Supertoys In Other Seasons

by Brian W. Aldiss


Throwaway Town sprawled near  the heart of the  city. David made his  way there,
led by a large Fixer-Mixer. The  Fixer-Mixer had many hands and arms  of various
dimensions.  He  kept  them  snugged down  on  his  rusty  carapace. Walking  on
extensible spider legs, he towered above David.

As they went along, David asked, 'Why are you so big?'

'The world's big, David. So I am big.' After a silence, the five-year-old  said,
'The world has been big since my Mummy died.' 'Machines don't have mummies.'  'I
wish you to know I am not a machine.' Throwaway was entered down a steep  slope,
and partly hidden from  the going human world  by a high wall  of breeze-blocks.
The road into this junk town was wide and easy. Everything inside was irregular.
Strange shapes were the order of the  day. Many shapes moved, or could move,  or
might move.  Their colours  were many,  some sporting  huge letters or numerals.
Rusty  brown  was  a  favourite.  They  specialised  in  scratches,  huge dents,
shattered glass, broken panels. They stood in puddles and leaked rust.

This was the land of the obsolete. To Throwaway came or were dumped all the  old
models of automatics, robots, androids and other machines that had ceased to  be
useful to busy mankind.  Here was everything that  had once worked in  some way,
from toasters and electric carving  knives to derricks and computers  that could
count only up  to innnity-minus-one. The  poor Fixer-Mixer had  lost one of  its
grabbers and would never again haul a tonne of cement.

It was a town of a kind.  Every junked object helped every other junked  object.
Every old-model pocket  calculator could calculate  something useful, if  it was
only  how  wide a  lane  should be  left  between two  blocks  of scrapped  auto
-mobilities to allow passage for wheelies and motormowers.

A tired  old supermarket  servitor took  David into  his care.  They shared  the
burnt-out shell of a refrigeration unit.

'You'll be okay with me till your transistors blow,' the servitor said.

'You're very kind. I just wish I had Teddy with me,' said David.

'What was so special about Teddy?'

'We used to play together, Teddy and I.'

'Was he human?'

'He was like me.'

'Just a machine, eh? Better forget him, then.'

David thought to himself. Forget Teddy?  I really loved Teddy. But it  was quite
cosy in the refrigeration unit.

One day the servitor asked, 'Who kept you?'

'I had a daddy called Henry Swinton. But he was generally away on business.'

Henry  Swinton was  away on  business Together  with three  associates, he   was
ensconced in a  hotel on an  island in the  South Seas. The  suite in which they
were gathered looked out  over golden sands to  the ocean. Tamarisks grew  below
the window, their fronds  waving slightly in a  breeze that took the  sting from
the tropical heat.

The murmur of waves breaking on the beach did not penetrate the triple glazing.

Henry and  his associates  sat with  bottles of  mineral water  and notefiles in
front of them. Henry's back was to the pleasant view.

Henry had fought his way up to Chief Executive of Worldsynth-Claws. He outranked
the others at the table. Of  these others, one in particular, Asda  Dolorosaria,
had elected herself to speak for the opposition.

'You've seen the figures, Henry. Your proposed Mars investment will not pay  off
in a century. Please be reasonable. Forget the crazy notion.'

Henry said, 'Reason is  one thing, flair another,  Asda. You know the  amount of
business we do in Central Asia. It's  the area of the planet most like  Mars. We
have communications sewn up. Not a single mech there that does not come from our
factories. I bought into Central Asia when no one else would touch it. You  have
to trust me on Mars.'

'Samsawy is against your argument,' said dry-voiced Mauree Shilverstein. Samsawy
was the Supersoftputer Mk.V which in effect ran Worldsynth-Claws. 'Sorry. You're
brilliant, but you know what Samsawy says.' She offered an imitation of a smile.
'He says forget it.'

Henry opened his hands  and placed his fingers  together so that they  formed an
arch of wisdom.

'Okay.  But Samsawy  doesn't have  my intuition.  I intuit  that if  we get  our
synthelp on  Mars right  now, they  can run  the atmosphere-maker.  In no   time
-  well,  in  half a  century,  let's  say -  Worldsynth  will  get to  own  the
atmosphere.  That's as  good as  owning Mars  itself. All  human activities  are
secondary to breathing, okay? Can't you people understand that?' He thumped  the
guaranteed real reconstituted wood table. 'You  got to have flair. I built  this
whole enterprise on flair.'

Old Ainsworth Clawsinski had said nothing, contenting himself with an unwavering
glare at  Henry. He  was the  Claws of  the company.  The plug  in his  left ear
indicated that he was in constant touch with Samsavvy. Now he spoke from his end
of the table.

'Fuck your flair. Henry.'

His colleagues, encouraged, came in in chorus.

'Shareholders don't think in  half-centuries. Henry,' said Mauree  Shilverstein.
She was the one who had initially inclined towards Henry's argument.

'Mars has  no investment  value. It's  proved,' said  Asda Dolorosaria.  They've
gotten in Tibetan labour. It's cheaper and it's expendable. Better forget  about
other planets, Henry, and concentrate that mind of yours on last year's two  per
cent profit dip on this planet.'

Henry went red.

'Forget the  past. You're  dragging your  heels, all  three of  you! Mars is the
future. Ainsworth, with  all due respect,  you're too damned  old to even  think
about the future! We will adjourn and meet again at three thirty. Be warned -  I
know what I'm doing. I want Mars on a plate.'

Gathering up his pad, he marched out of the room.


David found that Throwaway had a We Mend You workshop. Through the maze of rusty
alleyways he went, until  he came to the  workshop. It was situated  in a static
water-tank, turned upside down,  with an entrance cut  in its side by  a welder.
Inside this echoing shelter, industrious little machines worked and patched  and
sawed and rejoined. Still valid circuits were cannibalised, motors  regenerated,
the old made less old, the antiquated merely old.

And there David had his broken face repaired.

There too  he met  the Dancing  Devlins. A  socket in  the male Devlin's leg had
become displaced. Consumer society had scrapped him. Besides, he and his  female
machine, with their rapid dancing act,  had become passe. They had been  earning
less money. They were junked.

The socket was replaced. Batteries were recharged.

Now Devlin (M) could dance again with  Devlin (F). They took David with them  to
their tiny  hovel. There  they performed  their lightning  dance over  and over.
David watched and watched. He never tired of the routine.

'Aren't we wonderful, dear?' said Devlin (F).

'I would like it even more if only Teddy could watch with me.'

'It's the same dance, lad, whether Teddy is here or not.'

'But you don't understand . . .'

'I understand our dance is clever  even if nobody is watching. Once  hundreds of
real people used to watch us dancing. But it was different then.'

'It's different now,' David said.


The sand was yielding underfoot. Henry Swinton kicked his trainers off and  left
them lying on  the beach. He  walked on the  margins of the  ocean. He was  in a
state of despair. He had fallen from a high cliff of success.

After the dismal outcome of the morning's meeting, he had gone to the residents'
bar  to enjoy  a long  slow vod-kamilk,  the Drink  of the  Year.   'Vodkakamilk
- Smooth as Silk'. His associates had given him a wide berth. He had then  taken
an elevator up to his private penthouse on the top floor.

Peaches had gone. Her cases had gone.

Her fragrance lingered, not yet wiped out by the aircond.

On  the mirror  she had  scrawled in  lipstick READ  YOUR AMBIENT!!!  SORRY  AND
GOODBYE! P

'She's being  funny,' thought  Henry, aloud.  He knew  she was  not. Peaches was
never funny.

The Ambient was already tuned  to the private Worldsynth channel.  Henry crossed
to the globe and turned it on.

SS  MV.V.  MESSAGE  TO  HENRY  SWINTON.  YOUR  MARS  GAMBLE  NOT  ACCEPTABLE  TO
SHAREHOLDERS. YOUR PROJECTS SURPLUS TO OUR FUTURE PLANS.

PLEASE ACCEPT  THANKS AND  INSTANT RETIREMENT  HEREWITH. OPEN  TO NEGOTIATION ON
FINAL HANDSHAKE  VALUE IF  NO ARGUMENT  FORTHCOMING. SEE  EMPLOYMENT ACT  21066A
CLAUSES 16-21. FAREWELL.

The ocean  that had  looked so  bright and  pure from  the hotel  was spewing up
plastic bottles  along the  shoreline, together  with dead  fish. Henry  finally
flung  himself down  on the  sand, exhausted.  He had  put on  weight  recently,
despite his Crosswell tape, and was unaccustomed to walking.

No seagull had  ever visited this  island. Swallows abounded.  The birds circled
overhead,  occasionally swooping  on an  insect in  flight. Once  an insect  was
caught, the bird returned with it to  the eaves of the hotel to feed  its young,
screaming in  their nest.  Then it  was back,  fluttering above  the decay where
ocean met shore. There seemed to be no rest for the birds.

From Henry's low view, the hotel presented a rakish aspect. It had been built on
sand. Slowly, one  end was sinking  down. It resembled  a vast concrete  ship in
trouble in a sepia sea.

He endured a rage of hatred about everyone he knew, everyone who had crossed his
path  from the  beginning. The  low rumble  of plastic  bottle bumping   against
plastic bottle formed an accompaniment to his anger.

He contemplated killing  Ainsworth Clawsinski, for  some while his  enemy on the
board. Eventually the anger turned against himself.

'But what have I done? What have I been? What's been in my mind? A big  success!
Empty success ...  Yes, empty. I've  just sold things.  I'm a salesman,  nothing
more. Or I was a salesman. Buying and  selling. My God, I wanted to buy Mars.  A
whole planet... I have been mad with  greed. I am mad. I'm sick, mortally  sick.
What did I ever care about?

'I  have never  been creative.  I imagined  I was  creative. I've  never been  a
scientist. I'm just a  smartass. What do I  really understand about the  mechs I
sell... Oh God, what a failure I am, a desperate failure. Now I've gone too far.
Why didn't I see? Why did I neglect  Monica? Monica, my darling . . . Monica,  I
did love you. And I fobbed you off with a toy kid. Kids. David and Teddy.

Huh.  At  least  David  loved  you.  David.  Poor  little  toy  David,  your one
consolation.

'My God, whatever happened to David? Maybe ...'

The swallows screamed overhead.


A council truck came slowly down the wide road into Throwaway Town. Once  inside
the gates,  it turned  its massive  nose left,  entering what  was known as Dump
Place.

Automatics began slowly to tip the  rear platform. A number of obsolete  robots,
which had long  served the public  working in the  subway system, slid  from the
back of the truck. They crashed to the ground. The truck scraped the last robot,
clinging to the rear board, off on to the dump.

One  or  two of  the  robots were  broken  in the  fall.  One lay  on  its face,
helplessly waving an arm until another mech helped it up. Together they made off
into the depths of the rusty aisles.

David ran up to  see the excitement. The  Dancing Devlins ceased their  dance to
follow him.

When the other newly arrived robots had gone, one still remained. It sat in  the
dirt shooting its arms back and forth in a prescribed pattern.

Going as close as he dared, David asked the mech why he did that.

'I still work, don't I? Don't I still  work? I can work in the dark but  my lamp
is broken. My lamp will not work. I hit my lamp on a girder overhead. There  was
a girder overhead. I hit my lamp on it. The chief computer sent me here. I still
work.'

'What did you do? Were you on the subway?'

'I worked. I worked well since I was built. I still work.'

'I never did any work. I played with Teddy. Teddy was my friend.'

'Have you any instructions? I work still, don't I?'

While this conversation was in progress, a sleek black limo entered Throwaway. A
man was sitting in the front seat.  Spinning the window down, he stuck his  head
out and asked something.

What he said was, 'David? Are you David Swinton?'

David went over to the .auto. 'Daddy? Oh, Daddy, have you really come for me?  I
don't really belong here in Throwaway.'

'Climb in, David. We'll get you all cleaned up for Monica's sake.'

David looked  round. The  Dancing Devlins  stood nearby.  They were not dancing.
David called out a goodbye to them. The Dancing Devlins simply stood where  they
were. They had never been programmed to  say goodbye. It was not quite the  same
as taking a bow.

As David climbed into  his father's car, they  began to perform their  dance. It
was  their  favourite dance.  It  was the  dance  they had  performed  a hundred
thousand times before.


Henry Swinton was no longer  rich. He no longer had  a career. He no longer  had
women around. He no longer had ambition.

But he had time.

He sat in a  cheap apartment on Riverside,  talking to David. The  apartment was
old and worn. One  of the walls had  developed a stammer. Sometimes  it showed a
false view  of the  river, where  the water  was blue  and old-fashioned  paddle
-steamers  bedecked  with  flags  plied  up  and  down.  Sometimes  it  showed a
commercial for Preservanex, where a couple in their early hundreds went  through
rickety copulation movements.

'How can I not be  human, Daddy? I'm not like  the Dancing Devlins or the  other
people I met in Throwaway.  I feel happy or sad.  I love people. Therefore I  am
human. Isn't that so?'

'You won't understand this, David, but I'm a broken man. I've fouled up my whole
life. The way people do.'

'My life was nice when we lived in that house with Mummy.'

'I said you wouldn't understand.'

'I do understand, Daddy. Can we go back there?'

Henry gazed mournfully at the five-year-old standing before him, a half-smile on
his scarred face. 'There's never any going back.'

'We could go back in the limo.'

Henry seized the boy and held him tightly, arms wrapped around him. 'David,  you
were an early product  of my first mech  company, Synthank. You have  since been
superseded. You only think you are happy or sad. You only think you loved  Teddy
or Monica.'

'Did you love Monica, Daddy?'

He sighed heavily. 'I thought I did.'


Henry put David  in the auto,  telling him that  his obsession with  being human
would count as a neurosis if he were human. There were humans who had  illnesses
where they imagined they were machines.

'I'll show you.'

From the ruins of Henry  Swinton's career, little remained. One  thing, however,
did remain.  There still  survived, out  in a  rundown suburb  between city  and
boonies, the production  unit of Synthank,  Henry's first enterprise,  which had
not been swallowed up in his increasingly megalomaniac dreams.

He had retained  financial control of  Synthank. And its  products had not  been
destroyed. They survived on a low level of production, supervised by Henry's old
human friend, Ivan Shiggle. Shiggle exported Synthank's products to  undeveloped
countries overseas where, in their simplicity, they were welcomed as  additional
labour.

'We could insert better brains in them. Then they would be more up-to-date.  But
why go to  the expense?' said  Henry, as he  and the boy  turned into the unit's
yard.

'They might like to have better brains,' David suggested. Henry merely laughed.

Shiggle came  out to  meet them.  Shaking hands  with Henry,  he looked  down on
David. 'An early model,' he remarked. 'What did Monica think of it?'

Henry took his time in responding.  As they entered the building, he  said, 'You
know, Monica was rather a cold woman.'

Shooting him a sympathetic glance, Shiggle said, 'But you married her? You loved
her?' Lights came on as they walked  along a corridor and through a swing  glass
door. David followed meekly.

'Oh  yes, I  loved Monica.  Not well  enough. Perhaps  she didn't  love me  well
enough. I don't know. My ambition got the better of me - she must have found  me
hard to live with. Now  she's dead - through my  neglect. My life is a  complete
cock-up, Ivan.'

'You're not the  only one. What  have I done  with my life?  I often ask  myself
that.'

Henry clapped his friend on his  shoulder. 'You've been a _good friend  of mine.
You have never cheated me or turned against me.'

'There's time yet,' said Shiggle, and both men laughed.

They  had  gained  the  production floor,  where  the  product  stood ready  for
packaging and exporting. David came forward, staring, his eyes wide.

He  confronted a  thousand Davids.  All looking  alike. All  dressed alike.  All
standing alert  and alike.  All silent,  staring ahead.  A thousand  replicas of
himself. Unliving. For the first time David really understood. This was what  he
was. A  product. Only  a product.  His mouth  fell open.  He froze. He could not
move. The gyroscope ceased within him. He fell backwards to the floor.


On  the  afternoon  of the  following  day,  Shiggle and  Henry  stood  in their
shirtsleeves. They grinned at each other and shook hands.

'I still know how to work, Ivan! Amazing! Maybe there's hope for me yet.'

'You can have a job here. We'd  get on okay together. Provided the neural  brain
works in this son of yours.'

David  lay  on the  bench  between them  still  connected by  a  cable, awaiting
rebirth. His clothes  had been renewed  from stock, his  face had been  properly
remoulded. And  the later  type of  brain had  been inserted,  infused with  his
earlier memories.

He had been  dead. Now was  the time to  see if he  would live again,  and would
enjoy a brain many times more diverse in its powers than his old one.

The two  men ceased  their casual  conversation. They  paused over the prostrate
body.

Henry turned to the figure standing by their side, its arms wide in the  eternal
gesture of love and welcome.

'Are you ready for this, Teddy?'

'Yes, I am very excited to play with David again,' said the bear. He was one  of
a stock  of bears  held in  the production  unit, primed  with memory-rerun.  'I
missed him very much. David and I used to have such fun together, once.'

'That's good. Well, then, let's bring David back to life, shall we?'

Yet still the men hesitated. They had done manually what was generally performed
automatically.

Teddy beamed. 'Hooray!  Where we lived  before it was  always summer. Until  the
end. Then it was winter.'

'Well, it's spring now,' said Shiggle.  Henry hit the charge button. The  figure
of David jerked. His right hand automatically pulled away the connecting  cable.
He opened his eyes.

He sat up. His hands went up  to his head. His expression was one  of amazement.
'Daddy! What a strange dream I had. I never had a dream before .. .'

'Welcome back, David, my boy,' said Henry.

Embracing the child, he  lifted David off the  bench. David and Teddy  stared at
each other in wonder. Then they fell into each other's arms.

It was almost human.

