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Can Do Anything
By S. Jayant
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He glides noiselessly through the kitchen, wearing his corporate slogan
as though it were more than a mere badge of honour. "Can do anything".
This fluorescent claim comes close to the truth, so they whisper in the
garden shed. Fred and his friends have invaded the living room; sprawled
all over the carpet, they poke idly at some indeterminable card game.
Marna is not at home. He told her that she would be at peace if she
followed her instincts and went to meet Tom, much against the wishes
of four parental individuals. Can do anything. Can counsel endlessly.
A whisk of the cleaning rag, and the kitchen is done. Two hours ago
he made love to his aging mistress, gently stroking her faded hair.
Therapeutic, they said in her psychoanalyst's pastel waiting room.
Desire misdirected, her faintly mechophobic friend said. A kitten with
a thorn in its paw, mewing piteously. He leans over it, soothes it with
gentle strokes, removes the thorn, and sterilises the wound with a
quick squirt of unobtrusive disinfectant from his little finger.
Night falls, the stars emerge. The Big Dipper looms over him. He has
walked out into the garden. The third dahlia from the right needed a
bandaged stem, plants may yet feel pain too, who knows ? Gently, he
splints the stem, soothes the weeping plant with gentle strokes. Perhaps
his gentleness is that final proof that he can do anything. The Big
Dipper looms over him, and he advances his notions a little further in
his own mind. In the cold watches of the Big Dipper, he prepares another
thread to the theory of perception that he is teaching at the local
college. Rather revolutionary philosophical notions, so they say in
the back benches. The wisdom of the Great Bear, a strange creature
with a fantastic tribal tail.
Music plays. Moreno-Torroba guitar composition, beautifully threaded
flamenco in a tapestry of jazz, theater and early film music. The
guitar sings as if by itself. His aging mistress with the worn
complexion, blanket around her aged feet, sits near him, nodding
wanly to the music. Lost youth, filled with flashing dances and strong
arms to swoon within. Lost love, lost songs and the lost childhood of
her own scattered children. He ties it all together briefly, oh so
briefly, within the six nylon strings of the instruments he plays.
She nods wanly. Morning has asserted itself. His hind arms create mild
tea for her even as Moreno-Torroba wafts over the dawn lawn.
It is so inevitable. Can do anything. Marna wanders into the teacup
tableau, still sleepy-eyed. Tom was passionate last evening, but
virtue is too hard-born to be given so easily. Where is the
newspaper ? Never mind, he can brief her on any happenings she
considers relevant to her sweet young life.
------
The good Dr Isaac A did call them the Laws of Robotics.
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