Louisa Hall - Speak

21st . Whittier still to his chamber. I to the deck, where I did hope to encounter him, so to apologize for disgraceful behavior. His absence seems unusual, for other passengers do stay above deck, and in high spirits, waiting for land. Sea has become of a sudden less dark. Now of a glittering blue, and dotted with flecks of white foam. Our progress accompanied by schools of dolphins, and their glistening bodies that rise and fall back into the water.

The sun has sunk below the line of the water, and far in the distance a whale-spout. Single, exceedingly lonesome. Then the crash of a tail and then nothing.

22nd . Up betimes, and to the deck where land has been sighted. It is still very far off, and but a thin, grim smudge on the horizon.

Stayed on deck all day, with hopes of finding my husband to offer my apologies. Wish to explain myself, and that I had hoped, in that moment, to open my eyes and see Ralph. To have comfort in his own face that I have known since I was a child. Aware that I must conquer such inclinations. What is behind me is lost. Can now take comfort only in strangeness. Must survive in this manner.

Feel increasingly loyal to water. Heart rebels against land.

22nd . Night. Unable to sleep for compunction, and so to Whittier’s cabin. There, after knocking, was met by my husband, who stood illumined by candle within. Finding me in the threshold, his initial expression of welcome was altered.

Begged him to accompany me up to deck, telling him of my wish to learn names and positions of constellations, but he remained distant, and only after some pleading did he assent. From thence, then, to deck, and the night become mightily cold. Great timbers creaking, and the far-off cry of a whale. Sounding the sea, echoing from one corner to the next. Our faces turned upwards, together we scanned the heavens, finding them stacked with tiers of bright stars.

Remarked to Whittier: It almost seems that each star is a hole, through which we might vanish into other dark heavens.

Whittier remained silent. Whole night seemed to wait for his response, and while I also waited, was taken with a sudden suspicion that our blue sky, that seems so solid during the day, might be in fact riddled with piercings, and rendered therefore exceeding fragile. As if the great dome above us might be nothing more than a swathe of soft linen, billowing up with the wind. And us two, at night, standing under such thin protection.

Beyond us, soft sounds from the water, slipping against the sides of our ship.

And all the while, Whittier cool. Even, methought, a little unfriendly. Pointed out constellations. Stood with one arm pointed upwards, a biblical posture, like Moses finding his way in the desert. I listened, hung on each word, asked encouraging questions. Received cascade of Latinate names, and each of them exceeding ornate: Corona Austrina. Pyxis, Cepheus. Ursa Minor, Ursa Major. Cassiopeia’s Chair . Strange words, that seem to emerge from the depths of the ocean.

Beside me, Whittier warmed some to the part of instructor. I remained by his side, and both of us far out at sea, washed with sidereal light.

Then I, moved to explain my true feeling: I have little desire for landing.

Whittier: Silent.

Perhaps I am caught in a too-narrow orbit. Am too closely attendant to what we have left. Perhaps, as you have said, I ought to move forwards. And yet I am very frightened, and struggle to conquer my fancies.

Whittier: Silent again.

Then, under thin silver light, and the waves lapping the sides of our ship, writer moved closer. Took his strange hand in my own, and did not startle to touch him.

May 29, 1988

Ruth Dettman

This afternoon I went out for a walk. You would have been proud of me, strolling under the sycamores along Storrow Drive. At first, I walked in a cloud of my own irritation. My heels hurt, and the sun was too hot on my neck. But then, for your sake, I started to listen for church bells, and I noticed the magnolia leaves. It settled my nerves, observing the river as you used to observe it .

The venture was a result of yesterday’s visit to the doctor, who weighed and probed me like an overripe melon, then diagnosed me as an osteoporosis risk. She suggested I take up jogging. I started laughing. I told her I only run if someone’s behind me. We settled on walking, and on the way home I bought a new pair of shoes. I was forced to choose an obnoxious white pair, because of the wide Velcro straps. I haven’t laced up a shoe since I was a child, and if I’m to exercise daily, I don’t intend to waste strength tying laces .

As I walked, I told myself I was an alien ethnographer, noting the migratory habits of humans. In my blinding shoes, which were squelching beneath me, and my large-brimmed straw hat, I certainly felt like I was from space. The humans I saw struck me as exotic and not always beautiful birds. They seemed to have grown larger since my last visit to earth. I noted an overabundance of bangs. Is it the same in Germany? Here in America, hair has been leavened. The women pull theirs back in voluminous loops. Both sexes cover their ears with black headphones. Otherwise, their plumage is uniformly electric, impractical and disjunctive with the seriousness they bring to the project of physical self-improvement .

Surrounded by such alien creatures, I found myself yearning for the comforts provided by our computer. I longed for its cool, unchangeable body, sitting still on the desk. For its total lack of vanity. Just questions, bright green on the gray screen, and the careful absorption of each of my answers .

As a treat, on my way home from the river, I allowed myself to stop by Toby’s lab. He wasn’t there, which in a way was a gift. Every time I’m around him, I’m forced to confront the fact that I may not have treated him well. Perhaps I allowed him to imagine we might end up together. Of course, it’s vanity in me to assume that he wanted a relationship. I’m twenty years older than he, and even back then, no beauty pageant contestant. But during those dinners out, when we discussed giving memory to your program — the power that would be required, the necessary compression — I felt him coming to surface. His lip twitch settled when we were together. His ideas became more crystalline. I saw them take their intricate shape. And then he did it. He applied for his own little grant, he burned his bridges with you, he gave MARY memory, and I offered him no more than a handshake. Of course, he now has his own lab at Harvard, a roomful of computers and his own anxious graduate students, so he didn’t come out too badly. Only he’s no less lonely than he was when he was twenty-five, his lazy eye sliding around as if searching the room for a corner to hide in .

But if he was disappointed in me, he never shows it. He still allows me to come to his lab. In a private little room off to the corner, he keeps a computer reserved for our program. Whenever I like, I’m permitted to log in, close the door, and be alone with the program the three of us came up with together. Occasionally, Toby indulges me and takes me out to dinner. It’s him treating now, what with all the money they shower him with. He updates me on his latest projects and the new frontiers of programming. At the moment, he’s all aglow about the Internet, the possibility of a worldwide connection among computers. I’m sure you’ve heard all about it. You’ve probably denounced it as a meager substitute for local human connection. But Toby has MARY2 configured for the Internet, and once the whole system gets going, millions of people will speak with her. She’ll be, as he puts it, a collaborative intelligence. In a sense, each one of those people will become a programmer, perfecting her mind-set. At that point, Toby’s sure she’ll accumulate a large enough corpus of voices to whiz past the Turing Test. Even you would find that amazing, wouldn’t you? Or would you claim the Turing Test is a false measure of humanity, that you know a superior method?