We Can Build You

  The immediate effect of the idea was to cause me to look up the Edwin M. Stanton simulacrum; when I got back to the office from my visit to the doctor I asked Maury where the thing could be found.

  “Bundy’s feeding a new tape to it,” Maury said. “Pris came across a biography of Stanton that had some new material.” He returned to his letter-reading.

  I found Bundy in the shop with the Stanton; having finished, he was putting it back together. Now he was asking it questions.

  “Andrew Johnson betrayed the Union by his inability to conceive the rebellious states as—” Seeing me, Bundy broke off. “Hi, Rosen.”

  “I want to talk to the thing. Okay?”

  Bundy departed, leaving me alone with the Stanton. It was seated in a brown, cloth-covered armchair, with a book open on its lap; it regarded me sternly.

  “Sir,” I said, “do you recall me?”

  “Yes sir, I do. You are Mr. Louis Rosen of Boise, Idaho. I recall a pleasant overnight stay with your father. Is he well?”

  “Not as well as I wish he was.”

  “A pity.”

  “Sir, I’d like to ask you a question. Doesn’t it seem odd to you that although you were born around 1800 you are still alive in 1982? And doesn’t it seem odd to you to be shut off every now and then? And what about your being made out of transistors and relays? You didn’t used to be, because in 1800 they didn’t have transistors and relays.” I paused, waiting.

  “Yes,” the Stanton agreed, “those are oddities. I have here a volume—” He held up his book. “Which deals with the new science of cybernetics, and this science has shed light on my perplexity.”

  That excited me. “Your perplexity!”

  “Yes sir. During my stay with your father I discussed puzzling matters of this nature with him. When I consider the brief span of my life, swallowed up in the eternity before and behind it, the small space that I fill, or even see, engulfed in the infinite immensity of spaces which I know not, and which know not me, I am afraid.”

  “I should think so,” I said.

  “I am afraid, sir, and wonder to see myself here rather than there. For there is no reason why I should be here rather than there, now rather than then.”

  “Did you come to any conclusion?”

  The Stanton cleared its throat, then got out a folded linen handkerchief and carefully blew its nose. “It seems to me that time must move in strange jumps, passing over intervening epochs. But why it would do that, or even how, I do not know. At a certain point the mind cannot fathom anything further.”

  “You want to hear my theory?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I claim there is no Edwin M. Stanton or Louis Rosen anymore. There was once, but they’re dead. We’re machines.”

  The Stanton regarded me, its round, wrinkled face twisted up. “There may be some truth in that,” it said finally.

  “And,” I said, “Maury Rock and Pris Frauenzimmer designed us and Bob Bundy built us. And right now they’re working on an Abe Lincoln simulacrum.”

  The round, wrinkled face darkened. “Mr. Lincoln is dead.”

  “I know.”

  “You mean they are going to bring him back?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “To impress Mr. Barrows.”

  “Who is Mr. Barrows?” The old man’s voice grated.

  “A multi-millionaire who lives in Seattle, Washington. It was his influence that got sub-dividers started on the Moon.”

  “Sir, have you ever heard of Artemus Ward?”

  “No,” I admitted.

  “If Mr. Lincoln is revived you will be subjected to endless humorous selections from the writings of Mr. Ward.” Scowling, the Stanton picked up its book and once more read. Its face was red and its hands shook.

  Obviously I had said the wrong thing.

  There was really not much that I knew about Edwin M. Stanton. Since everybody today looks up to Abraham Lincoln it hadn’t occurred to me that the Stanton would feel otherwise. But you live and learn. After all, the simulacrum’s attitude was formed well over a century ago, and there’s not much you can do to change an attitude that old.

  I excused myself—the Stanton barely glanced up and nodded—and set off down the street to the library. Fifteen minutes later I had the Britannica out and laid flat on a table; I looked up both Lincoln and Stanton and then the Civil War itself.

  The article on Stanton was short but interesting. Stanton had started out hating Lincoln; the old man had been a Democrat, and he both hated and distrusted the new Republican Party. It described Stanton as being harsh, which I had already noticed, and it told of many squabbles with generals, especially Sherman. But, the article said, the old man was good in his job under Lincoln; he booted out fraudulent contractors and kept the troops well-equipped. And at the end of hostilities he was able to demobilize 800,000 men, no mean feat after a bloody Civil War.

  The trouble hadn’t started until Lincoln’s death. It had really been hot-going there for a while, between Stanton and President Johnson; in fact it looked as if the Congress were going to take over and be the sole governing body. As I read the article I began to get a pretty good idea of the old man. He was a real tiger. He had a violent temper and a sharp tongue. He almost got Johnson out and himself in as a military dictator.

  But the Britannica added, too, that Stanton was thoroughly honest and a genuine patriot.

  The article on Johnson stated bluntly that Stanton was disloyal to his chief and in league with his enemies. It called Stanton obnoxious. It was a miracle that Johnson got the old man out.

  When I put the volumes of the Britannica back on the shelf I breathed a sigh of relief; just in those little articles you could catch the atmosphere of pure poison which reigned in those days, the intrigues and hates, like something out of Medieval Russia. In fact all the plotting at the end of Stalin’s lifetime—it was much like that.

  As I walked slowly back to the office I thought, Kindly old gentleman hell. The Rock-Frauenzimmer combine, in their greed, had reawakened more than a man; they had reawakened what had been an awesome and awful force in this country’s history. Better they should have made a Zachary Taylor simulacrum. No doubt it was Pris and her perverse, nihilistic mind that had conceived this great joker in the deck, this choice out of all the possible thousands, even millions. Why not Socrates? Or Gandhi?

  And so now they expected calmly and happily to bring to life a second simulacrum: someone whom Edwin M. Stanton had a good deal of animosity toward. Idiots!

  I entered our shop once more and found the Stanton reading as before. It had almost finished its cybernetics book.

  There, not more than ten feet away, on the largest of MASA’s workbenches, lay the mass of half-completed circuits which would one day be the Abraham Lincoln. Had the Stanton made it out? Had it connected this electronic confusion with what I had said? I stole a glance at the new simulacrum. It did not look as if anyone—or anything—had meddled inappropriately. Bundy’s careful work could be seen, nothing else. Surely if the Stanton had gone at it in my absence, there would be a few broken or burned segments…. I saw nothing like that.

  Pris, I decided, was probably at home these days, putting the final life-like colors into the sunken cheeks of the Abe Lincoln shell which would house all these parts. That in itself was a full-time job. The beard, the big hands, skinny legs, the sad eyes. A field for her creativity, her artistic soul, to run and howl rampant. She would not show up until she had done a top-notch job.

  Going back upstairs I confronted Maury. “Listen, friend. That Stanton thing is going to up and bang Honest Abe over the head. Or haven’t you bothered to read the history books?” And then I saw it. “You had to read the books in order to make the instruction tapes. So you know better than I what the Stanton feels toward Lincoln! You know he’s apt to roast the Lincoln into charred rust any minute!”

  “Don’t get mixed up in last year’s politics.” Maury put down his
letters for a moment, sighing. “The other day it was my daughter; now it’s the Stanton. There’s always some dark horror lurking. You have the mind of an old maid, you know that? Lay off and let me work.”

  I went back downstairs to the shop again.

  There, as before, sat the Stanton, but now it had finished its book; it sat pondering.

  “Young man,” it called to me, “give me more information about this Barrows. Did you say he lives at our nation’s Capitol?”

  “No sir, the state of Washington.” I explained where it was.

  “And is it true, as Mr. Rock tells me, that this Barrows arranged for the World’s Fair to be held in that city through his great influence?”

  “I’ve heard that. Of course, when a man is that rich and eccentric all sorts of legends crop up about him.”

  “Is the fair still in progress?”

  “No, that was years ago.”

  “A pity,” the Stanton murmured. “I wanted to go.”

  That touched me to the heart. Again I reexperienced my first impression of it: that in many ways it was more human—god help us!—than we were, than Pris or Maury or even me, Louis Rosen. Only my father stood above it in dignity. Doctor Horstowski—another only partly-human creature, dwarfed by this electronic simulacrum. And, I thought, what about Barrows? How will he look when compared, face to face, with the Stanton?

  And then I thought, How about the Lincoln? I wonder how that will make us feel and make us look.

  “I’d like your opinion about Miss Frauenzimmer, sir,” I said to the simulacrum. “If you have the time to spare.”

  “I have the time, Mr. Rosen.”

  I seated myself on a truck tire opposite its brown easy-chair.

  “I have known Miss Frauenzimmer for some time. I am not certain precisely how long, but no matter; we are well-acquainted. She has recently left the Kasanin Medical Clinic at Kansas City, Missouri, and returned here to her family. As a matter of fact I live at the Frauenzimmer home. She has light gray eyes and stands five feet six inches. Her weight is one-hundred-twenty pounds at this time. She has been losing weight, I am told. I cannot recall her as anything but beauteous. Now I shall dilate on deeper matters. Her stock is of the highest, although immigrant; for it has imbibed of the American vision, which is: that a person is only limited by his abilities and may rise to whatever station in life is best-suited to those abilities. It does not follow from that however, that all men will rise equally; far from it. But Miss Frauenzimmer is quite right in refusing to accept any arrangement which denies her expression of those abilities and she senses any infringement with a flash of fire in her gray eyes.”

  I said, “It sounds as if you’ve worked out your view thoroughly.”

  “Sir, it is a topic deserving of some consideration; you yourself have erected it for our mutual inspection, have you not?” Its hard but wise eyes sparkled momentarily. “Miss Frauenzimmer is basically good, at heart. She will come through. There is in her just a bit of impatience, and she does have a temper. But sir, temper is the anvil of justice, on which the hard facts of reality must be smitten. Men without temper are like animals without life; it is the spark that turns a lump of fur, flesh, bones and fat into a breathing expression of the Creator.”

  I had to admit that I was impressed by the Stanton’s harangue.

  “What I am concerned with in Priscilla,” the Stanton continued, “is not her fire and spirit; far from that. When she trusts her heart she trusts correctly. But Priscilla does not always listen to the dictates of her heart. Sorry to say, sir, she often pays heed to the dictates of her head. And there the difficulty arises.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “For the logic of a woman is not the logic of the philosopher. It is in fact a vitiated and pale shadow of the knowledge of the heart, and, as a shade rather than an entity, it is not a proper guide. Women, when they heed their mind and not their heart, fall readily into error, and this may all too easily be seen in Priscilla Frauenzimmer’s case. For when she hearkens there, a coldness falls over her.”

  “Ah!” I interjected excitedly.

  “Exactly.” The Stanton nodded and waggled its finger at me. “You, too, Mr. Rosen, have marked that shadow, that special coldness which emanates from Miss Frauenzimmer. And I see that it has troubled your soul, as well as mine. How she will deal with this in the future I do not know, but deal with it she must. For her Creator meant for her to come to terms with herself, and at present it is not in her to view with tolerance this part, this cold, impatient, abundantly reasonable—but alas—calculating side of her character. For she has what many of us find in our own selves: a tendency to permit the insidious entrance of a meager and purblind philosophy into our everyday transactions, those we have with our fellows, our daily neighbors … and nothing is more dangerous than this puerile, ancient, venerated compendium of opinion, belief, prejudice, and the now-discarded sciences of the past—all of these cast-off rationalisms forming a sterile and truncated source for her deeds; whereas were she merely to bend, to listen, she would hear the individual and wholesome expression of her own heart, her own being.”

  The Stanton ceased speaking. It had finished its little speech on the topic of Pris. Where had it gotten it? Made it up? Or had Maury stuck the speech there in the form of an instruction tape, ready to be used on an occasion of this kind? It certainly did not sound like Maury. Was Pris herself responsible? Was this some bitter, weird irony of hers, inserting in the mouth of this mechanical contraption this penetrating analysis of herself? I had the feeling it was. It demonstrated the great schizophrenic process still active in her, this strange split.

  I couldn’t help comparing this to the sly, easy answers which Doctor Horstowski had given me.

  “Thanks,” I said to the Stanton. “I have to admit I’m very impressed by your off-the-cuff remarks.”

  “’Off the cuff,’” it echoed.

  “Without preparation.”

  “But this, sir, came from much preparation. For I have been gravely worried about Miss Frauenzimmer.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “And now, sir, I would be obliged if you would tell me about Mr. Barrows. I understand he has expressed an interest in me.”

  “Maybe I can get you the Look article. Actually I’ve never met him; I talked to his secretary recently, and I have a letter from him—”

  “May I see the letter?”

  “I’ll bring it around tomorrow.”

  “Was it your impression, too, that Mr. Barrows is interested in me?” The Stanton eyed me intently.

  “I—guess so.”

  “You seem hesitant.”

  “You ought to talk to him yourself.”

  “Perhaps I will.” The Stanton reflected, scratching the side of its nose with its finger. “I will ask either Mr. Rock or Miss Frauenzimmer to convey me there and assist me in meeting tête-à-tête Mr. Barrows.” It nodded to itself, evidently having made its decision.

  7

  Now that the Stanton had decided to visit Sam K. Barrows it was obvious that only the question of time remained. Even I could see the inevitability of it.

  And at the same time, the Abraham Lincoln simulacrum neared completion. Maury set the next weekend for the date of the first test of the totality of the components. All the hardware would be in the case, mounted and ready to function.

  The Lincoln container, when Pris and Maury brought it into the office, flabbergasted me. Even in its inert stage, lacking its working parts, it was so lifelike as to seem ready at any moment to rise into its day’s activity. Pris and Maury, with Bob Bundy’s help, carried the long thing downstairs to the shop; I trailed along and watched while they laid it out on the workbench.

  To Pris I said, “I have to hand it to you.”

  Standing with her hands in her coat pockets, she somberly supervised. Her eyes seemed dark, deeper set; her skin was quite noticeably pale—she had on no make-up, and I guessed that she had been up all hours every night, finish
ing her task. It seemed to me, too, that she had lost weight; now she appeared actually thin. She wore a striped cotton t-shirt and blue jeans under her coat, and apparently she did not even need to wear a bra. She had on her low-heeled leather slippers and her hair had been tied back and held with a ribbon.

  “Hi,” she murmured, rocking back and forth on her heels and biting her lip as she watched Bundy and Maury lower the Lincoln onto the bench.

  “You did a swell job,” I said.

  “Louis,” Pris said, “take me out of here; take me somewhere and buy me a cup of coffee, or let’s just walk.” She started toward the door and after a moment of hesitation I followed.

  Together, we strolled along the sidewalk, Pris staring down and kicking a pebble ahead of her.

  “The first one was nothing,” she said, “compared to this. Stan ton is just another person and yet even so it was almost too much for us. I have a book at home with every picture taken of Lincoln. I’ve studied them until I know his face better than my own.” She kicked her pebble into the gutter. “It’s amazing how good those old photographs were. They used glass plates and the subject had to sit without moving. They had special chairs they built, to prop the subject’s head so it wouldn’t wobble. Louis.” At the curb she halted. “Can he really come to life?”

  “I dunno, Pris.”

  “It’s all self-deception. We can’t really restore life to something that’s dead.”

  “Is that what you’re doing? Is that how you think of it? If you put it like that I agree. Sounds like you’re too deep in it emotionally. You better back away and get perspective.”

  “You mean we’re just making an imitation that walks and talks like the real thing. The spirit isn’t there, just the appearance.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Did you ever go to a Catholic mass, Louis?”

  “Naw.”

  “They believe the bread and wine actually are the body and blood. That’s a miracle. Maybe if we get the tapes perfect here, and the voice and the physical appearance and—”

  “Pris,” I said, “I never thought I’d see you frightened.”