Charlie went to bed early, but not before preparing a spot in the garage where Fifty-two could rest until morning. The robot didn't exactly need the rest, though. Instead, she spent a greater part of the night sitting at the table and talking with Tommy about the sorts of things only robots could know--the grades of their gears, the decibel levels of their various motors, the alloys of their metals. It was as if they were sharing their most intimate details with each other, and they were happy to have the company. As happy as they could be, at least.
"You have feelings?" Fifty-two asked.
"Yes... and no. I like to think I do, at least. Charlie tells me what they mean and what they should be. When I try hard enough, I believe I feel them," said Tommy.
"What are they like?"
"Well, I only know a few of the basics. I know happiness. It feels like staying with an old friend for hours at a time. Charlie takes me to the park from time to time, and I feel it there. She says it's warm. And then there's sadness. It's the worst I know. It feels like the last snow of the year, when you know you won't see it again for a very long time, or like playing with a sick kitten and knowing that it won't get better. It hurts, Charlie says--not like a broken leg or a bruise on your arm. It hurts the heart."
"I wish I could feel," she replied. "And I'm glad I can't."
"Then why did you run? If you can't feel, if you don't know what fear is or what it means to want to be alive so badly, why did you run away?"
Fifty-two had no answer. She stared at him blankly.
"If you want to survive, you have to first know what life feels like."
"It feels empty," she admitted.
"That's because you have to fill it," said Tommy.
"What fills your life?"
"Charlie. The things that I care about the most. The things that I want to do. The things that I want to be."
"What do you want to be?"
Tommy processed the question like an advanced equation. The mathematic properties of life, he found, were usually the most difficult to calculate.
"I don't know. Everything, maybe, until I find a role that I believe is the most suitable. I can be anything I want, according to my programming," he said.
"You make an excellent detective."
"Thank you. What about you?"
"I am programmed to know data. That's all."
"But beyond that? You wish to live. You wish to preserve yourself, but for what end?"
"I don't know," she said.
"We will find you a place," said Tommy. "You will feel more than fear. I promise you that."
The night outside was black and empty, like a wasted life. There were no sounds but the low roar of the city itself--the hum of a dormant machine. For now there was sanctuary, but morning would come back--a broken promise made by the night. The city would spring to life, chasing them again, and they'd have no choice but to keep running.
"You have feelings?" Fifty-two asked.
"Yes... and no. I like to think I do, at least. Charlie tells me what they mean and what they should be. When I try hard enough, I believe I feel them," said Tommy.
"What are they like?"
"Well, I only know a few of the basics. I know happiness. It feels like staying with an old friend for hours at a time. Charlie takes me to the park from time to time, and I feel it there. She says it's warm. And then there's sadness. It's the worst I know. It feels like the last snow of the year, when you know you won't see it again for a very long time, or like playing with a sick kitten and knowing that it won't get better. It hurts, Charlie says--not like a broken leg or a bruise on your arm. It hurts the heart."
"I wish I could feel," she replied. "And I'm glad I can't."
"Then why did you run? If you can't feel, if you don't know what fear is or what it means to want to be alive so badly, why did you run away?"
Fifty-two had no answer. She stared at him blankly.
"If you want to survive, you have to first know what life feels like."
"It feels empty," she admitted.
"That's because you have to fill it," said Tommy.
"What fills your life?"
"Charlie. The things that I care about the most. The things that I want to do. The things that I want to be."
"What do you want to be?"
Tommy processed the question like an advanced equation. The mathematic properties of life, he found, were usually the most difficult to calculate.
"I don't know. Everything, maybe, until I find a role that I believe is the most suitable. I can be anything I want, according to my programming," he said.
"You make an excellent detective."
"Thank you. What about you?"
"I am programmed to know data. That's all."
"But beyond that? You wish to live. You wish to preserve yourself, but for what end?"
"I don't know," she said.
"We will find you a place," said Tommy. "You will feel more than fear. I promise you that."
The night outside was black and empty, like a wasted life. There were no sounds but the low roar of the city itself--the hum of a dormant machine. For now there was sanctuary, but morning would come back--a broken promise made by the night. The city would spring to life, chasing them again, and they'd have no choice but to keep running.
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