going to like it.
Dear Mr. Fingal,
I wonât apologize for the delay this time. It seems that most of my manifestations have included an apology and I feel I deserved a rest this time. I canât be always on call. I have a life of my own.
I understand that you have behaved in an exemplary manner since I last talked with you. You have ignored the inner workings of the computer just as I told you to do. I havenât been completely frank with you, and I will explain my reasons.
The hook-up between you and the computer is, and always has been, two-way. Our greatest fear at this end had been that you would begin interfering with the workings of the computer, to the great discomfort of everyone. Or that you would go mad and run amok, perhaps wrecking the entire data system. We installed you in the computer as a humane necessity, because you would have died if we had not done so, though it would have cost you only two days of memories. But Kenya is in the business of selling memories, and holds them to be a sacred trust. It was a mix-up on the part of the Kenya Corporation that got you here in the first place, so we decided we should do everything we could for you.
But it was at great hazard to our operations at this end.
Once, about six months ago, you got tangled in the weather-control sector of the computer and set off a storm over Kilimanjaro that is still not fully under control. Several animals were lost.
I have had to fight the Board of Directors to keep you on-line, and several times the program was almost terminated. You know what that means.
Now, Iâve leveled with you. I wanted to from the start, but the people who own things around here were worried that you might start fooling around out of a spirit of vindictiveness if you knew these facts, so they were kept from you. You could still do a great deal of damage before we could shut you off. Iâm laying it on the line now, with directors chewing their nails over my shoulder. Please stay out of trouble.
On to the other matter.
I was afraid from the outset that what has happened might happen. For over a year Iâve been your only contact with the world outside. Iâve been the only other person in your universe. I would have to be an extremely cold, hateful, awful personâwhich I am notâfor you not to feel affection for me under those circumstances. You are suffering from intense sensory deprivation, and itâs well known that someone in that state becomes pliable, suggestible, and lonely. Youâve attached your feelings to me as the only thing around worth caring for.
Iâve tried to avoid intimacy with you for that reason, to keep things firmly on a last-name basis. But I relented during one of your periods of despair. And you read into my letters some things that were not there. Remember, even in the printed medium it is your mind that controls what you see. Your censor has let through what it wanted to see and maybe even added some things of its own. Iâm at your mercy. For all I know, you may be reading this letter as a passionate affirmation of love. Iâve added every reinforcement I know of to make sure the message comes through on a priority channel and is not garbled. Iâm sorry to hear that you love me. I do not, repeat not, love you in return. Youâll understand why, at least in part, when we get you out of there.
It will never work, Mr. Fingal. Give it up.
Apollonia Joachim
Â
Fingal graduated first in his class. He had finished the required courses for his degree during the last long week after his letter from Apollonia. It was a bitter victory for him, marching up to the stage to accept the sheepskin, but he clutched it to him fiercely. At least he had made the most of his situation, at least he had not meekly let the wheels of the machine chew him up like a good worker.
He reached out to grasp the hand of the college president and saw it transformed. He looked up and saw the bearded,
Dear Mr. Fingal,
I wonât apologize for the delay this time. It seems that most of my manifestations have included an apology and I feel I deserved a rest this time. I canât be always on call. I have a life of my own.
I understand that you have behaved in an exemplary manner since I last talked with you. You have ignored the inner workings of the computer just as I told you to do. I havenât been completely frank with you, and I will explain my reasons.
The hook-up between you and the computer is, and always has been, two-way. Our greatest fear at this end had been that you would begin interfering with the workings of the computer, to the great discomfort of everyone. Or that you would go mad and run amok, perhaps wrecking the entire data system. We installed you in the computer as a humane necessity, because you would have died if we had not done so, though it would have cost you only two days of memories. But Kenya is in the business of selling memories, and holds them to be a sacred trust. It was a mix-up on the part of the Kenya Corporation that got you here in the first place, so we decided we should do everything we could for you.
But it was at great hazard to our operations at this end.
Once, about six months ago, you got tangled in the weather-control sector of the computer and set off a storm over Kilimanjaro that is still not fully under control. Several animals were lost.
I have had to fight the Board of Directors to keep you on-line, and several times the program was almost terminated. You know what that means.
Now, Iâve leveled with you. I wanted to from the start, but the people who own things around here were worried that you might start fooling around out of a spirit of vindictiveness if you knew these facts, so they were kept from you. You could still do a great deal of damage before we could shut you off. Iâm laying it on the line now, with directors chewing their nails over my shoulder. Please stay out of trouble.
On to the other matter.
I was afraid from the outset that what has happened might happen. For over a year Iâve been your only contact with the world outside. Iâve been the only other person in your universe. I would have to be an extremely cold, hateful, awful personâwhich I am notâfor you not to feel affection for me under those circumstances. You are suffering from intense sensory deprivation, and itâs well known that someone in that state becomes pliable, suggestible, and lonely. Youâve attached your feelings to me as the only thing around worth caring for.
Iâve tried to avoid intimacy with you for that reason, to keep things firmly on a last-name basis. But I relented during one of your periods of despair. And you read into my letters some things that were not there. Remember, even in the printed medium it is your mind that controls what you see. Your censor has let through what it wanted to see and maybe even added some things of its own. Iâm at your mercy. For all I know, you may be reading this letter as a passionate affirmation of love. Iâve added every reinforcement I know of to make sure the message comes through on a priority channel and is not garbled. Iâm sorry to hear that you love me. I do not, repeat not, love you in return. Youâll understand why, at least in part, when we get you out of there.
It will never work, Mr. Fingal. Give it up.
Apollonia Joachim
Â
Fingal graduated first in his class. He had finished the required courses for his degree during the last long week after his letter from Apollonia. It was a bitter victory for him, marching up to the stage to accept the sheepskin, but he clutched it to him fiercely. At least he had made the most of his situation, at least he had not meekly let the wheels of the machine chew him up like a good worker.
He reached out to grasp the hand of the college president and saw it transformed. He looked up and saw the bearded,
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