious Nintendog is like a real dog. But then you’d have to treat it like a real dog, which would require the kind of obligation and commitment you spoke of earlier. While that may offer a more meaningful relationship than the one you’d have with a non-conscious one, I’m not sure that it’d be “fun” because obligation isn’t always “fun.” So we come back to the idea of obligation that is somehow linked to an acknowledgment of the other party as a conscious being.

Even though Nintendogs don’t have consciousness, their owners ascribe consciousness to them. It’s a projection, of course, and I’m wondering what that projection reveals. It seems to me that the appeal is in the appearance or illusion of consciousness without the actual consciousness itself. It gives you what you want—the illusion of dealing with something conscious but at the same time remains guilt-free if you abandon it.

TC: Yes, I think you’re probably right, and I think we’ve concluded that conscious software is not commercially viable even for entertainment purposes. There doesn’t seem to be a good business case for it anywhere.

BH: If there is no good business case, is there any other good case to be made for it?

TC: I can’t think of one.

BH: And yet the premise of Lifecycle is that conscious AI are created. So, what are we to think about people like Ana or Derek, who not only create AI but commit themselves to the AIs? Are they na??ve, or are they people we are to admire?

TC: Well, in the story, one of the premises is that a company thinks there’s a business case for conscious software. The company makes digients and sells them in the hopes that people will find them so entertaining that they’ll pay money for them. It turns out in the story that they are wrong, because people eventually get bored with the digients. And the company folds, the way any company does when its product stops selling.

But there are a handful of people who don’t give up on their digients because they have bonded with the digients emotionally in a way that the majority of the customers did not. And so even though the majority of customers were able to shut off their digients and feel no guilt at all, there is a small number of people, including Ana and Derek, who were unwilling to turn off the digients.

In a way, Ana and Derek are collateral damage of a failed business venture. The company took a risk, gambled the way businesses do, but this venture was one where the failure had emotional costs as well as financial ones. Because if your business plan relies on people becoming emotionally invested in your product, there are going to be consequences when that product that is no longer supported.

BH: I kept thinking, as I read the story, of whether I’d be as devoted to my digient as Ana and Derek are. I found them kind of extraordinary in their devotion, though I suspect that some might find it foolish.

TC: I don’t think they are foolish at all. But I think that their emotional commitment has put them in a difficult position. Here’s an example of a similar situation. There was a chimpanzee, Lucy, who was taught sign language and raised alongside a child in a family to compare its development with that of a human infant. For the first few years of her life, Lucy never saw other chimpanzees and had exclusively human contact.

Eventually this experiment ended, and Lucy grew too strong and the family couldn’t keep her around anymore. So the primatologist who started this experiment decided to ship her off to Africa, even though she had never known another chimpanzee and was completely unprepared for life in the wild in Africa. There was a graduate student, Janis Carter, who accompanied the chimpanzee to Africa to spend a few weeks there to help the chimpanzee acclimate to the jungle. When it became obvious that a few weeks wouldn’t be enough, Janis Carter stayed longer, and she wound up living there for twenty years and running a chimpanzee sanctuary in Gambia, West Africa.

I admire Janis Carter enormously for what she’s done. She knew that Lucy wasn’t going to make it on her own, so she rearranged her entire life to help Lucy. I don’t think she’s foolish in any way, I think she’s a very admirable person. Her situation was the fallout of a really misguided decision that someone else made many years ago. Someone else decided to treat a chimpanzee as an object, thinking “yeah, we’ll raise it in our house next to our child for a few years, and then we’ll toss it.” Janis Carter uprooted her life to repair the consequences of someone else’s bad decision. I think that’s similar to what Ana and Derek are doing. They are fulfilling ethical obligations created by someone else. Does that make sense?

BH: It makes great sense. You’ve elaborated on a point not readily apparent in the novel—the notion that bad decisions can produce a variety of collateral damage and that their negative consequences are often left to others to repair.

That was quite a lot just on Lifecycle. [Laughs]

TC: It was. Would you like me to pick something else to talk about?

BH: Sure.

TC: Earlier you sent me a question about Asian Americans writing genre fiction and how there hadn’t been a lot of Asian Americans writing science fiction until recently. There were a few before me, but it’s definitely true that Asian Americans are underrepresented in the genre, as are most people of color.

Science fiction is a marginalized genre, and I feel that only recently has it gained any sort of respect at all. I think that SF is well suited to addressing questions of race or being the Other, but its lack of social respectability has made it a poor choice for people who want to address those issues. I think it’s hard enough to write about issues of race and get published, even when you’re working in respectable literary fiction. If you try to do it in genre, it’d be an even steeper uphill battle because there would be, I think, two axes of disenfranchisement to deal with.

I think these reasons may have contributed to the underrepresentation of writers of color in the genre. Science fiction wasn’t respectable, and if you’re trying to gain respect, science fiction will not be your first choice. If you’re looking to increase awareness of your experience, the reputation of science fiction will work against you.

BH: You don’t necessarily write SF for these reasons …

TC: I don’t write about race specifically.

BH: But in a sense, so much of SF has been concerned with race. It just deals with race in primarily an elliptical or metaphoric way through alien encounters, artificial intelligence, and the like.

TC: Yes, those topics can definitely be ways of indirectly discussing race. Although SF is also interested in those topics purely for their own sake, without them being metaphors for anything else. I think many readers outside of SF aren’t interested in aliens or robots unless they’re a metaphor for race.

BH: It seems that writers who choose to write a particular genre midway into their career are rare cases. Most genre writers are lifers—writers who began their career in the genres of their choice. Plenty of non-white and white science fiction writers’ works read like nuanced fables of racial concerns. And Butler and Delany have spoken eloquently about SF’s lack of respectability in the same way you described. But all of these writers didn’t suddenly choose science fiction to talk about race; rather, they have always been SF writers who have also consistently written about race.

For other writers who don’t identify themselves as SF writers first and foremost but who are making forays into the genre—writers we mentioned in part one of this interview, such as Junot Diaz and Colson Whitehead—it may very well be that it’s because the respectability of SF has risen in recent years.

Has being Asian American had any influence or impact on your writing?

TC: I can’t point to any specific examples of how it has influenced me. [Laughs] Did you ask your previous interviewees this question?

BH: Yes, and the answers range from not being able to point to anything specific, as it is in your case, to regarding it as thoroughly who they are and seeing it as a crucial aspect in everything they write. It clearly varies for everyone.

In my book, I said that you backed off from taking “Liking What You See: A Documentary” into the murky waters of racial politics. I cited your thoughts on this in an interview in which you said this in response to the interviewer’s question about whether we can read faceblindness in the story as a metaphor for raceblindness:

“While I agree that race blindness is an interesting idea, I didn’t think there was any way to make it even remotely plausible in neurological terms. Because there are just too many things that go into racism. It seems to me that to eliminate the perception of race at a neurological level, you’d have to rewrite the underpinnings of our social behavior.”

In some ways, I wish I could reframe the way I made my point. I wasn’t trying to say that you were too chicken shit to take up the issue of race. [Both laugh] Rather, I was trying to consider what it might take to write a truly plausible story, Ted Chiang-style, to consider racial matters in new ways.

TC: Well, take the quote of mine you cited in your book. In that example, I wasn’t talking about the artistic challenges of dealing with race, I was pointing to the issue of neurological plausibility. I haven’t written about race so far simply because I haven’t had an idea for a story in which the issue was essential. I might in the future, but I’m no good at setting out to write a story about a particular theme. I only write when inspiration hits, and so far the issue of race hasn’t done that for me.

BH: That’s fair. The notion of a writer’s social responsibilities is a long and storied debate, and every ethnic and minority writer has had to address this in a way that white male writers simply have not had to. The responsibility of writing about race—an important one, of course—should not be imposed on writers of color exclusively or taken lightly by anyone. It’s a wonderful thing when it is done well and reveals the complexities and absurdities of racial identification and differentiation, and it is a painful thing to witness when it is done badly, with specious assumptions and claims.

Moving on: I wanted to ask you about “Exhalation,” which I had just read and am still processing its complexities. It’s a very technical story. Could you walk me through the seeds of it?

TC: There were two seeds, I suppose. One was a Philip K. Dick story I read many years ago, called “The Electric Ant.” It’s about this guy who goes to the doctor after having hurt his arm, and the doctor says, “I can’t treat you. You’re a robot.” And the guy says, “What? I’m a robot?” The doctor tells him, “Yeah, the original you probably had you built to take his place while he’s off doing something else. Anyway, I don’t treat robots. You have to go to a robot repair shop.”

So he does, and when he gets home he ponders the fact that he’s a robot. He calls up the central computer and says, “Computer, identify what type of robot I am and tell me how to open myself up.” And the computer tells him, “push here and your chest plate should open.” So he does, his chest plate opens up, and when he looks inside his chest, he can see this little spool of punch tape slowly unraveling, which is his mind. I just thought that was a really cool image—this guy looking inside at his own self.

The other seed of the story came from a book I read by Roger Penrose called The Emperor’s New Mind. He spends a few chapters on background physics and has a chapter on entropy. He says that it’s not accurate to say that we eat food for energy. This is what we often say—that we consume food for energy. But he says that is not accurate because we radiate energy at exactly the same rate we take in energy. We’re not a battery that’s charging up as we eat food; we are in a state of equilibrium for the most part. We take in energy and we excrete energy. And so we can’t really say that we eat for energy because we’re throwing away energy constantly.

By the same token, it’s not accurate to say that the Earth needs the Sun’s energy. The Earth doesn’t store energy; it radiates energy at the same rate it receives energy from the Sun. And so the Earth is also in equilibrium. So what is it that we derive from food? What is it that the Earth derives from the Sun? It’s a low-entropy form of energy. The wavelengths of light that the Earth receives from the Sun have lower entropy than the wavelengths that the Earth radiates out into space. And the chemical energy we humans consume in food has lower entropy than the heat energy that our bodies are radiating all the time.

So, we are actually consuming food for its low entropy. That’s what we need, not the energy itself. I thought that this was a very interesting observation, and I wanted to explore the idea in fictional form.

BH: Okay, I’m trying to process the synthesis of those two concepts in the story. They re-orient what I thought I took from the story. I guess I was more taken with the “Electric Ant” premise, the idea of taking oneself apart as a kind of literalized self-reflexive exercise. The entropy dimension is really interesting.

This story, a recent one, has the flavor of some of your older stories in Stories of Your Life and Others. I’m thinking of “Hell is the Absence of God.” I remember finding your reference to the Book of Job in the story notes interesting, particularly your remark that you don’t understand why God restored everything he took from Job. That it doesn’t seem consistent with God’s character or something along those lines.

TC: It doesn’t seem consistent with what I see as the message of the Book of Job. The message is that sometimes misfortunes befall you, and even though you are faithful, even though you love God, being faithful doesn’t guarantee good fortune. Yet the Book of Job ends with Job receiving good fortune for his faith. So, I think that ending sends a mixed message. I think it would be more consistent if Job had been left with nothing.

BH: Can it be interpreted that the restoration of his belongings is as arbitrary as their removal?

TC: Job’s wife and kids were killed and he gets a new wife and kids, so I suppose it’s debatable whether that can really make up for the death of his previous wife and children. My recollection is that it is couched as a reward.

BH: My recollection of the book’s message is that the meanings of God’s decisions are un-interpretable, and that one should not try to guess his intentions because it is not the mortal’s place to do so. I think this is the emphasis of Stephen Mitchell’s edition which I’d read. In that edition, God punishes each of the three friends who visited Job because the friend had tried to offer an explanation of Job’s question of why God had forsaken him. The friends are punished for having the audacity to claim to know God’s intentions. Unlike his friends, Job asks God why, but he never gets any answers, nor does he venture an explanation of why God did this to him. In that way, he preserves the un-interpretability of God.

TC: Maybe I should refresh my memory of the text. But the lines that I remember are God saying to Job, who are you to ask me for an explanation? Were you there when I created heaven and earth? My recollection is that his response to Job is to imply that Job does not even have the status to ask.

In simple storytelling terms, when your protagonist undergoes hardship but receives good fortune in the end, you are implicitly saying that his steadfastness is ultimately rewarded. This contradicts what God says to Job, which is that you cannot expect to be rewarded just because you are faithful. So I feel that it’s a mixed message, because the text and subtext are at odds.

BH: I see how “Hell is the Absence of God” resonates with this because you’ve got all these people interpreting the appearances of the angels in so many different ways. And here you and I are doing something similar: interpreting the Book of Job differently in terms of its nuances and inflecting different parts of it for our memory of what its message is.

TC: That is definitely the nature of religious debate. Everyone finds a way to make a case for his or her own position.

BH: When I read the story notes, I thought that one of the interesting strokes of “Hell is the Absence of God” is that you’ve actually rendered irrelevant the question of whether God exists. It’s true that everyone in the story is concerned with this question. But it is as though you are saying, “I’ll give you God. I’ll say that God exists. But that’s still not going to give you any answers and solve any of your problems.”

TC: Yes, the story says, “I’ll grant you that premise …”

BH: This is compelling because arguments between atheists and people of faith often boil down to whether one believes in the existence of God, which is, in my view, a kind of reductio ad absurdum. So, the idea of rendering that unsolvable mystery moot is a provocative move.

TC: The thing is, changing your mind about whether God exists doesn’t change what has happened to you in your life. Whether you’ve suffered misfortune or have been the beneficiary of good fortune, those remain true whether you change your mind about God or not. Why was your baby born with cystic fibrosis? Granting God’s existence doesn’t make that question easier to answer. Some would say that granting God’s existence would make that question harder to answer.

BH: Right. But I think granting the existence of God does change how you perceive or inscribe meaning to something.

TC: Yes, it does. But I think that it can make things worse just as often as it makes things better. For every example where God’s existence makes sense of things, there are just as many examples where God’s existence makes things entirely incomprehensible. Like babies born with cystic fibrosis.

BH: I shared this story with several friends and students and the subject of whether you are a person of faith or an atheist came up. I read somewhere that you are an atheist…

TC: Yes.

BH: And yet some of these readers thought that you could be a person of faith. And so I think it’s rather impressive that you are able to pull off the story as someone who is a believer.

TC: I guess that depends on the reader. Some people have read the story and concluded that I am rabidly anti-Christian. I guess they think that the depiction of believers is extremely unflattering. I don’t consider myself rabidly anti-Christian. I’m an atheist, but I do find religion an interesting question from a theoretical perspective. I think a lot of people who are lapsed believers, people who were religious in their youth, have strong emotions about religion after losing their faith. I’m not one of them. I don’t have a personal beef with religion. My interest in religion is mostly abstract in nature.

BH: By the way, how do writers, how do you get wind of how your stories are read? Where and how do you get feedback from the masses? Do you look at reviews and online forums?

TC: It depends on my mood. [Laughs] Sometimes I will read online responses to my work, but most of the time I don’t. Negative reviews can depress me more than positive reviews cheer me up.

BH: You get negative reviews?

TC: Sure. Every writer does.

BH: I didn’t come across any in my research. But yes, most of us can’t seem to help but fixate on the negative than the positive.

TC: Yeah, you have to be in the right frame of mind to go looking for reviews. Sometimes you’re just better off not looking.

BH: You had said in an interview that you pulled “Liking What You See: A Documentary” from an award nomination because you were unhappy with the version of the story that was nominated and that you had a different story in mind. What was the story you had in mind?

TC: The story in its current form is a pure documentary. I wanted to write the story as a mixture of conventional narrative interspersed with scenes from the documentary. The protagonist’s story—Tamara Lyons’s—would have been told in conventional fictional form, punctuated with documentary excerpts. That would have been a longer story, because telling her story in narrative form would require more space. I would have needed more time to write that.

BH: That’s not how you started writing the story?

TC: I had written a bunch of documentary excerpts and I thought that Tamara’s story could become the backbone for them. I had a deadline to turn in the story for the collection. When I first signed the contract for the collection, I had to specify a delivery date for the story, and I told my editor that I didn’t know how long it would take. The editor said, “Make up a date, and if it turns out you need more time, just tell me. And as I have in 100% of such situations in the past, I will give you more time.” So I said okay, and began to work on the story. As the story took shape, the deadline also drew near and I realized I would need more time. I emailed my editor and asked for the extension that he said I could get. He said “no can do,” that no extension was possible. Since I had to turn in the story soon, I figured I’d write it strictly in the documentary form rather than in narrative form, because I could finish that faster. And that’s the version of the story that you see.

BH: That was for the Stories of Your Life and Others collection, right?

TC: Yes.

BH: I read somewhere that you hated the dust jacket art for the hardback edition of Stories of Your Life and Others. Is that true?

TC: I did.

BH: Why?

TC: I don’t think it has anything to do with my work. There are no muscular nude men in my work. There are no galloping white horses in my work. There are no monkeys in my work. So I don’t see why a painting of a muscular nude man and a galloping white horse and monkeys would be on the cover of my book.

BH: Seems like a collage of weird symbols…

TC: Maybe, but I don’t know what they’re symbols for. I see no thematic connection to my work at all.

BH: That was an unhappy battle, I take it.

TC: I complained about it. I asked if we can get new cover art and was told no. Then I said I’d be willing to pay for the cover art myself. But the publisher told me it wasn’t about money, it was about the appropriate relationship between a publisher and an author.

BH: Implying that you are behaving inappropriately as an author?

TC: That it would be inappropriate for me to have any say on the cover. Even if it cost them nothing, they would not give me input on the cover.

BH: Do you like the cover of the paperback better?

TC: For the recently reissued edition, yes—it’s a cover I commissioned, actually. Despite what the publisher said, I decided to try getting different art for the paperback. After I was told it was inappropriate for me to have input on the cover art, I had a conversation with another new author who was with the same publisher. The publisher showed him some cover art for his book, and he said he didn’t like it. So they asked him what he would like, and he told them what he wanted, and they commissioned new art for him! So I thought, why does he get to specify new art? And they even paid for the new art that he wanted. It was the disparity in treatment that was infuriating. So I commissioned new art that I felt was thematically appropriate and offered it to them for the paperback, and they said no.

BH: The cover for the original paperback was different from the recently reissued edition.

TC: The cover for the original paperback edition had no artwork on it at all. After they told me they wouldn’t use my art for the paperback edition, I asked them if I could buy back the paperback rights. Then they said, “Oh yes, actually, we can use your art. We’ll work up a couple of versions based on the art you commissioned and you can choose one.” So I said, okay, let’s see them. They said there was plenty of time and told me to wait.

Months passed, and I kept asking to see the versions. Eventually they showed me a cover that had no art at all, just the title and the author’s name against a purplish background, and told me they were using it and that I was stuck with it. So I asked again if I could buy back the paperback rights. And they said, “It’s too late for that.” Not that it was impossible to buy back the rights, but that it was too late, because they had been dicking me around for months until it became too late. So the paperback came out with a cover with no art. And that was the cover on the paperback for many years until they let it go out of print. Then I was able to get the rights back and get it published somewhere else with the cover art I had previously commissioned.

BH: Crazy. What about the cover art on The Lifecycle of Software Objects, and in particular the illustrations throughout the novel?

TC: I got to work with the artist on that. That was published by Subterranean Press, a smaller specialty press, and the publisher there offered me the opportunity to art direct the book. I chose the cover artist and the book designer, and I worked with both of them. I worked with the artist on the style for the illustrations, settling on a particular rendering style, and we talked about what sort of poses or images I wanted for each illustration. And I was happy with how they turned out.

BH: Sounds like a much happier and healthier experience all around. The hardback and the dust jacket are beautiful, as is the story.

Thanks for being so generous with your time and thoughts, Ted. This has been an incredibly rich conversation about your work.

Accompanying this part of the interview is an excerpt from Min Hyoung Song’s new book, The Children of 1965: On Writing, and Not Writing, as an Asian American (Duke UP, 2013), in which Song offers a reading of Chiang’s novella, The Lifecycle of Software Objects.

In thinking about “browning faces” and “whitening of characters” in print literature, one more example comes to mind with striking suggestiveness. Ted Chiang writes a particular kind of science fiction, one informed both by hard science (Chiang has an advanced degree in computer science from Brown) and by ideas. Hence, his works, all of them to date no longer than tantalizing novellas, are explicitly part of a tradition comprising authors like Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, and Ray Bradbury. The focus of his work is less on character and more on setting. He is interested in rendering worlds unfamiliar to his readers as vividly as possible and in mounting within the perimeters of such a world a philosophical investigation into the concepts such worlds enable. In “The Tower of Babylon,” for instance, he imagines what might have happened if the builders of the tower in the Old Testament were not struck down by God but were able to continue their upward construction. What would life in the tower be like? How would a society sustain such a monumental task? More interesting still, it asks its readers to consider what would happen if the builders of the tower had an accurate understanding of their physical universe, a universe that is not like the one the reader knows. In this imaginary universe, the tower can rise into the sky, past the sun and the stars, which orbit as small spheres, until it finally, after generations of hard labor, reaches the hard dome that is the sky in heaven. Nothing about this story is about race, but in asking its readers to imagine an alternate physical universe that is convincingly detailed and consistent, the story stretches the reader’s mind, requiring a mental agility that makes accepting difference easier.

Such agility becomes increasingly necessary as one story after another in Chiang’s collection Stories of Your Life and Others produces a narrative of similar conceptual difficulty, including one that recalls a first encounter between linguists and alien visitors. “Story of Your Life” is neither an invasion narrative nor an extended metaphor about encountering racial differences that easily dissolve after prolonged contact. More important, it is about trying to span a gulf of immense difference, trying to understand a way of seeing that is not chronological but premised on the ability to know the future: “When the ancestors of humans and heptapods [the name given to the aliens because of their radial, seven-armed shape] first acquired the spark of consciousness, they both perceived the same physical world, but they parsed their perceptions differently. . . . We experienced events in an order, and perceived their relationship as cause and effect. They experienced all events at once, and perceived a purpose underlying them all.”16

What is most important about this encounter between humans and aliens is that the narrator, a linguist struggling to bridge the chasm between the different life forms, begins to think differently, acquires the skills the aliens possess for seeing the future: “Heptapod B [the aliens’ written language] was changing the way I thought. . . . There were trance-like moments during the day when my thoughts weren’t expressed with my internal voice; instead, I saw semagrams with my mind’s eye, sprouting like frost on a windowpane.”17 Like the characters in Sabina Murray’s stories, Chiang’s narrator experiences an encounter with difference that changes her. No encounter with difference can leave one simply unaltered and able to transform the other into a mirror reflection of the self. There can be no continuity of character. Such an encounter transforms, and leaves its trace firmly in a sense of self that is newly strange.

So one might ask, does Chiang write Asian American literature? In response, one might conclude, as Betsy Huang does, that his avowed disinterest in imagining a scientific form of colorblindness “reflects a guarded adherence to the conservative techniques of the genre, perhaps at the cost of its radical political potentials.”18 Or one might be able to find ways in which his work can be read, despite what Chiang might have to say on the subject, as offering commentary on the topic of race as it relates to Asian Americans, from something as simple as the fact that the narrator and her future husband in “Story of Your Life” share their first meal together at a Chinese restaurant (which in itself doesn’t say anything about the race of these characters) to something more complex, such as the ways in which this story’s understanding of an encounter with difference resonates with Murray’s understanding of imperialism as an experience that necessarily changes the conqueror as much as it does the conquered.

But perhaps this is the wrong question to ask. It may be more productive to wonder what Chiang’s works, when read as Asian American literature, are able to contribute to an imagining of difference as such. While applicable to “Story of Your Life” and the other stories in this collection, the latter question is even more provocatively and directly addressed in The Lifecycle of Software Objects (a work that deserves to be more widely available and read than it is). While this novella contains several characters with recognizable minority names, including a lead character named Ana Alvarez, who could be Latina or Filipina or neither, the narrative itself never provides details about their backgrounds. One might say, following Kelley’s lead in Slaying the Dragon, Reloaded, that there is a “whitening of character” in this short novel, as ethnicity and race decidedly get pushed into the background. But in this, the narrative propels to the foreground a way of thinking about difference that traverses the boundaries between human, animal, and machine. At the story’s center is the development of self-aware computer programs originally designed as virtual pets; some have cute animal avatars and others equally cute robot avatars. As time goes by, the general public loses interest in them because they prove to be as demanding as real children. And, indeed, for the hardcore group of caretakers who continue to pour resources into nurturing them and finding ways for them to develop, they become just like children. The caretakers find themselves faced with many of the same dilemmas that parents raising more conventional children face, namely how best to help their charges find and explore their potential, how best to expose them to a world that can be cruel and exploitative, and how to decide the appropriate age for letting them make their own life choices and mistakes.

What Ana discovers after years of taking care of her “software object” is that what makes him unique, capable of doing things that other self-aware programs cannot do, is precisely the care she has put into raising him: “If she’s learned anything raising Jax, it’s that there are no shortcuts; if you want to create the common sense that comes from twenty years of being in the world, you need to devote twenty years to the task. You can’t assemble an equivalent collection of heuristics in less time; experience is algorithmically incompressible.”19 Moreover, Jax is now more than an advanced computer program. Like the others who have been raised like him, he “would have once seen the world with new eyes, have had hopes fulfilled and hopes dashed, have learned how it felt to tell a lie and how it felt to be told one.”20 As a result, he cannot be treated simply as a machine or an animal but deserves the same “respect” that humans are afforded. Against the obvious humanism of these conclusions, Derek, another caretaker of the self-aware programs, reaches a slightly different appreciation for difference.

While he would agree that nothing beats experience and that his programs deserve to be respected, he also thinks (according to the narrator), “Marco and Polo aren’t human, and maybe thinking of them as if they were is a mistake, forcing them to conform to [Derek’s] expectations instead of letting them be themselves. Is it more respectful to treat him like a human being, or to accept that he isn’t one?”

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Michelle for being my sister, and thanks to my parents, Fu-Pen and Charlotte, for their sacrifices.

Thanks to the participants of Clarion, Acme Rhetoric, and Sycamore Hill for letting me work with them. Thanks to Tom Disch for the visit, Spider Robinson for the phone call, Damon Knight and Kate Wilhelm for the guidance, Karen Fowler for the anecdotes, and John Crowley for reopening my eyes. Thanks to Larret Galasyn-Wright for encouragement when I needed it and Danny Krashin for lending me his mind. Thanks to Alan Kaplan for all the conversations.

Thanks to Patrick Nielsen Hayden for taking a chance on this book. Thanks to everyone at the Virginia Kidd Agency— Virginia Kidd, Jim Allen, Linn Prentis, Nanci McCloskey, Christine Cohen, and Vaughne Hansen— for sticking with me.

Thanks to Juliet Albertson for love. And thanks to Marcia Glover, for love.

制作信息

KindleRen

@看我不打死你

制作于 2/7/2015 2:41 PM

感谢所有译者及电子版录入者，当然还有作者Ted Chiang