The Revolt of Aphrodite (63 page)

“So you see by the time I send out four or five fully trained
embalmers
to the Middle East we shall have captured the whole market to a point where it only remains to sweep up Mecca and we’re home. Then … gazing even further away to the Lands of the Lotus we might envisage Persia and India playing their little part….” Goytz was in a sort of dream as he sipped his tea and waved vaguely at these vast horizons. Marchant rubbed his hands in high delight. “Yes,” he said “you are right. Nothing will stop the march of science.” And he gave forth a characteristic titter; Goytz, still in his creative muse, smiled upon us from behind his desk. “How long” he said “before the reign of Real Beauty begins?” This was rather a harpoon for Marchant who put on a somewhat schoolmistress’ expression and said with a touch of tartness, “Our own Iolanthe won’t be long now, Goytz. Another month or two at the most.” The embalmer raised a hand in kindly benediction, and then a faint cloud passed over his serene countenance. “For me” he said “the only trouble is that Julian’s brother is not pulling his weight; something is wrong. He is ill perhaps. But at any rate he has disappointed us rather, because he won’t play any part in our scheme, or so it appears. And Julian is vexed with him. That’s all I know of the matter.” Suddenly I recalled with a start Julian saying something about Caradoc building Jocas a tomb … when was it? But the tea party went on with decorum until the duty cars arrived and we all went home for the night. Goytz shook hands with both of us and charitably invited us to come back whenever we wished.

That evening I was sitting by the fire reading a book when the telephone rang and the quiet voice of Julian sounded—a voice which was perhaps just a shade less languid than usual, yet nevertheless controlled and modulated. He was phoning from Paris, he said, and
added: “And particularly to thank you my dear Felix, for thinking up so charming a gesture; you will have guessed how much it meant to me to hear her voice….”

“Whose voice?”

“Why Iolanthe’s” he said in puzzled tones. “It was only a few words, of course. But what a thrill for me after so long. Thank you.”

“But wait,” I said. “She couldn’t possibly have talked to you Julian; the magazines aren’t dated and placed yet. She is still asleep, my dear. Yes, she can say a few words all right but she couldn’t get up or lift the phone as yet. Has Marchant been playing you some recorded stuff to try it out? I wonder.”

“I assure you,” he said, almost pleading “there was no mistake. She said: ‘We have never met, have we Julian? It is as if I had missed a vital part of my real life.’” His voice shook a little. “Then she went on: ‘Now the doctors will remedy that together with a lot of other things, and when I am well I will ask you to come to me.’ It was terrifying in a way, but so very real….”

I was on my feet by now, full of a very real perplexity. “I’ll check back,” I said “and let you know.”

The thing was how, and in which order? I rang Marchant and cleared him from suspicion. He was as mystified as I was. Then, on a sudden impulse, I phoned to the studio itself—though on the face of it this was an absurd thing to do; for I myself had locked up that evening after drawing the covers carefully over Iolanthe. And here was a funny thing. The phone returned an engaged signal, which clearly showed that the receiver was at least off. I listened to the monotonous bleating tone and my thoughts began to race. And then, even as I listened, there came the decisive click and silence which could come only from the replacing of the receiver. Click, followed by the engaged tone again.

“Now what the devil?” I said. Benedicta looked up to see me rushing myself into an overcoat and scarf. “I must just go to the studio and check” I said. “Come with me, only hurry, darling; you can drive me if you wish.”

* * * * *

L
ight powdery snow drifted across our headlights, a shadowy distracted moon wandered in the sky; B. drove at full tilt, a cigarette burning between her lips. The car had been well christened when the makers chose the name “Spear” for it. I chewed the inside of my lips, chewed my ragged thoughts. I felt an extraordinary
despondency
arise in me. It was too early for things to start going wrong, before we had even got our model on to its feet. It was partly fear, I think, of finding some mechanical defect in our dolly which might cost us months’ more intricate work—but also: fear of an
unknown
factor which hinted crudely at a sort of physical autonomy for which we had not yet made room
in
our
minds.
How
free
was the final Iolanthe to be? Freer than a chimp, one supposes … yes,
infinitely;
but free enough to pick up a phone and charm Julian? “You are looking scared” said Benedicta quietly. “Is it my driving? I’ll slow down.” I shook my head. “No. No. I was debating a little matter of freewill, of conditioned reflexes …. Drive faster in fact. Much faster. One is only scared when something happens which one can’t explain to oneself. She could not, for example, have done what Julian says she did, namely, lift the telephone and talk to him. At this stage, at any rate.”

“I’m dying to see this dummy.”

“You have been very patient, Benedicta; why you have never even asked me, darling. Of course you shall. Now.”

“I knew my voice would shake with jealous rage and you would suddenly look at me in astonished fashion. To be deprived of the female right to be jealous by the logic of things—that is the unkindest thing that could happen to a woman.” She laughed.

“Are we jealous of Iolanthe, then?” I said.

Some hefty branches torn from a tree by the wind lay astride the main road and we swerved to a halt, nonplussed for a moment, for
there seemed no alternative way forward. Fortunately the wood was not quite so heavy as it looked and I was able to shift it enough to clear a fairway for the car. Panting, I sank back at last beside her, revelling in the warm gushes of air from the heater as we raced on again towards our destination. “Who could have done it then?” she asked. “Could he have imagined it in his sleep?” There was nothing to be said as yet, until I had seen Iolanthe with my own eyes. Of course when she woke such an act would be part of her enormous repertoire of “autonomous” acts. Ring anyone up and say anything, in fact. “Did you say she could not eat or excrete?” I placed another lighted cigarette between her teeth and explained. “She won’t know it. We built her the reflex movement and the functional pattern which go with them; only she doesn’t have to trundle a disagreeable bundle of faecal matter around with her. She will feel the same punctual need as you do, and like you will sit down on the bidet and run the taps. But unlike you she only imagines the act of defecation, though she has all the same enjoyment—why she even gives the little shudder that we men find so endearing. But she is full of labour-saving devices like that. O God, Benedicta, she is
marvellous;
you will have quite a surprise, truthfully you will. Maybe feel a little scared as well—I confess that at first blush I was quite taken back, awed.”

We swerved at long last into the driveway to find the whole
complex
of buildings in darkness, which of course was what we would have expected. There was a bright green light in the lodge which housed the two security guards whose duty it was to make two late night patrols through the studios and labs. The tagged keys to our studio hung on a nail behind the grizzled head of Naysmith who lumbered to his flat marine’s feet to welcome me. “Is there
anything
wrong?” he asked catching, I suppose, a touch of urgency from the expression on my face. “Not exactly. It may be me. But I thought I’d come back and check over my section. There’s a little matter of a phone-call I have not cleared up as yet. By the way, Naysmith, come with me and bring some fingerprint snuff would you? I’d like to see if our inside phone has any prints on it. The last lot should be mine or Marchant’s.”

Benedicta was waiting for us in her lamb furred overcoat and
boots; and together we cut across the main pathways and walked the hundred yards or so towards the studios. We entered, turning up the white lights of the theatre of operations as we advanced; I was
relieved
to find everything as I had left it. Though why I should have imagined or looked for a hypothetical disorder I know not, “That phone over there, Naysmith. Give it the gold dust treatment will you and see what you find?” Obediently the security man dusted his goldish powder over the instrument, puffing it softly from an atomiser. Then he took out a large magnifying glass from his
professional
kit and ran it over the suspect instrument, grunting as he did so. “There’s nothing
at
all
on the damn thing” he said at last stretching his back straight with relief and turning to me in a mild perplexity. “It’s been wiped clear by someone.” For a moment this too seemed strange, but then I was determined not to invent
mysteries
where none existed. The air was kept at a specially moist heat to be kind to Iolanthe’s skin, which had been woven from pure Mel, a derivative of nylon. I explained briefly to Naysmith and he seemed satisfied enough with this explanation as indeed I was myself. I could think of no other; an invisible skin of moisture particles formed upon the bakelite receiver and washed out any fingerprints. And Iolanthe? Well, she had not moved at all under her sheet; poor dear, she was still in pieces though nearing the final joining together. There was quite a lot of juice roaming about inside her because we had plugged her in to a low-power induction current to keep her body at a satisfactory temperature. And it was this factor which suddenly presented me with a solution—or the sketch of one. Benedicta stood at the door, looking very pale and extraordinarily youthful all of a sudden. She was afraid of what lay beneath the sheet! I didn’t want to unveil the head until Naysmith had taken himself off—a twinge of proprietorial jealousy I suppose? But this the good man did in a few moments and now was my chance to show off my beauty to Benedicta. I took her cold hand in mine and together we crossed the room to the operating table.

“I mustn’t forget to show you the weaver team that made the skin for her; you’d think you were in a Japanese watercolour in their studio—finer than the petals of any flower you might conceive.” I turned back the sheet and we gazed down upon the still serene
features of the screen goddess. I could feel that she was terrified, Benedicta. And when, at this juncture, the telephone suddenly shrilled we both nearly jumped out of our skins and into each other’s arms. I picked it up with trembling fingers and was relieved to find that it was only Marchant. “I’ve thought of an explanation” said he. “She’s still on the feeder isn’t she? Well there’s a fairly big build-up of juice, enough to enable her to pass a thought or a phrase along a wire without using the phone. It doesn’t sound very plausible, but I think that must be it.”

“It will have to be” I said. “There isn’t any other solution.” Marchant sucked his teeth cheerfully and went on. “If you switch on and pin her on to feedback she might even answer the question herself.” But I wasn’t keen to start fooling round at this time of night. “It’ll keep” I said. “Until she walks in beauty like the night.” There was a gasp and stirring sound; I turned to see Benedicta gazing fixedly at the face which had suddenly altered its expression. And then, even as we looked, the two sapphire bright eyes opened and gazed fixedly, unwinkingly at Benedicta. B. moved back a few paces with obvious fear. “It wants to speak” she whispered. “Poor thing. Poor thing.” She was about to faint but I caught her. In the little lavatory next door she was violently sick.

“Leave me a moment” she said, between spasms of nausea. “She wants to tell you something. Please go back.” But I waited until she could accompany me back; I wanted her to get over her shock and come to accept Iolanthe for what she was—a modest enough copy of reality, not a creation. I hung about obstinately, not saying a word, until she shook herself at last and said: “There! It’s done with.” She washed her face and dried it on the little white napkin behind the door; then slipped her arm through mine. “What an experience!”

Iolanthe’s head had hardly moved, but her features tenderly sketched in a shoal of transient feelings, impulses bathed in memory or desire, which flowed through the magazine of the coded mind on the wings of electricity. For such low-voltage feeding it was
remarkable
to find her “live” at all. Yet she was. Her blue eyes gazed into the white glare of the theatre lamps with a sort of abstract curiosity; then, attracted perhaps by the glimpse of our shadows moving upon the general whiteness, lowered their gaze and came to rest at last, in
troubled and loving confusion, upon my own face. You could have sworn she recognised it—the little mischievous pucker of the mouth came, as if she were about to utter her sardonic greeting in Greek,
“Xāire
Felix
mou”.
And yet also timid, abashed, a
gamine
who fears she may be reproached. But of course with a current so far below optimum the threads had got jumbled as they do in an ordinary delirium—in high fever for example—and what she said she uttered in the back of her throat and not too clearly at that. The tone of course was low contralto, not very like her ordinary one because of the fallen levels. “The deep inside wish to be level with the grave, Julian; you are worn out with the sin of wishing you had died in childbirth—how well we understand! Now that I have come back from this great illness I shall bring you some comfort, you will see.”

“Christ!” Benedicta vibrated with a mixture of fascination and horror. “She’s jumbling” I said; and I ran my hand softly and tenderly through the hair of Iolanthe in a gesture which I knew would elicit the response she must have so often made in life. She arched her head slowly, flexing it on the lovely stem of her neck, and breathed in deeply, voluptuously; then she expelled her breath slowly, uxoriously through her mouth and gave me a sleepy smile. “Kiss. Kiss” she said. “Felix.” And pursed her red smiling mouth for a kiss which I gave her while Benedicta looked on in a kind of
scandalised
amusement mixed with loathing.