Gray Matters Read Online Free PDF Page A

empty when the file comes to an end and he is no longer a bee.
    And yet, transmission fade-out is something Itubi has always enjoyed. First there is the image (in this case, the busy swarm of Apis mellifera) flooding his consciousness like sunlight and then, with only the briefest command from the telescript console, it’s gone, the whole universe of thought receding into a tiny pinpoint in the frontal lobe. It hovers for a moment, a candle flame in the eternal night, very serene and distant. The final flickering seems almost an invitation: follow me, follow me… . Itubi wonders how many men have lingered in the evening at the edge of a lonely marsh to watch the flitting light of the will-o’-the-wisp? At such times liberation seems almost possible. But at the very instant of the soul’s release, the candle is snuffed and you are left alone in the dark.
    Vera Mitlovic is deep in a celluloid dreamland: the fashion designer back at her drawing-board, a faraway look in her violet eyes as the old film drowns in a climactic violin whirlpool. “All lost,” the disembodied actress muses, consulting the Index for the number of yet another film. Not any film this time—for it is usually Vera’s habit to choose her entertainment by whim and random selection—but her very first, made in Vienna when she was six. The great Klimpt was directing, and although she had only a bit part, the magnificent ballroom scenes never fail to lift her spirits and she can think of no more effective antidote for melancholy than her own brief appearance in pigtails and pinafore.
    She finds the correct code number for The Golden Epoch and activates the telescript console. To Vera, this device is one of the few gay toys in her spiritless mechanical universe. Think of a number and, like rubbing a magic lantern, within seconds a memory-file materializes. When her wish doesn’t come true, Vera is puzzled. Can there have been a breakdown in the System? She repeats the number, pausing between each digit so there will be no mistake. Again, nothing happens.
    This is alarming. The Depository System functions automatically, although breakdowns are not unknown. Precise emergency procedures and periodic drills ensure the alertness of the residents. Vera was at the movies during drill and now finds she is helpless in the face of actual crisis.
    The clear musical clarion of a deHartzman Communicator is as reassuring as the nick-of-time cavalry bugle call when the wagon train is surrounded by rampaging Sioux. A silent wind sweeps the prairie.
    ATTENTION … ATTENTION …
    The mood shifts. The mechanical voice has the moronic robot enthusiasm of an AM radio disk jockey from another age.
CENTER CONTROL IS TEMPORARILY INTERRUPTING YOUR THOUGHTS TO COMMUNICATE AN AWARENESS REMINDER FROM THE AUDITING COMMISSION … STAND BY …
    B-0486 … IT HAS NOW BEEN THREE DAYS SINCE YOU LAST PARTICIPATED IN THE MORNING MEDITATION EXERCISE OR FILED AN AUDITING REPORT. THIS IS A VIOLATION OF SECTIONS A15, A16, AND C9 OF REGULATION NUMBER 35-095. IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE MANDATE OF CENTER CONTROL, WE ARE DISCONNECTING YOUR MEMORY-BANK HOOK-UP UNTIL SUCH TIME AS YOU ARE WILLING TO FULFILL THE OBLIGATIONS OF YOUR CATEGORY. BE AWARE OF YOUR DUTIES.
    END TRANSMISSION.
    Vera Mitlovic is furious. Another move in the game, the obvious machine-tooled move. She remembers tick-tack-toe. Twentieth-century scientists taught their primitive Univacs to play this kindergarten game years before they were able to program complex chess gambits. And how those old machines loved it! Vacuum tubes aglow, rectifiers humming, they paraded their invincible Xs out across the graph, winning all encounters if given the first move, tying the rest. It pleases Vera to think of the proud Univac, defeating the best scientific minds of the age at a child’s game, victorious until the mathematicians pulled the plug and went home for lunch.
    But this time the plug has been pulled on Vera. She is tempted to try the