Adventures of the Artificial Woman

SIMON & SCHUSTER
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New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2004 by Thomas Berger

All rights reserved,
including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.

S
IMON
& S
CHUSTER
P
APERBACKS
and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Berger, Thomas, 1924-

Adventures of the artificial woman : a novel / Thomas Berger.

p.  cm.

1. Women—United States—Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 3. Artificial intelligence—Fiction. 4. Women in politics—Fiction. 5. Robotics—Fiction. 6. Robots—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3552.E719A65 2004

813′.54—dc22
                    2003065027

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-8861-0
ISBN-10: 1-4165-8861-2

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To David W. Madden

N
ever having found a real woman with whom he could sustain a more than temporary connection, Ellery Pierce, a technician at a firm that made animatronic creatures for movie studios and theme parks, decided to fabricate one from scratch.

The artificial woman would naturally be able to perform every function, but sex was the least of what Pierce looked for in his made-to-order model. He had never had undue difficulty in finding live females to satisfy his erotic appetites. He was witty, considerate, and instinctively affectionate. Physically he was trim and fit, curly haired, clear-eyed; in his smile generosity and impudence were combined with a hint of reproach. The reproach was for the many women he had known who, having soon exhausted an early attraction, on longer acquaintance found him wanting.

For years he had made a sincere effort to determine the reason for this state of affairs and, if the fault proved his own, to seek a personal change. But the fact was that no matter how hard he tried, he could not honestly blame himself. Obviously he bore no responsibility for having been reared by a single mother who adored and spoiled her only child, a child who was therefore led to expect much the same treatment from the other examples of the female sex he would encounter after leaving the nest.

In which expectation he was proven wrong rather sooner than later. There were some women who immediately disliked or were indifferent to him, but they were easier to deal with than those who at the outset seemed to regard meeting him as at least a positive experience and sometimes even life-enhancing, to the degree that they might subsequently insist they were in love. In such cases he often responded in kind, and by the time he was thirty-three he had lived, respectively, with three such persons and had been married to two of them. Each of these associations had come to an unhappy end, and though he was first to admit to being imperfect, he believed his only major flaw was an inability to choose the right partner.

It took forever to dawn on him that, anyway in his case, there were no right ones. Eventually the most amiable would turn sarcastic, make aspersions on his tastes, oppose his opinions, disrespect his judgments, and in general be an adversary instead of an ally. No doubt some men did not mind that sort of thing or, more likely, felt they had no alternative to making the best of the situation, but Pierce was not of their company. He suspected the solution might well be not, so to speak, human but rather technological.

The materials by which artificial creatures could be made were available at his place of work, where one of the current projects was the construction of animatronic orangutans for a movie to be set in Borneo. Real animals would be used extensively in the picture, but however well trained, they were not altogether reliable in certain stunts involving actors. With their natural reluctance (though not, in apes, an inability) to distinguish make-believe from reality, live orangutans were, in the violent scenes, capable of mistaking the man who played the villain as the genuine article, maiming him if not worse. Pierce's special-effects company could produce imitation orangs so lifelike as to fool their living counterparts at as close as twenty paces, and who knows how far they might have gone had a female animatron been supplied with a sex organ sprayed with the scent from a real animal in heat?

The firm had less experience with the simulation of human beings. In the movies robots and of course “cyborgs” are depicted by actors made up to resemble automata, not the other way around. In theme-park exhibits the animated mannequins make only limited, prescribed movements, and their voices, if any, are those of amplified electronic sound systems. To fabricate a woman who could be put to all the uses of a real one, and fool everyone but her creator, Pierce had his work cut out for him. But he was a journeyman at the craft, and he was persistent once he had defined a result short of achieving which he could quit without forsaking his life.

The effort would have been demanding enough could he have pursued it openly and full-time—the selection of synthetic skin alone took years—but he had to continue in his regular job as well, if only to ensure access to the materials and equipment with which to fashion the artificial woman. In fact Pierce did better than that, so proficiently that in time he was appointed head of the research department, in which post he enjoyed many privileges and immunities helpful to his private project, coming and going as he wished, in all areas of the plant, at moments of his own choosing. The night watchman would never ask why he was there at three
A.M.
, nor see what he was doing.

Pierce was in his mid-forties when, after many failures, diversions, and interim stages, he had at last produced a creature in whom he had sufficient confidence to introduce her to another human being. He chose the postman who delivered mail to the rural box at his weekend hideaway, to which he had begun to bring the artificial woman in disassembled form six months before. He had put her together there and conducted many private trial runs, some even outside, for he had no near neighbors and the house was at the end of a long lane on which a car could be heard as soon as it turned off the county road.

The mailman, in his right-hand-drive vehicle, would swoop onto the shoulder for only an instant in which to thrust a rolled newspaper into the box before accelerating away. Counting on him to serve as the perfect short-lived audience for the maiden event, Pierce led the woman down the dirt lane at the normal pace of a human being strolling on such a surface. After much work and many adjustments, her stride was at last flawless. While an ability to run at full speed had been relatively easy to develop and maintain, a simple walk was very difficult to accomplish, owing to the problem of equilibrium, a more complex process than one remembers, though every mortal eventually masters it as a child.

While they waited at roadside, Pierce made small talk with his creation, whose responses were activated by the sound of another voice. Phyllis could draw from a bank of several dozen programmed phrases, and she also had the capacity to learn new ones as she heard them. When he now said, “It's warm for March,” and she answered, “Spring is early this year,” he decided to provide her further with, “I saw some crocuses in the side yard.”

The postman was a punctual fellow, his Jeep vaulting over the camelback a hundred yards to the east at 10:02. When he braked at the mailbox, Pierce said, “Good morning, Rollie. I don't think you've met my wife, Phyllis.”

“Didn't even know you were married,” said the man, teeth gleaming. He nodded. “Ma'am.”

“This is Rollie, Phyl,” said Pierce.

Phyllis smiled prettily. “I'm pleased to meet you, Rollie,” said she. “I've heard so much about you.”

The postman's brow showed a furrow. “You
have?
”

Pierce intruded, taking the extended newspaper. “We just got married last week, in town.”

“I'll bet you will be real happy,” Rollie said, nodding some more with his balding head and fat shoulders. He gunned the engine and sped away.

Phyllis's maiden appearance had been an unqualified success! Pierce was gratified. He yearned briefly for someone with whom to celebrate his triumph, but he had only Phyllis. He could never take a living person into his confidence on this matter, for doing so would nullify his purpose in building the robot—a truth that first occurred to him only at that moment. He was stuck with Phyllis for good or ill, much as a mother is responsible for a child she has borne, with the difference that it would not be criminal for Pierce to neglect, discard, or even destroy the creature he had made, in any of which circumstances he would be guilty only of wasting much of his life.

“Well, Phyl, it's up to us,” he said when, back in the house, he opened a bottle of champagne and poured them each a glass.

“Here's to us, Ellery,” said she, and, as she had been programmed, lifted the flute to her delicate pink lips and quaffed from it. Her throat was a waterproofed tube that debouched into a collection chamber in the abdominal area. She was capable of eating real food, even masticating dense meats, all of which descended to the same chamber, which could be removed for emptying through swingaway buttocks, hinged inconspicuously.

“What do you think, Phyl? Are we ready to go to bed?”

She smiled, with a sensual glint in her hazel eyes, and breathily moaned, “God, how I want you, Ellery.”

But every time she repeated that statement it sounded less provocative, perhaps because he had continued to drink more champagne and, unlike her, was affected by it.

“Maybe I should have you talk dirty,” he told her when the bottle was almost empty and his disappointment had accumulated.

“I would like that.” This was the stock phrase, applied to anything he said with a certain inflection. It was not appropriate here, sounding like mockery.

“Don't respond for a while, Phyllis. I'm trying to think, and I'm somewhat drunk. I haven't had any alcohol for a long time.”

Displaying a sympathetic expression that was remarkably believable, she remained silent as ordered.

Pierce was suddenly almost overcome with an emotion that, consciously anyhow, was not simple self-admiration. “I've never known a woman who would not use such an opportunity to get the knife in—I mean, if she herself was sober as you are. If she too was drunk—well, usually they've been loud. I can't stand noisy women, Phyl. They haven't the voices for it. They tend to be screechy. I've given you a soft voice of the kind I like. Say something now.”

“I'm really enjoying myself,” said she and caressed him lightly on the wrist with velvety fingers, the tips of which were, as in humans, cool, but her palm was warm. After many trials he had arrived at a system that could maintain the right temperature through the circulation of warm oil, heated by a system that had its own dedicated source of power. The storage batteries that provided the other, motile functions would soon have been exhausted by this demand. Periodically warmed by a house-current plug-in, the oil in its insulated conduits would not cool for hours. Whether for all night remained to be determined; thus far Pierce had returned her to the home workshop when he went to bed.

But they had reached a new phase now. It was only around noon, but he was drunk and really for the first time felt sexually attracted to Phyllis in an immediate way, as opposed to the theoretical allure of the planning and construction stages. He had given her breasts of the shape and size he believed perfect, the nose and mouth and silken chestnut hair, the poreless skin, the smooth slender thighs, the curve from waist to hip, the elongated and very narrow shape of foot by which he had always been fascinated. Yet until this moment she had remained a machine, which was to say too flawless to pass as human. A case might well be made that sensuality was a contradiction of the perfect, perfection being complete in itself, needing nobody else.

What was different now was not Phyllis, who could not change, but rather Pierce himself. He swept her up in his arms—at 108, well distributed, she was just the right weight to carry—and bore her into the bedroom, lowered her to the bed, and, leaning, pressed his lips to hers, which triggered her to give him the tongue and put gentle but importunate fingers into his crotch.

He undressed her of the jeans and sweater in which she had met the mailman and tore away the sparkling white underwear with one hand while ripping off his own clothes with the other. Never had he known desire of this intensity, and his ardor was reflected in hers. She clasped and plucked and sighed, tossing her head violently on the pillow, moaning, “God, how I want you, Ellery.”

But about to make entry, Pierce all at once deflated. What a foolish phrase! It was something a robot might be programmed to say. That it was said in an acceptable voice, and not a metallic, reverberative tone, suggested an intentional parody.

Driving back to town early Monday morning, a trip that for three-quarters of its duration was in bumper-tight traffic, Pierce had, as always, optimum time for reflection. He had made a mistake in taking Phyllis to bed before she had been properly furnished with the other attributes he sought in the perfect woman, those with which he had erroneously, sentimentally credited her when he was drunk. On the other hand, she should never be treated as a sex object—for the sake of his self-respect, not hers;
she
was a machine.

At the moment, deprived of her integrity, Phyllis rode in a metal box in the rear of his Land Rover, disassembled into several large parts, a measure Pierce felt he should take lest an accident lead to her discovery.

His home in town was in a high-rise building, and transferring Phyllis from the basement garage to a tenth-floor apartment was a demanding exercise, but he had been doing it successfully and unobtrusively for years. Throughout the phases of her construction he had kept her in disparate parts throughout the week, in the locked crate, inside a walk-in bedroom closet, which was also locked against the possible intrusions of maintenance personnel or the weekly cleaning woman.

Now, as he wheeled the crate over the threshold, he made a bold decision. He liberated the head, thorax, and limbs from their imprisonment and assembled Phyllis right there on the living room rug. For the first time her nudity was embarrassing to him, though not of course to her.

“Have to put some clothes on you,” he said. For some months he had been purchasing by noncompromising internet or mail a wardrobe appropriate to a woman of her apparent age, which he placed at, give or take, twenty-five. “Go on to the bedroom.” She had taken only a step or two before he corrected himself. “Sorry, Phyl. You've never seen it, have you? It's at the end of that hallway. Why don't you go on ahead while I put this stuff away.”