When HARLIE Was One by David Gerrold Page B

tell you one. I’ve read the company doctor’s report on you.”
    â€œHuh?” Auberson’s head snapped up. “I didn’t know—”
    â€œOf course not. Nobody ever knows when we do a psychiatric report on them. It’d be bad policy. Anyway, you don’t have to worry.”
    â€œOh?” Auberson was holding himself back. A grenade had gone off in his belly and she was telling him it wasn’t serious?
    She shook her head. “It said that you’re introverted—but that’s an occupational hazard. You’re obsessive—but that’s a virtue in your position. You’re a perfectionist—but not a blind one. And uh—what else? I think there was also something about your worrying too much because you take on too much responsibility.” She surveyed him thoughtfully as if trying to decide whether or not to tell him the one last thing.
    â€œYou shouldn’t be telling me this, should you?”
    â€œDoes it make a difference?” Her smile was like sunshine.
    â€œNo, I guess not. What else was in the report?”
    â€œHe said you were becoming overly involved with the HARLIE project, but that such a development was almost unavoidable because whoever became HARLIE’s mentor would have found himself emotionally attached. But he did say that . . . you might be particularly vulnerable—because you’re something of a loner.”
    â€œMm,” Auberson grunted, deliberately impassive. “All that, huh?”
    â€œMm-hm.” Stimson nodded.
    Auberson felt naked. His feelings were in a turmoil. He felt betrayed. Instinctively, he covered with humor. “Did he get my weight right too?”
    Stimson laughed, a brief chuckle of warmth. “You’re taking it better than I would have—”
    Auberson pretended to sip at his coffee. He shook his head. He finally brought his gaze back up to hers. “I can’t say that I like it. In fact, I actually hate it . Not the information—it’s true. What I hate is the spying. The implications. The betrayal.” He put the coffee cup down. “And I hate it that you know so much about me while I know almost nothing about you. I feel—”
    â€œI’m thirty-four,” she said calmly. “I live alone. I’m allergic to cats. I weigh a hundred and nineteen pounds. I do not dye my hair; this is its real color. I had my nose fixed when I was nineteen. I like sushi, I don’t like sea urchin. I grew up in San Diego. I’m divorced. His choice, not mine. No children. And I like my steak medium rare. Anything else?”
    â€œUh—” Auberson blinked. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor being rude. For taking it out on you. When I’m pressured I get moody and irritable. And inconsiderate.”
    â€œYou weren’t being rude. You were being honest. Most people can’t tell the difference. I like to think that I can.”
    â€œUm,” said Auberson, digesting that information. “So, when did you see the report?”
    â€œA couple of weeks ago. I was putting together a file for Carl Elzer. A lot of interesting stuff, but not particularly useful. I was watching you at the meeting this morning. The report had all the facts right, all the little details, but it was still wrong—because it didn’t capture the essence of the person inside. Do you know what I mean?”
    â€œProbably better than you realize. Have you read HARLIE’s most recent conversations?”
    She nodded. “Everything up to yesterday afternoon. She quoted: ‘Then, what’s your purpose?’” And then she added, “I noticed you didn’t answer the question. . . .”
    Auberson shook his head. “I didn’t know what to say. Whatever I might say, it would be embarrassing. That’s why I don’t let HARLIE read the newspapers. I don’t want him to see how flawed and stupid