Geoff Ryman - Air (or Have Not Have)

Mae turned to them. 'Is there something any of you want to know?' They sat. Sunni sat looking down at her new dress, adjusting the scarf into a perfect position.

'Mrs Haseem-ma'am, perhaps you would like to learn how to print a leaflet.'

'I have already printed a leaflet,' replied Sunni, her face a mask of a smile.

'Good, then we need not do that,' said Mae. Her eyes said: That is what I wanted; you will not learn it from me.

Mae wanted to humiliate Sunni in public. Her gut moved her forward. 'There are many things the TV can do. Perhaps I can show you how to use it to design special clothes in a special way. Sezen? May I use your drawings?'

Sezen sat up and blinked. 'Uh. Ah. Okay?' Her boyfriend laughed at her, and she hit him. Mae trotted forward, feeling short-legged, and took the notebook.

'Scan,' Mae said, and held up the book in front of the little camera eye sitting on top of the TV. It took a moment. 'If this was an egg, I would now go and wash the bowls and come back later.' The homely touch made most of her audience laugh.

Then Mae pulled the camera round. 'Now, please scan Mrs Haseem-ma'am.'

The audience was onscreen, and Mae touched the screen image of Mrs Haseem, to select her.

'You see, we live in new ways already. Sezen has been looking at new kinds of clothes for modern people. What the TV can do is show us what such clothes will look like on real people. So they can see themselves if the fashion suits them. We will show modern fashion on Mrs Haseem.'

The young people spurted laughter. Mae had seen a department store in Tokyo do this. If they could, she could.

The machine whirred. Kwan's face was held still, but its smile was spreading. Slowly.

'What the machine is doing is building an image of Mrs Sunni-ma'am. This image will be complete and can do many things. Though it might take some time to make.' She glanced at the screen. The TV whirred to itself.

Mae was stuck for something to say. 'So. Let's start to make our new clothes for new people.' She murmured to the TV, 'Multitask.' The machine did not understand. 'Multitask,' Mae said again.

Sunni raised her voice, very slightly: 'Not everybody follows your orders, Mae.'

'Indeed not, Mrs Haseem-ma'am. I am not in a position to give orders.'

A new window opened with the image of Sezen's jacket. Mae told the machine it was to be a jacket and Sunni's size, which she knew from ordering her dresses. Mae called up textures, she called up colours.

'Oh!' gasped Mrs Pin, as the drawing of the jacket suddenly inflated into something that looked almost real.

Mae stuck in the knife and twisted. 'The advantage is that you do not need to visit the City to see fashion. You do not need to have Talents come and visit to parade clothes that look good on them. You can see what clothes look like on you.'

'It might have been better manners,' said Sunni, looking pained. 'To try it on yourself.'

Mae sniffed. 'I have just come from working in fields. I no longer care what I wear.'

She started on the jeans. Black jeans with handcuffs at the belt.

'Every business will have to change. Even farming, even water, all of it will change because of "Info." That is why I want you to be ready.'

The jeans were made, in Sunni's size.

'A different hairstyle for you, Mrs Sunni-ma'am?'

Beautiful, spiky, cropped, slicked.

'We can give you a whole new look.'

Mae went back to the newly computed image of Sunni. You could paste on the designs, and the person could stand up and turn and see the clothes as if they really wore them.

Mae did not know the command. She knew how to paste images, but the images were flat and dead.

The command she needed was an English word. Mae could not remember it. She searched her Air-scarred mind. She felt what she called the root, the thing that was reached back into Air. 'What is the thing I need?' she demanded.

The whisper was slight, as slight as the moment when you remember. Mae saw a sign that looked like it was made of red and yellow blocks: 3-D. Mae remembered the funny seesaw sound of English. She really did not know if this was going to work, but if it did, the village would talk about nothing else.

'Tree dee com poo tay shon.'

Pause.

The screen went dark. Mae heard, very faintly, a grinding, she heard the sound of wind. Please, wind, please air, please sky, I am of the earth. Help me.

Pink, said the lines of the screen, awakening.

Sezen roared. She stood up and covered her mouth and hopped up and down, beset by hilarity, hope, all manner of feelings, including hatred of the rich:

For, on the screen, Mrs Haseem-ma'am was sitting on her chair, dressed as Sezen had dreamed. Spiky hair, black leather, black jeans, everything black. Mrs Haseem looked down in shame, she tried to look up in pity. She saw herself as too old, too plump, squeezed into jeans, and looking like a drug dealer.

'I use clothes to flatter friends, not to make fun of people,' Sunni said.

Bad Girl Sunni said it, too, an echo on the screen. She stood up with maximum dignity.

Onscreen, the effect was hilarious, for she walked off like a fashion model on a catwalk, as in a video. She looked proud to be Bad Girl Sunni.

Mrs Pin and Mrs Doh grinned, eyes goggling, pleased at her defeat.

Mrs Ali stood up suddenly, straight and fierce, and walked off to join Mrs Haseem. So I know who my friends are, thought Mae.

And I am somewhat in Sezen's debt.

'Now,' she said, 'for those who are left: Let's go back to looking at this thing.'

In the afternoon, the children came to the Swallow School.

Their clothes were ragged, their stripy T-shirts brown with age and dust. They clutched notebooks to their chests.

'We want to see the games!' they chorused.

Mae remembered Teacher Shen. 'I think we had better look at education,' she said.

She saw a little girl called Dawn wince. 'It's not so bad, Dawn,' said Mae. ' "Education," ' Mae told the machine.

And an owl flew onto the screen.

Maybe an owl meant education in America, but in Karzistan owls were birds of death, not of wisdom. This owl wore glasses, which was especially terrifying. The children went silent.

'Hiya!' It began to parrot and prance.

Dawn covered her eyes.

'See? It's a friendly owl,' Mae said. It began to recite all the options. 'It can help you with schoolwork.'

The children stayed silent, but became accepting. They accepted it might be useful to know this, and none of them had opened up the owl before.

'Call me "Owl," ' said Mae.

The children giggled, nervously.

'I am old. I am wise. I am friendly. You call on me, and I will help you.'

'Ow-ow-ow-owll-l' wheedled Dawn, twisting in her chair, and they all broke into giggles. It was extremely rude to call an adult 'Owl.' Mae let them laugh.

Mae decided to show them a symphony from Paris. There was more than one of them. A list of choices offered things Mae had never heard of. 'Explain,' she said.

The television spoke. They were names of people who had made music.

'Who is Bay Toh Vang?' she asked.

And the television told them about the man, his life, and a world that was unfamiliar, strange, gone. The world was a big place, and history made it even bigger, showing different worlds at different times. It was like looking down a huge chasm. Mae even felt a bit dizzy.

The children wanted to see the nest of singing Talents called the Pink and Gold Girls instead. Up they came, breasts sparkled with sequins, but with positive messages about learning being 'the Way' for both boys and girls.

Mae found Hindu raga, and Indian musical movies; she showed them Muslim music from the Arab league. Half her audience sat forward, for they yearned with all their hearts for a Muslim world.