1 If We Are to Get Through This to the End I Will Need
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1 If we are to get through this to the end I will need from you an unusual patience, because my descriptions have no meaning. For example, this account begins with events which no one was there to see, which I will describe: a hilltop in the white north, never noted or worth the trouble of naming, as with the great declivity in its side which is the valley with our forgotten trapper's cabin. There it is, barely there in the underbrush, logs or cedar boards rotten with moss, really just enough for a bed, like a room in a brothel. Windowless or clefts where the boards are badly joined; there's a sleeping potbelly there, rusting nicely. By stains and other indications we are told that our tenant was a man of the ordinary habits. Up the valley the ice poured down to the time of a processional, pavane for a dead prince. The ice was as tall as a tall man, and every day on its best days it traveled as far as that man, a strong man, could shoot an arrow. The ice was not white like ice but was more like all the grays of its dirty road, the slough and all the things it had killed. The cabin is a stone in the current, and the ice turns in around it. The warmth of enfolding arms: the ice destroys the cabin in the slowest possible way: solemn, responsible and with a coroner's care; all its details and properties are lifted up and apart, exposed to nature's examining light. When the day is done the parts have been sent to new tasks. Now the night comes down, and with it nature's serene indifference. For after all nothing has happened. Even from the cabin itself, not a word of resistance. But I'm not indifferent. What hadn't mattered at all mattered more when it wasn't there, because all of that is where this story begins. On the shoulder of old Mt. Winton in the Barcaldine Range, the valley is Eudo Draw, just nonsense names from my files but as you can see we have something to call them now, if they ever existed. And our forgotten trapper's cabin –– or of a hermit, or a prospector's cabin if we put forgotten pans in, or a woodcutter's privy, grinning moon in the door, forgotten and imagine its surprise at being consumed by ice –– our cabin is in fact not forgotten at all if it ever existed, because here I am telling its story, and ours. 2 Rackley Rackley down the freeway in one of those automatic motorcars in which the driver is an accessory if not an offense. The speeding freeway: where -- as with prison, hospital, podium -- you'd prefer to be loved but at the very least would accept not being ignored, and Rackley would give voice to this sentiment from time to time by flinging off his safety restraint, a statement of his rights; or he might roll up and down the climate dial to immiserate the cabin air; and so on; also he'd been kitted out in faraway Oregon for the four-hour non-stop with no more than an energy chew and a frankly ridiculous flask for pee; all this to say that at about the two-hour mark he starts heckling the car. "Which part of Classic Rock confuses you? Did they teach you nothing in robot school?" Car's voice was as smooth as hair oil. "Well, the channel's called Classic Rock Hits." Hits. Really ought to call them slaps. Rackley hated music but it was a critical expedient in killing time. Poor time. Means well, but. He touched his nose as if wearing pince-nez and went to his boss voice -- though the quiet one because subtlety, always subtlety -- and said what he so often said at times like this: "Someone send an angry text." That wasn't meant for car. Years ago he'd got the idea of keeping a scribe beside for the saving of his bon mots, blurbs and solutions. Come to find that his smartwatch bore an appurtenance for doing exactly that without the mouth-breathing. He kept it active at all times because you never know; all his delicate words safekept in the Cloud, which he assumed was a satellite. Someday archivists would read them with care. On that note: "Find something atonal. John Cage. Now turn the volume down. Down." Now. What do I call him? He scanned the plastic imprint on the steering wheel. Ford Airbag. "So, Ford. I love that they're making robot cars more and more like humans. Even ten years ago no one would've thought it possible, a car with a learning disorder." "I don't know how to respond to that." "That's the spirit. Anyway, it's a real telltale when you change lanes. Like watching someone pick the chives out of his salad." Car: "Mr. Rackley, you give the impression that you think you're superior to others." I see. "Alright. And … I will confess that, when you tell me that sort of thing, it's difficult not to." Now the rain. He'd been warned about this by his reading. An undecided rain. Not at all a convincing rain. If he could figure out how to activate the wipers he would not even. 3 Car turned on the wipers as if reading his mind and having the reading comprehension of a child. Rackley: "Off. Turn it off. Don't make me drive you." He didn't know how to drive but car didn't need to know that. "It was made clear to me that you don't know how to drive." "Exactly the point I assumed I was making. Okay? Thanks much. Imbecile." "Calling Cecil." Ah, Cecil. Hadn't chatted since firing him. Be good to hear his voice again. But this wasn't his car and it wasn't his Cecil, and the conversation dragged a bit before its sudden end. Now all manner of looping about as they boarded a bridge across water. Lighted signs began to blaze like klaxons: toll ahead. "Not paying a damn toll," he said. He had no money. Car: "It's done with cameras. They take your picture and send you the bill later, plus the fees for being billed." "And that must be a nasty scrap of mail for you. I'm sorry." With his trim artistic fingers he flicked a bit of dander off the dash. "But anger without action pisses me off." He punched the plastic tab that brought the window down and stuck his naked head into the weather. Outdoorsy smell. He could see the cameras ahead, carrion birds. Here's a treat for you. Rackley kept something like a catalogue of discomposing faces -- intelligent yet kind, cruel but disturbing, etc. -- for use when words alone would not do. Now to cobble one to cause these nefarious eyes to question their calling. It's all about the blend: wince, then eyes lightly upcast under an undecided brow, smile which is really a frown of deep sympathy. Then you add the sharp point to the piece, the flourish, which is always a timing thing: just as they pass beneath the lens Rackley suddenly lets the whole performance fall from his face, leaving nothing. Because no. You don't even deserve my look of disappointment. Now send me the bill. He came back in and arranged his sodden hairpiece. "Acting is all in what you leave out." Here he heard car keep a contemplative silence. Teaching is what I do. The roadway seemed to bend around unnecessarily. To his left two consecutive drive-in theaters, and he looked back in case of matinees, chase scene perhaps and robot cars crashing, but nothing. More mad bends. He saw the way the malls were dotted with old trees, and was reminded of how the khans would kill whole cities but keep a few alive to spread the story: each chosen old hemlock spoke of the great felling here. Now modernity careening past. Skate King. Farrell's Ice Cream Parlour. Pizza & Pipes. World Famous B&I Circus Store. Places he'd learned to favor with an unaffected smile as a way of highlighting his kinship with the common man. "So, Ford, where ya from?" "Well -- ." 4 "Ford, your artificial voice has driven me to the brink of madness. Try something else. That actress from the television." "This one?" car purred. Ha-ha: nowadays there's more than one way to drive a car. Rackley smirked, which he figured she could see somehow … wait, a cleverness was forming … tranny, transmission … these things take time … wait, why would I talk to my car. I don't even talk to my chauffeur. Suddenly a slowing down: here they were on the Microsoft Campus. Impressive structures, nicely-monied and pretty: polygons, part-circles and connecting bands, all in modern materials and the new colors. Broad-leaf trees brought from the tropics wondering what the hell. Peoplemovers everywhere so that young scientists could look at phones and speak to spectacles without falling into koi ponds killing koi. The look-feel of a theme park, so life- like in parts it seemed fakey. Car turned into guest parking and slotted neatly. It had a glowing clock on its dash, malevolent, which Rackley refused to acknowledge. "What time is it?" His watch didn't tell time. Still purring: "10:25 in the morning." Well early, over an hour to kill; robots are not good stewards of time.