Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Window to the Soul
As Hennessy hustles off in that straight-backed march of his, Mrs. Reed starts down the ladder.
"Your family seems to like high places," I say. I reach up to remove my hat, find it missing again, and instead just scratch my head. "I'm afraid I didn't know your drink, Miss...?"
"Mrs. Reed," she says. "But Yvonne will do. Hennessy knows my drink. My, you are a brute of a man, Mr. Tarelli."
She's got a singer's voice: pleasant and husky. In a move that surprises me, she hops off the ladder still three rungs up, and her heels clack against the hardwood floor as she sticks the landing on sure feet. Her blouse is open at the top, showing her collarbones. Eyes like her father's, yet somehow entirely different. Fair skin. Red lips, upturned in a sly grin. Expensive makeup-a little much, for my tastes, but a lot of men like that. Her dark hair rests on her shoulders, and I wonder what it feels like.
"He's very lifelike," I say.
Her grin doesn't falter, but I can tell it catches her off guard. "What do you mean?"
"Hennessy. Practically human in every way."
She tilts her head a little. "What gave him away?"
"Well, he's not much for small-talk," I say, and I leave it at that.
It's true he's no conversationalist, but what really gave Hennessy away were his eyes. No matter how nearly perfect the simulation-skin, hair, vocal nuances, personality traits-you can always tell a bot by the eyes. They can be made to look quite real. Even the algorithm that controls their blinking is flawless, attuned to biological standards and automatically adjusting to conditions like light and humidity. The same goes for pupil dilation. What gives it all away is eye contact.
Eye contact is just too natural in humans to be successfully simulated in bots. It's controlled by situational cues, prior individual experience, anxiety, awkwardness... The sorts of things machines don't have or feel. And unlike us, their peripheral vision is perfect. They don't need to look directly at something to see it clearly, as a biological eye does. Poor emulation causes bots to either roam the room with their eyes, seemingly at random, or never break eye contact at all.
"As you can imagine, it's difficult for my father to trust hired help," says Yvonne Reed, placing special disdain on the word, hired. "Bots are more trustworthy. One hundred percent loyal."
"A knife is loyal, too," I say. "But you can still cut yourself with one."
With perfectly rhythmic footfalls, Hennessy re-enters the library with a silver platter, carrying a short tumbler for me and a tall, skinny glass of something for brown-eyes, packed with ice. He stops before us and offers the platter without a word. Yvonne takes her drink, and I take mine. Hennessy stares straight at me, but his eyes seem empty, like he's seeing through me.
Hennessy turns to Yvonne. "Will there be anything else, Madame?"
"Not right now," she says.
Hennessy bows and exits with the empty platter tucked under his arm, and as the bot's footfalls fade away down the hall, Yvonne Reed and I touch glasses and drink.
"Is it just you three, then?" I ask. "Living in this big place?"
Yvonne sighs, and her eyes take a tour of the library. "It's a rather dreary old haunt these days, isn't it? Once upon a time, it was full of life and laughter. People were in and out all the time-visiting with my father, conducting business, you know... These days, he's too old and paranoid for socializing."
"Maybe he's got it right. Look at what happened to your brother." Seeing the look on her face, I stop and clear my throat. "My condolences."
"Mentioned Nathan, did he?"
"He hardly needed to. It's all over the news." My glass is empty all of a sudden, so I set it down on a nearby end table. "Were you two close?"
"No, not very. Nathan is-or was, rather-nearly as old as my biological mother was. We had the same father but little else in common. Do you know very much about my father?"
"Oh, the usual. Self-made man. Climbed the ladder from the factory floor to the executive's office. Started his own company and never looked back. Hands in all manner of business across Jannix. Owns a stockyard on the Invictus moon, if memory serves. Occasionally married. Two children. Am I going too fast for you, Mrs. Reed?"
She tilts her frame to one side, cocking her head slightly to look at me. "Why so interested in my family, Mr. Tarelli?"
"Well, I'm not, if I'm being honest."
"Oh?"
"It's called small talk, Mrs. Reed. It's what you do while you're waiting for the other person to work up the courage to come out with whatever it is they really want to say. You're the one who called me in here. It wasn't just for a nightcap, was it? If it was, my glass is empty, so I'll bid you a fond farewell. I'm too busy a man to stand around jawing like this."
One of her dark eyebrows rises in an appraising sort of way. "I'm not accustomed to being spoken to like that."
"I'm sure you aren't."
"You can't blame a girl for being curious," she says. "Nathan's dead, and Father suddenly starts taking houseguests? Just wondering what's so special about you, is all."
"You let me know if you figure it out. Say, if we're gonna go round in circles like this all night, would you mind at least putting on some music?"
"I won't keep you, Mr. Tarelli. I mean well by my inquisition. I feel a certain responsibility to watch over my father in his old age. And all the more, now that Nathan is gone."
"Is that why a married woman your age is still living with her father?"
Her jaw tightens, and her eyes smolder. Her skirt spins in a wide arc as she turns away. With slow, measured grace, she walks back the way she came.
"Please thank your father for the drinks," I call after her.
She says nothing.
Hennessy's waiting for me in the hall, this time with my coat and hat.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone