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ROBERT REEDFIRST TUESDAYIt seems as if the 1992 elections just ended, and yet this magazine arrives inyour mailbox at the beginning of primary season. So, with politics on our minds,we searched for some appropriate stories.Political science fiction is often about the ramifications of social change.Rarely does the political sf story (these days) begin with a point oftechnological change. In "First Tuesday," Robert Reed uses a change intechnology to examine the future of Presidential-Constituents relations.AFTER A LOT OF PESTERING, More told Stefan, "Fine, you can pick the view." Onlyit wasn't an easy job, and Stefan enjoyed it even more than he'd hoped. Standingon the foam-rock patio, he spoke to the house computer, asking for the GrandCanyon, then Hawaii's coast, then Denali. He saw each from many vantage points,never satisfied and never sure why not. Then he tried Mount Rushmore, which wasbetter. Except Yancy saw the six stone heads, and he stuck his head out longenough to say, "Change it. Now." No debate; no place for compromise. Stefansettled on the Grand Canyon, on a popular view from the North Rim, tellinghimself that 'it was lovely and appropriate, and he hoped their guest wouldapprove, and how soon would he be here . . . ? In another couple seconds, Stefanrealized. Jesus, now . . . !A figure appeared on the little lawn. He was tall, wearing a fancy suit, thatfamous face smiling straight at Stefan. And the boy jumped into the house,shouting with glee:"The President's here!"His stepfather muttered something.Mom whined, "Oh, but I'm not ready."Stefan was ready. He ran across the patio, leaping where it ended. His habit wasto roll down the worn grassy slope. But he was wearing good clothes, and thisevening was full of civic responsibilities. Landing with both feet solidly underhim, he tried very hard to look like the most perfect citizen possible.The President appeared solid. Not real, but nearly so.The face was a mixture of Latin and African genes. The dreadlocks were longenough to kiss his broad shoulders. Halfway through his second term, PresidentPerez was the only president that Stefan could remember, and even though thiswas just a projection, an interactive holo generated by machines . . . it wasstill an honor to have him here, and Stefan felt special, and for more reasonsthan he could count, he was nervous. In good ways, and in bad ways too."Hello?" chirped the eleven-year-old boy. "Mr. President?"The projection hadn't moved. The house computer was wrestling with itsinstructions, fashioning a personality within its finite capacity. There was asound, a sudden "Sssss" generated by speakers hidden in the squidskin fence andsky. The projection opened its mouth; a friendly, reedy voice managed,"Sssstefan." Then the President moved, offering both hands while saying, "Hello,young man. I'm so very glad to meet you."Of course he knew Stefan's name. The personality could read the boy's publicfiles. Yet the simple trick impressed him, and in response he shouted, "I'm gladto meet you, Mr. President."The brown hands had no substance, yet they couldn't have acted more real.Gripping Stefan's pale little hand, they matched every motion, the warmthcarried by the bright eyes and his words. "This is an historic moment, Stefan.But then you already know that, I'm sure."The first nationwide press conference, yes. Democracy and science joined in aperfect marriage. President Perez was invited here for a symbolic dinner, and hewas everywhere else at the same time. It was a wondrous evening . . . magical .. . !"A lovely yard," said the President. The eyes were blind, but the personalityhad access to the security cameras, building appropriate images as the facemoved. With a faraway gaze, he announced, "I do like your choice of view.""Thank you, Mr. President.""Very nice indeed . . . !"Holo projectors and squidskin fabrics created the illusion of blue skies andrugged geology. Although nothing was quite as bright as it would appear in thereal outdoors, of course. And the squidskin rocks and the occasional bird had avagueness, a dreamy imprecision, that was the mark of a less-than-good system.Sometimes, like now, the antinoise generators failed to hide unwanted sounds.Somewhere beyond the President, neighbors were applauding and cheering making itseem as if ghosts inhabited the ghostly canyon.President Perez seemed oblivious to the imperfections. Gesturing at theirgarden, he said, "Oh, I see you're doing your part. How close are you toself-sufficiency?"Not close at all, really."Beautiful eggplants," said the guest, not waiting for a response. "And a fishpond too!"Without fish. A problem with the filter, but the boy said nothing, hopingnothing would be noticed.The President was turning in a circle, hunting for something else to compliment.For some reason, the house wasn't wearing its usual coat of projected paints andarchitectural flourishes. Their guest was too complicated, no doubt. Too manycalculations, plus the computer had to show the Grand Canyon . . . and the realhouse lay exposed in all its drabness. Glass foams and cardboard looked gray andsimple, and insubstantial, three walls inside the yard and the fourth wallpointed toward the outdoors, the brown stains on the sky showing where rainwaterhad damaged the squidskin.To break the silence, Stefan blurted out a question. "Mr. President, where doyou stand on the economy?"That's how reporters asked questions.But the great man didn't respond in the expected way. His smile changed,remaining a smile but encompassing some new, subtly different flavor of light."I'll stand on the economy's head," he replied. "With my feet apart, ready foranything."Was that a genuine answer?Stefan wasn't sure.Then the President knelt, putting his head below the boy's, saying with a happy,self-assured voice, "Thank you for the question. And remember, what happenstonight goes both ways. You can learn what I'm thinking, and in a different wayI'll learn what's on your mind."Stefan nodded, well aware of the principles."When I wake," said the handsome brown face, "I'll read that this many peopleasked about the economy, and how they asked it, and what they think we should bedoing. All that in an abbreviated form, of course. A person in my position needsa lot of abbreviations, I'm afraid.""Yes, sir." Stefan waited for a moment, then blurted, "I think you're doing agood job with the economy, sir. I really do.""Well," said the guest, "I'm very, very glad to hear it. I am."At that moment, the genuine President Perez was inside a government hospital, ina fetal position, suspended within a gelatin bath. Masses of bright new opticalcable were attached to his brain and fingers, mouth and anus, linking himdirectly with the Net. Everything that he knew and believed was being blendedwith his physical self, all elements reduced to a series of numbers, thenenlarged into a nationwide presence. Every household with an adequate projectionsystem and memory was being visited, as were public buildings and parks,stadiums and VA facilities. If it was a success, press conferences would becomea monthly event. Political opponents were upset, complaining that this was likeone enormous commercial for Perez; but this was the President's last term, andit was an experiment, and even Stefan understood that these tricks were becomingcheaper and more widespread every day.In the future, perhaps by the next election, each political party would be ableto send its candidates to the voters' homes.What could be more fair? thought the boy.Stefan's stepfather had just stepped from the drab house, carrying a plate fullof raw pink burgers.In an instant, the air seemed close and thick."Mr. Thatcher," said the projection, "thank you for inviting me. I hope you'rehaving a pleasant evening . . . !""Hey, I hope you like meat," Yancy called out. "In this family, we'recarnivores!"Stefan felt a sudden and precise terror.But the President didn't hesitate, gesturing at the buffalo-augmented soypatties. Saying, "I hope you saved one for me.""Sure, Mr. President. Sure."For as long as Stefan could remember, his stepfather had never missed a chanceto say something ugly about President Perez. But Morn had made him promise to beon his best behavior. Not once, but on several occasions. "I don't want to beembarrassed," she had told him, using the same tone she'd use when trying tomake Stefan behave. "I want him to enjoy himself, at least this once. Will youplease just help me?"Yancy Thatcher was even paler than his stepson. Blonde hair worn in a short,manly ponytail; a round face wearing a perpetually sour expression. He wasn'tlarge, but he acted large. He spoke with a deep, booming voice, and he carriedhimself as if endowed with a dangerous strength. Like now. Coming down theslope, he was walking straight toward their guest. The President was offeringboth hands, in his trademark fashion. But no hand was offered to him, and theprojection retreated, saying, "Excuse me," while deftly stepping out of the way."You're excused," Yancy replied, laughing in a low, unamused fashion. Neverbreaking stride.Mom wasn't watching; that's why he was acting this way.Things worsened when Yancy looked over his shoulder, announcing, "I didn't wantyou coming tonight, frankly. But the kid's supposed to do an assignment forschool, and besides, I figured this was my chance to show you my mind. If youknow what I mean. . . . "President Perez n... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]