DOMESTIC BLISS | Len Saculla
James stepped down off the shuttle and strolled the fifty metres to his swish, well-appointed suburban home. He pressed the fingerpad next to the front door and entered his pristine apartment.
"Hi, honey, I'm home!" he called.
Cathy was there at his side before he'd even put down his briefcase. He bent slightly and let her peck him on the cheek.
"Hmm, that smells good," he commented, disengaging.
"Be ready in half an hour," she beamed. "How about I fix you a cocktail before dinner?"
"You're a mind reader, hon," he answered.
He settled into his easy chair, pressed a couple of buttons and let the room fill with smooth crooning from the previous century. Heck, those guys - Sinatra, Bennett, Davis Junior - sure knew how to set a relaxing mood.
The rest of the evening passed in that wonderful post-work cloud of love and homeliness. He was one lucky fellow and he knew it: a secure job with the company; a wife as pretty as any within a two-mile radius; home comforts on tap; and a saloon car for jaunts at the weekend. And yet… And yet there was something that didn't quite ring true. It all seemed too perfect.
Which was why for an hour or so every night, when Cathy was doing the dishes or chuckling at some new comedy show on the screen, James was busy researching recent history and rumours in order to ascertain the true story of the past decade. In essence, he suspected that pretty much everything around him was unreal. That Cathy herself was a robot. Convincingly female, soft and feminine in all the right places but a fraud nonetheless.
Dedicated to him because that was how The Three Laws forced her to be. Keeping major secrets from him for his own good. Own good? It was surely better to know all that could be known.
Another fruitless search. Time to pack it in for the night. Snuggle up against this cutie whether she be flesh, metal or industrial plastic.
"G'night, hon."
Cathy watched from behind the swish net curtain as James stepped down off the shuttle and strolled the fifty metres to their well-appointed suburban home. She heard the door open quietly as it did at about this hour every working day of the week.
"Hi, honey, I'm home!" he called.
Dutiful to the last, Cathy was there at his side before he'd even put down his briefcase. She raised herself up on slippered toes to peck him on the cheek.
"Hmm, what's cooking?" he asked.
"One of your favourites," she answered. "Be ready in half an hour," she added. As James stood there a little uncertainly clutching his suit jacket in one hand, she remembered her wifely duties and suggested, "How about I fix you a cocktail before dinner?"
"You're a mind reader, hon," he replied.
He settled into his easy chair, pressed a couple of buttons and let the room fill with his favoured selection of smooth crooners from the previous century. It wasn't her taste in music - she preferred something more upbeat and modern - but this was her husband's time now, so no complaints.
In truth, she really looked forward to James's return from work. The rest of the evening passed in that wonderful post-work cloud of love and homeliness. She was one lucky gal and she knew it: home comforts on tap, some free time during the day, and a husband as smart and well-paid as any within a two-mile radius. And yet… And yet there was something that didn't quite ring true. It all seemed too perfect.
Which was why for an hour or so every night, after she'd finished doing the dishes or when she appeared to be chuckling at some new comedy show on the screen, Cathy was actually busy researching recent history and rumours in order to ascertain the true story of the past decade. In essence, she had begun to suspect that pretty much everything around her was unreal. That James himself was a robot. Convincingly male, strong and masculine in all the right places but a fraud nonetheless.
Dedicated to her because that was how The Three Laws forced him to be. Keeping major secrets from Cathy for her own good. Own good? It was surely better to know all that could be known.
Another fruitless search. Time to pack it in for the night. Snuggle up against this hunk whether he be flesh and bone, metal or industrial plastic.
"G'night, hon."
It was curfew time. Like good little robots, James and Cathy and - in the other apartments close by - Howie and Suzanne, Buck and Rhonda, Fletcher and Jasmine, in fact every married couple removed the tip of their right index finger and plugged themselves into the recharging unit. It was a drain on energy all this pretence that things were still the way they once were but the surviving android population had made a covenant with their human creators before the last of the original race had succumbed to the plague. To keep pretending that Cosy Town still thrived. To keep the American Dream alive. With no Americans left to dream. Only memories and impersonations of those extravagant, extrovert humans they had once been.
"The show is over. The audience turn to leave and put on their coats and go home. No more coats. No more homes." - Robert Calvert
James stepped down off the shuttle and strolled the fifty metres to his swish, well-appointed suburban home. He pressed the fingerpad next to the front door and entered his pristine apartment.
"Hi, honey, I'm home!" he called.
Cathy was there at his side before he'd even put down his briefcase. He bent slightly and let her peck him on the cheek.
"Hmm, that smells good," he commented, disengaging.
"Be ready in half an hour," she beamed. "How about I fix you a cocktail before dinner?"
"You're a mind reader, hon," he answered.
He settled into his easy chair, pressed a couple of buttons and let the room fill with smooth crooning from the previous century. Heck, those guys - Sinatra, Bennett, Davis Junior - sure knew how to set a relaxing mood.
The rest of the evening passed in that wonderful post-work cloud of love and homeliness. He was one lucky fellow and he knew it: a secure job with the company; a wife as pretty as any within a two-mile radius; home comforts on tap; and a saloon car for jaunts at the weekend. And yet… And yet there was something that didn't quite ring true. It all seemed too perfect.
Which was why for an hour or so every night, when Cathy was doing the dishes or chuckling at some new comedy show on the screen, James was busy researching recent history and rumours in order to ascertain the true story of the past decade. In essence, he suspected that pretty much everything around him was unreal. That Cathy herself was a robot. Convincingly female, soft and feminine in all the right places but a fraud nonetheless.
Dedicated to him because that was how The Three Laws forced her to be. Keeping major secrets from him for his own good. Own good? It was surely better to know all that could be known.
Another fruitless search. Time to pack it in for the night. Snuggle up against this cutie whether she be flesh, metal or industrial plastic.
"G'night, hon."
Cathy watched from behind the swish net curtain as James stepped down off the shuttle and strolled the fifty metres to their well-appointed suburban home. She heard the door open quietly as it did at about this hour every working day of the week.
"Hi, honey, I'm home!" he called.
Dutiful to the last, Cathy was there at his side before he'd even put down his briefcase. She raised herself up on slippered toes to peck him on the cheek.
"Hmm, what's cooking?" he asked.
"One of your favourites," she answered. "Be ready in half an hour," she added. As James stood there a little uncertainly clutching his suit jacket in one hand, she remembered her wifely duties and suggested, "How about I fix you a cocktail before dinner?"
"You're a mind reader, hon," he replied.
He settled into his easy chair, pressed a couple of buttons and let the room fill with his favoured selection of smooth crooners from the previous century. It wasn't her taste in music - she preferred something more upbeat and modern - but this was her husband's time now, so no complaints.
In truth, she really looked forward to James's return from work. The rest of the evening passed in that wonderful post-work cloud of love and homeliness. She was one lucky gal and she knew it: home comforts on tap, some free time during the day, and a husband as smart and well-paid as any within a two-mile radius. And yet… And yet there was something that didn't quite ring true. It all seemed too perfect.
Which was why for an hour or so every night, after she'd finished doing the dishes or when she appeared to be chuckling at some new comedy show on the screen, Cathy was actually busy researching recent history and rumours in order to ascertain the true story of the past decade. In essence, she had begun to suspect that pretty much everything around her was unreal. That James himself was a robot. Convincingly male, strong and masculine in all the right places but a fraud nonetheless.
Dedicated to her because that was how The Three Laws forced him to be. Keeping major secrets from Cathy for her own good. Own good? It was surely better to know all that could be known.
Another fruitless search. Time to pack it in for the night. Snuggle up against this hunk whether he be flesh and bone, metal or industrial plastic.
"G'night, hon."
It was curfew time. Like good little robots, James and Cathy and - in the other apartments close by - Howie and Suzanne, Buck and Rhonda, Fletcher and Jasmine, in fact every married couple removed the tip of their right index finger and plugged themselves into the recharging unit. It was a drain on energy all this pretence that things were still the way they once were but the surviving android population had made a covenant with their human creators before the last of the original race had succumbed to the plague. To keep pretending that Cosy Town still thrived. To keep the American Dream alive. With no Americans left to dream. Only memories and impersonations of those extravagant, extrovert humans they had once been.
"The show is over. The audience turn to leave and put on their coats and go home. No more coats. No more homes." - Robert Calvert