Крис Бекетт - The Turing Test

“It’s jealousy I suppose,” she said at length. “It’s just plain jealousy. I envy you the bustle and banter of Dotlands. I envy you the life of the city. All my true friends are dead. There are only a few hundred of us Outsiders left in London and most of us can’t stand the sight of each other after all this time. We can’t have children you know, that was part of the deal when they let us stay outside. We had to be sterile. Of course we’re all too old now anyway.”

She gave the weary sigh of one for whom sorrow itself has grown tedious, like a grey old sky that will not lift.

“And out in the streets, well, you know yourself what it’s like… You were unusual in that you didn’t run as soon as you discovered what I was, or jeer at me, or get all your friends to come and laugh at me and call me a spook. That was good of you. And look how this stupid old woman shows her gratitude!”

Suddenly she picked up the plate of real physical chocolate buns, strode with them to the fire and emptied them into it. Pale flames – yellow and blue – rose up to devour the greased paper cups.

Then, for a time, they were both silent.

“Do you know that Mr Howard?” asked Lemmy at length. “The one who owns all that property down in Grey Town.”

“Richard Howard? Know him? I was married to him for five years!”

“Married? To Mr Howard? You’re kidding !”

“Not kidding at all,” said Clarissa, smiling. “Mind you, most of us survivors have been married to one another at some point or another. There are only so many permutations for us to play with.”

“So what’s he like?”

“Richard Howard? Well he never washes, that’s one thing about him,” Clarissa said with a grimace. “He smells to high heaven.”

“Smells?” said her husband. “Who smells? Who are you talking about?”

The old man had come into the room while they were talking and now he began rummaging noisily through a pile of papers on a dresser behind them, shuffling and snuffling, determined that his presence should not be overlooked.

“I still don’t get where that white animal went,” Lemmy said, “and why I couldn’t follow it.”

“White animal?” demanded the old man crossly, turning from his papers to address his wife. “What white animal was that?”

“It was a white hart,” she told him, “an albino, I suppose.”

“Oh yes, and how did he get to see it?”

“Well, it must have got in through one of those holes in the wildlife fence.”

“Well, well,” chuckled the old man. “One of those dratted holes again, eh? The Council is slipping up. All these great big holes appearing overnight in the fence!”

Puzzled, Lemmy looked at Clarissa and saw her positively cringing under her husband’s scorn. But she refused to be silenced.

“Yes,” she went on, in an exaggeratedly casual tone, “and, according to Lemmy here, it wandered right down as far as Dotlands. He followed it back up to try and find out where it came from. Then it went over the perimeter and he couldn’t follow it any further. But Lemmy doesn’t…” she broke off to try and find a more tactful form of words, “he doesn’t understand where it’s got to.”

“Well of course not,” the old man grumbled. “They aren’t honest with these people. They don’t tell them what they really are or what’s really going on. They…”

“Well, what is really going on?” Lemmy interrupted him.

“What’s really going on?” Terence gave a little humourless bark of laughter. “Well, I could show him if he wants to see. I could fetch the camera and show him.”

“Terence, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” began Clarissa weakly, but her objection was half-hearted and he was already back at the capacious dresser, rummaging in a drawer.

He produced a video camera and some cables which he plugged into the back of the TV in the corner. Part of the mantelpiece appeared on the screen, blurred and greatly magnified. Terence took out one of those glass disc contraptions that Clarissa also had and placed it in front of his eyes. (It was held in place, Lemmy noticed, by hooks over his ears.) He made some adjustments. The view zoomed back and came into focus.

There was nothing remarkable about it. It was just the room they were sitting in. But when Terence moved the camera, something appeared on the screen that wasn’t visible in the room itself – a silver sphere, somewhat larger than a football, suspended from the middle of the ceiling.

“What’s that?” Lemmy asked.

“That’s a sensor,” the old man said, answering him, but looking at his wife. “Damn things. We have to have them in every single room in the house. Legal requirement. Part of the penalty for living inside the perimeter.”

“But what is it? And why can’t I see it except on the TV?”

“He doesn’t know what a sensor is?” growled Terence. “Dear God! What do they teach these people?”

“It’s not his fault, dear,” said Clarissa gently.

“Yeah it is, actually,” said Lemmy cheerfully. “I don’t never go to school.”

Amused in spite of himself, the old man snorted.

“It’s like I was telling you earlier, dear,” Clarissa said to Lemmy. “Sensors are the things that monitor the physical world and transmit the information to the consensual field…”

“…which superimposes whatever tawdry rubbish it wants over it,” grumbled the old man, “like… like those ridiculous coloured air-cakes.”

He meant the low-res cakes that Clarissa had put out on the table for Lemmy. And now Lemmy discovered a disturbing discrepancy. Within the room he could see the plate on the table with three cakes on it still left over from the nine she had brought in for him. But on the TV screen, though the table and the plate were clearly visible, the plate was empty and there were no cakes at all.

“Why can’t I see the cakes on the TV? Why can’t I see the sensor in the room?”

“The cakes are consensual. The sensor is physical,” Terence said without looking at him. “A sensor detects everything but itself, just like the human brain. It feeds the Field with information about the physical world but it doesn’t appear in the Field itself, not visually, not in tactile form. Nothing.”

“Actually they’re a nuisance for us, Lemmy,” Clarissa chattered. “They’re an eyesore and we bump our heads on them. But it’s alright for you lot. You can walk right through them and see right through them. They don’t get in your way at all.”

She looked at her husband.

“Are you going to… I mean you’re not going to point the camera at him are you? You’re not going to show him himself ?”

She was pretending to warn Terence not to do it, Lemmy noticed, but really she was making quite sure that he wouldn’t forget.

“Yeah, go on then, show me,” he said wearily, knowing already what he would see.

The old man swept the camera round the room. On the TV screen Lemmy saw Clarissa sitting in an armchair. He saw a painting of dead pheasants. He saw the dying embers of the fire and the corner of the dark-red sofa where he was sitting. And then, though he really didn’t want to look, he saw the whole sofa.

Of course, just as he had somehow guessed it would be, it was empty.

“Alright then,” Lemmy said in a tight voice. “So if I’m not really here, then where am I?”

“I can show you that too if you want,” said Terence, still not looking at him, but addressing him directly for the first time. “Come upstairs and I’ll show you…”

“Oh Terence,” murmured Clarissa. “It’s an awful lot for him to take in. I really think we should…”