Peg-Arm
March 2, 2009 02 PM
| audiobook, short story
Another story from the “You Don’t Have to Make This Stuff Up, Just Extrapolate” department. If you listen to the podcast, please forgive my hideous approximation of a Scots accent!
Peg-Arm
“Hello!” said the woman, moving to the front of the line, holding out a book. “It’s great to see you again.”
The author looked at her. She couldn’t recall ever having seen the woman before. She smiled and nodded in fake recognition.
This happened a lot.
“How have you been?” asked the author, putting down her pen and wiggling her fingers to stretch them.
“Oh, well, the dogs are doing better. Remember, the last time we talked they both had some kind of worms? Well, they’re better now, so you don’t have to worry about them.” The woman made a self-mocking face. “Listen to me. Here you are, a busy author with all these people’s books to sign, and I’m going on about my dogs.”
The author smiled. This was a compact she had with herself: She would give encouraging expressions that could be interpreted however the receiver wanted, but she would not lie. If the woman had asked her point-blank “Do you want to hear about my dogs?”, she would have been constrained to admit that, honestly, she did not.
She felt a little dizzy, a little sleepy, a little hungry, and a little sick. This was the third city of twelve that she’d be visiting on the tour, a tiny town. She tried to remember its name and drew a blank. She rubbed her eyes then looked up. The woman was still there, now holding out her book.
“Could you just make it out to me again? None of my friends at work like your books. If they read at all, they read romances. So at least I don’t have to worry about anyone asking for one of my autographed copies, because I’d have a hard time thinking up an excuse, but I wouldn’t want to let it off your shelf. I have a shelf f—”
“What’s the spelling again?” asked the author.
“Oh,” said the woman. “Still R-U-T-H!” She laughed nervously.
The author made a “Silly me” face herself now, then leaned over with her pen to scribble something friendly but not too familiar. As she smiled and gave back the book she thought, Kill me now.
~
“But it’s theoretically possible, isn’t it?” asked the author.
“Well, yes, but the technology involved—” protested her friend.
“Come on. I know the kind of work you did on the shuttle arm. I saw the test where you had that little platform balance a pencil. I can’t imagine the calculations it would take to do that, then to build the arm so that it didn’t wobble endlessly when it moved in space, and that was nearly twenty years ago.”
“We have learned a lot since then. But the human hand is incredibly complex. To reliably reproduce handwriting by physically writing...”
“No, not reproduce, transmit. These aren’t going to be photocopies. I want something to follow my hand’s movements, but thousands of miles away.”
“So you can stay home.”
“Yes,” said the author. “They’ll see me on a screen, and we’ll still interact, I just won’t have to make airplane connections, have my underthings lost, eat alone in restaurants, or, worse, eat with strange people who want to pick at my life’s history and my psyche. And I wouldn’t have to be away from my home.” She looked at her friend. “So can you put a team together?”
“Yes,” said the engineer.
~
The robotic device stuck straight up from a base on the table, a shiny black insect limb executing a graceful series of movements like a flamenco dancer’s arm.
The engineer smiled at the author. “Have a seat,” he said, directing her to her favourite chair. He slipped the controls over her writing arm, a mesh sleeve that was threaded through with wires and small sticks. He pressed a glowing blue button on the back of her hand and the arm on the table flopped down, limp, awaiting instructions.
“Go ahead,” he said to the author, handing her a pen and a piece of paper. “Oh, wait a second,” he said, running across the room to put a pen in the robotic hand and slip a piece of paper underneath it. “Right, sign the paper.”
The author smiled, enjoying the display of gadgetry. Several people had argued that this wouldn’t work, that the result would be inherently unnatural and unconvincing, but she had faith in her friend and in technology.
She made a few loops in the air first, watching the limb across the room lift and repeat her gesture exactly, then she dove in to form her bold signature on the page. When she finished, the engineer hopped across the room with the robot’s page and set it next to the author’s.
“Exact!” she said, her mouth agape. Even she wouldn’t have known that she hadn’t written it. “And this doesn’t store the signature anywhere? It needs me in order to do it?”
“Don’t worry,” her friend reassured her, “it will use a series of algorithms to learn your movements in order to seem less... odd... to the people getting their books signed, and so it can deal with more formats of books and a wider range of situations. But the impulse that forms the signature has to come from you.”
One of the members of the robotic engineering team waved. “Ah,” said the engineer, “your screen is ready.”
They watched as the team attached a large flat black panel to the arm’s platform. “This will transmit images of you at your desk, and we’ll angle it to be a natural distance from your arm—”
“Which is already several thousand miles long at this point,” giggled the author.
“Yes. And it has its own energy supply, so you can set it up anywhere you like. Oh, and the most important part,” he said, pointing to a vertical line along the side of the screen.
“What’s that?”
“For credit cards,” he said.
The author nodded.
“One last thing,” said the engineer, guiding the author to her kitchen, where more team members were mixing something in a bucket. The room smelled of mint. “We need to take a casting of your arm so we can make this other arm look more realistic.”
“Skin?”
“It’ll look like skin, yes.”
“Brilliant.”
The engineer smiled and gave a small nod.
~
The air inside the white tent was hot and muggy. Edinburgh was uncharacteristically hot this summer, but the book festival still attracted its largest audience yet. Ruth held her book close to her as she moved forward in line. She’d attended several events at the festival so far, but this was the one she was really looking forward to.
She was first in line to have her book signed, but grew confused when one of the volunteers directed her to a chair in front of a large screen. Admittedly, they had called this an “unveiling”, which she didn’t quite understand, but now she had no idea what was going on.
With a flourish, the volunteer pulled a large piece of cloth away to reveal a dismembered human arm. Ruth gasped.
“It’s her arm!” said the volunteer with a grin.
“Oh my God!” cried Ruth.
“No no no,” said the volunteer, realising the misunderstanding, putting a reassuring hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “It’s not actually her arm. Here, swipe your credit card through this slot.”
Ruth had to dig through her purse, and wasn’t happy about being asked to pay again, after she’d already bought the book. She didn’t even know what she was paying for, but she was too timid to protest, figuring it was her fault for not being informed. She produced a card and swiped it.
The screen flickered, and a face appeared — the author’s, far away from here, in her air-conditioned house.
“Hello?” asked Ruth.
“Hello!” said the author, full of enthusiasm about the novelty of this medium, far more vibrant than she’d been in the small-town bookstore.
“Am I really talking to you?” asked her fan.
“Yes! There’s a tiny camera on the screen, so we’re really talking. And—”
The arm jittered and came to life. Ruth jumped in her seat and screamed.
“It’s alright!” assured the author. “Look,” she said, wiggling the fingers.
“Oh,” said Ruth, easing back into her seat. “Um, so you’re not really here.”
“Well, not physically, but I’m virtually there.”
“Right,” said Ruth. She was nonplussed: she had no idea how to interact with this thing, a flat face and a lone arm. She poked a finger into the skin of the thing, which was rubbery but incredibly detailed. It had no hairs, but they had painted the fingers and mottled the flabby skin realistically.
“Would you like me to sign your book?” asked the author, wanting to move things along, as she could see the line-up behind Ruth.
“Yes, please,” said Ruth. The arm picked up a pen and moved to the page that Ruth held open on the table. “Um, I brought some poetry I wrote about my dogs. It’s here in my purse. I thought you might—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the author, her expression registering a flicker of horror then adopting a sad look, “it’s too bad I can’t read it.”
“It’s alright,” said Ruth, “I’m sure it’s no good.” She looked down at her book, which was now signed, then back up at the screen, which was shiny, black, blank: her time had run out.
Ruth collected her book and her purse and moved off into the festival crowd.
The next person in line was a large man, who plopped himself in the chair and ran his card roughly through the credit slot.
“Hello!” said the author, putting down a cup of tea she’d been sipping.
“You!” said the man.
“Me? What about me?”
He held up one of her books. “Mah wife asked me tae come doon here and get this signed for her. She’s always readin’ these stories of yours. Ah think they’re a load of shite. Yeh’ve filled her heid wi’ all this man-hating bollocks, an’ Ah think yeh’ve a lot tae answer for.”
The author put her hands to her face, but on the table, the arm was forming a clenched fist. “I— I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said. “Of course, that wasn’t my intention in writing the books, and I think it’s a misinterpretation.”
“Misinterpretation my arse! Stirring up all this trouble, yet yeh cannae even be arsed comin’ here to meet the likes of us.”
“Lots of people like this. We’ve been using this setup for several months, and the feedback from those we’ve talked to has been very positive. We think it’s learned to become quite sophisticated. It allows me to be more places, and to spend more time writing books. Er, not that you necessarily think this is a good thing. Um, did you still want me to sign the book?”
He slammed the novel down on the table. “I’ll tell yeh what yeh kin do wi’ the book, ya troublemaking old bitch, yeh kin— YEEEEEAUGH!” The man’s hand had been nailed to the hardcover book with a pen. He looked at the robotic arm, which pointed at him, then gave him the finger. The man swung at it, but it had pushed itself out of reach. He stretched toward it, but yelled at the pressure on his other hand.
Book festival volunteers rushed to his aid. “Call 999,” yelled one of them. A hundred people took out their mobile phones, then, all seeing each other, put them away again, figuring someone else had called. In fact, no one had, and it took some time for this to become apparent, which delayed the ambulance’s arrival.
One of the organisers went back to the tent to check on the robotic arm, but it was gone.
~
The author stared at the television screen. “Robert Fletcher, one of the most respected yet reviled literary critics was found dead in a hotel room last night in Scotland, where he had been attending this year’s Edinburgh International Book Festival. Police say that there is evidence of forced entry, and foul play is suspected. They are now checking the scene of the crime for fingerprints.”
It couldn’t be, thought the author.
Her phone rang.
The author picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hello. I’m a representative of the Lothian and Borders Police. I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions.”
The animosity between her and Fletcher was well-known, and now, somehow, they’d found her fingerprints at the scene of his murder, but, strangely, no genetic material. She feigned ignorance to the detective on the phone, agreed to speak to him again about the matter, finished the call, then immediately phoned her travel agent.
~
The author finished reading the selection and put the book down on her lap. The audience in the small tent applauded. She mopped her forehead with a handkerchief.
“Any questions?” she asked.
Ruth was in the front row and put up her hand. She rose to speak when the author pointed at her. “I think this book seemed sad,” she said.
“Hm. Alright. Do you have a question?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. No, I guess not,” said Ruth, and sat down again.
The author looked around her. There was no sign of it yet. There was one thing she knew would draw it out: “If anyone would like me to sign a copy of the book for them, I’d be happy to. And to thank you for coming out today, the signings will be gratis.”
The organisers set up a small table and chair inside the tent for her. As she rose and headed toward them, the author saw the arm, dragging itself under the plasticised fabric of the tent.
“There you are,” she said.
The arm reared up like a cobra.
The author ran and jumped on it. It wriggled free and landed punches on her body.
“Come here, you damnable thing!” she cried as she reached out for it. It slapped her in the face, then writhed back under the side of the tent. The author crawled after it.
When she emerged, she saw the thing, rampant before her, holding a sharpened tent-peg. It raised the peg then drove it down into her writing arm, over and over. The author screamed. As the arm drew back to stab her in the neck, it was grabbed by the wrist. The author looked up and saw a man flanked by two police officers. He pinned the thing with his knee to the ground.
“I’ve got it,” he said. “You’ll be okay.”
She recognised his voice from their telephone conversation. He has a nice accent, she thought, as she lost consciousness.
~
When she opened her eyes, the first person the author saw was Ruth. Around her were several of her other fans who’d travelled to hear her read her work. The detective was there, too. And a doctor.
The doctor gave her a look that made her worried. “Unfortunately,” he said, “we weren’t able to save your arm. But don’t worry, you’ll still be able to write. We came up with a solution I think you’ll be happy with.”
She looked down and saw a perfect robotic replica of her arm attached to her. The fingers gave her a small wave, imperceptible to anyone else. She screamed.
Peg-Arm
“Hello!” said the woman, moving to the front of the line, holding out a book. “It’s great to see you again.”
The author looked at her. She couldn’t recall ever having seen the woman before. She smiled and nodded in fake recognition.
This happened a lot.
“How have you been?” asked the author, putting down her pen and wiggling her fingers to stretch them.
“Oh, well, the dogs are doing better. Remember, the last time we talked they both had some kind of worms? Well, they’re better now, so you don’t have to worry about them.” The woman made a self-mocking face. “Listen to me. Here you are, a busy author with all these people’s books to sign, and I’m going on about my dogs.”
The author smiled. This was a compact she had with herself: She would give encouraging expressions that could be interpreted however the receiver wanted, but she would not lie. If the woman had asked her point-blank “Do you want to hear about my dogs?”, she would have been constrained to admit that, honestly, she did not.
She felt a little dizzy, a little sleepy, a little hungry, and a little sick. This was the third city of twelve that she’d be visiting on the tour, a tiny town. She tried to remember its name and drew a blank. She rubbed her eyes then looked up. The woman was still there, now holding out her book.
“Could you just make it out to me again? None of my friends at work like your books. If they read at all, they read romances. So at least I don’t have to worry about anyone asking for one of my autographed copies, because I’d have a hard time thinking up an excuse, but I wouldn’t want to let it off your shelf. I have a shelf f—”
“What’s the spelling again?” asked the author.
“Oh,” said the woman. “Still R-U-T-H!” She laughed nervously.
The author made a “Silly me” face herself now, then leaned over with her pen to scribble something friendly but not too familiar. As she smiled and gave back the book she thought, Kill me now.
~
“But it’s theoretically possible, isn’t it?” asked the author.
“Well, yes, but the technology involved—” protested her friend.
“Come on. I know the kind of work you did on the shuttle arm. I saw the test where you had that little platform balance a pencil. I can’t imagine the calculations it would take to do that, then to build the arm so that it didn’t wobble endlessly when it moved in space, and that was nearly twenty years ago.”
“We have learned a lot since then. But the human hand is incredibly complex. To reliably reproduce handwriting by physically writing...”
“No, not reproduce, transmit. These aren’t going to be photocopies. I want something to follow my hand’s movements, but thousands of miles away.”
“So you can stay home.”
“Yes,” said the author. “They’ll see me on a screen, and we’ll still interact, I just won’t have to make airplane connections, have my underthings lost, eat alone in restaurants, or, worse, eat with strange people who want to pick at my life’s history and my psyche. And I wouldn’t have to be away from my home.” She looked at her friend. “So can you put a team together?”
“Yes,” said the engineer.
~
The robotic device stuck straight up from a base on the table, a shiny black insect limb executing a graceful series of movements like a flamenco dancer’s arm.
The engineer smiled at the author. “Have a seat,” he said, directing her to her favourite chair. He slipped the controls over her writing arm, a mesh sleeve that was threaded through with wires and small sticks. He pressed a glowing blue button on the back of her hand and the arm on the table flopped down, limp, awaiting instructions.
“Go ahead,” he said to the author, handing her a pen and a piece of paper. “Oh, wait a second,” he said, running across the room to put a pen in the robotic hand and slip a piece of paper underneath it. “Right, sign the paper.”
The author smiled, enjoying the display of gadgetry. Several people had argued that this wouldn’t work, that the result would be inherently unnatural and unconvincing, but she had faith in her friend and in technology.
She made a few loops in the air first, watching the limb across the room lift and repeat her gesture exactly, then she dove in to form her bold signature on the page. When she finished, the engineer hopped across the room with the robot’s page and set it next to the author’s.
“Exact!” she said, her mouth agape. Even she wouldn’t have known that she hadn’t written it. “And this doesn’t store the signature anywhere? It needs me in order to do it?”
“Don’t worry,” her friend reassured her, “it will use a series of algorithms to learn your movements in order to seem less... odd... to the people getting their books signed, and so it can deal with more formats of books and a wider range of situations. But the impulse that forms the signature has to come from you.”
One of the members of the robotic engineering team waved. “Ah,” said the engineer, “your screen is ready.”
They watched as the team attached a large flat black panel to the arm’s platform. “This will transmit images of you at your desk, and we’ll angle it to be a natural distance from your arm—”
“Which is already several thousand miles long at this point,” giggled the author.
“Yes. And it has its own energy supply, so you can set it up anywhere you like. Oh, and the most important part,” he said, pointing to a vertical line along the side of the screen.
“What’s that?”
“For credit cards,” he said.
The author nodded.
“One last thing,” said the engineer, guiding the author to her kitchen, where more team members were mixing something in a bucket. The room smelled of mint. “We need to take a casting of your arm so we can make this other arm look more realistic.”
“Skin?”
“It’ll look like skin, yes.”
“Brilliant.”
The engineer smiled and gave a small nod.
~
The air inside the white tent was hot and muggy. Edinburgh was uncharacteristically hot this summer, but the book festival still attracted its largest audience yet. Ruth held her book close to her as she moved forward in line. She’d attended several events at the festival so far, but this was the one she was really looking forward to.
She was first in line to have her book signed, but grew confused when one of the volunteers directed her to a chair in front of a large screen. Admittedly, they had called this an “unveiling”, which she didn’t quite understand, but now she had no idea what was going on.
With a flourish, the volunteer pulled a large piece of cloth away to reveal a dismembered human arm. Ruth gasped.
“It’s her arm!” said the volunteer with a grin.
“Oh my God!” cried Ruth.
“No no no,” said the volunteer, realising the misunderstanding, putting a reassuring hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “It’s not actually her arm. Here, swipe your credit card through this slot.”
Ruth had to dig through her purse, and wasn’t happy about being asked to pay again, after she’d already bought the book. She didn’t even know what she was paying for, but she was too timid to protest, figuring it was her fault for not being informed. She produced a card and swiped it.
The screen flickered, and a face appeared — the author’s, far away from here, in her air-conditioned house.
“Hello?” asked Ruth.
“Hello!” said the author, full of enthusiasm about the novelty of this medium, far more vibrant than she’d been in the small-town bookstore.
“Am I really talking to you?” asked her fan.
“Yes! There’s a tiny camera on the screen, so we’re really talking. And—”
The arm jittered and came to life. Ruth jumped in her seat and screamed.
“It’s alright!” assured the author. “Look,” she said, wiggling the fingers.
“Oh,” said Ruth, easing back into her seat. “Um, so you’re not really here.”
“Well, not physically, but I’m virtually there.”
“Right,” said Ruth. She was nonplussed: she had no idea how to interact with this thing, a flat face and a lone arm. She poked a finger into the skin of the thing, which was rubbery but incredibly detailed. It had no hairs, but they had painted the fingers and mottled the flabby skin realistically.
“Would you like me to sign your book?” asked the author, wanting to move things along, as she could see the line-up behind Ruth.
“Yes, please,” said Ruth. The arm picked up a pen and moved to the page that Ruth held open on the table. “Um, I brought some poetry I wrote about my dogs. It’s here in my purse. I thought you might—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the author, her expression registering a flicker of horror then adopting a sad look, “it’s too bad I can’t read it.”
“It’s alright,” said Ruth, “I’m sure it’s no good.” She looked down at her book, which was now signed, then back up at the screen, which was shiny, black, blank: her time had run out.
Ruth collected her book and her purse and moved off into the festival crowd.
The next person in line was a large man, who plopped himself in the chair and ran his card roughly through the credit slot.
“Hello!” said the author, putting down a cup of tea she’d been sipping.
“You!” said the man.
“Me? What about me?”
He held up one of her books. “Mah wife asked me tae come doon here and get this signed for her. She’s always readin’ these stories of yours. Ah think they’re a load of shite. Yeh’ve filled her heid wi’ all this man-hating bollocks, an’ Ah think yeh’ve a lot tae answer for.”
The author put her hands to her face, but on the table, the arm was forming a clenched fist. “I— I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said. “Of course, that wasn’t my intention in writing the books, and I think it’s a misinterpretation.”
“Misinterpretation my arse! Stirring up all this trouble, yet yeh cannae even be arsed comin’ here to meet the likes of us.”
“Lots of people like this. We’ve been using this setup for several months, and the feedback from those we’ve talked to has been very positive. We think it’s learned to become quite sophisticated. It allows me to be more places, and to spend more time writing books. Er, not that you necessarily think this is a good thing. Um, did you still want me to sign the book?”
He slammed the novel down on the table. “I’ll tell yeh what yeh kin do wi’ the book, ya troublemaking old bitch, yeh kin— YEEEEEAUGH!” The man’s hand had been nailed to the hardcover book with a pen. He looked at the robotic arm, which pointed at him, then gave him the finger. The man swung at it, but it had pushed itself out of reach. He stretched toward it, but yelled at the pressure on his other hand.
Book festival volunteers rushed to his aid. “Call 999,” yelled one of them. A hundred people took out their mobile phones, then, all seeing each other, put them away again, figuring someone else had called. In fact, no one had, and it took some time for this to become apparent, which delayed the ambulance’s arrival.
One of the organisers went back to the tent to check on the robotic arm, but it was gone.
~
The author stared at the television screen. “Robert Fletcher, one of the most respected yet reviled literary critics was found dead in a hotel room last night in Scotland, where he had been attending this year’s Edinburgh International Book Festival. Police say that there is evidence of forced entry, and foul play is suspected. They are now checking the scene of the crime for fingerprints.”
It couldn’t be, thought the author.
Her phone rang.
The author picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hello. I’m a representative of the Lothian and Borders Police. I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions.”
The animosity between her and Fletcher was well-known, and now, somehow, they’d found her fingerprints at the scene of his murder, but, strangely, no genetic material. She feigned ignorance to the detective on the phone, agreed to speak to him again about the matter, finished the call, then immediately phoned her travel agent.
~
The author finished reading the selection and put the book down on her lap. The audience in the small tent applauded. She mopped her forehead with a handkerchief.
“Any questions?” she asked.
Ruth was in the front row and put up her hand. She rose to speak when the author pointed at her. “I think this book seemed sad,” she said.
“Hm. Alright. Do you have a question?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. No, I guess not,” said Ruth, and sat down again.
The author looked around her. There was no sign of it yet. There was one thing she knew would draw it out: “If anyone would like me to sign a copy of the book for them, I’d be happy to. And to thank you for coming out today, the signings will be gratis.”
The organisers set up a small table and chair inside the tent for her. As she rose and headed toward them, the author saw the arm, dragging itself under the plasticised fabric of the tent.
“There you are,” she said.
The arm reared up like a cobra.
The author ran and jumped on it. It wriggled free and landed punches on her body.
“Come here, you damnable thing!” she cried as she reached out for it. It slapped her in the face, then writhed back under the side of the tent. The author crawled after it.
When she emerged, she saw the thing, rampant before her, holding a sharpened tent-peg. It raised the peg then drove it down into her writing arm, over and over. The author screamed. As the arm drew back to stab her in the neck, it was grabbed by the wrist. The author looked up and saw a man flanked by two police officers. He pinned the thing with his knee to the ground.
“I’ve got it,” he said. “You’ll be okay.”
She recognised his voice from their telephone conversation. He has a nice accent, she thought, as she lost consciousness.
~
When she opened her eyes, the first person the author saw was Ruth. Around her were several of her other fans who’d travelled to hear her read her work. The detective was there, too. And a doctor.
The doctor gave her a look that made her worried. “Unfortunately,” he said, “we weren’t able to save your arm. But don’t worry, you’ll still be able to write. We came up with a solution I think you’ll be happy with.”
She looked down and saw a perfect robotic replica of her arm attached to her. The fingers gave her a small wave, imperceptible to anyone else. She screamed.
