Eager

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  With love and thanks

  for John—this book would not have happened without you and for Kay Collison, a remarkable teacher, who encouraged me to be me

  PROLOGUE

  EGR3 stood in the small dark room and watched the sea. It tumbled and roared below him. The spray rose so high it threatened to touch him, but the wind carried it away before it could reach that far. The sky was black and lowering, and the sea a cauldron of gray. He could taste something familiar. What was it? Salt.

  The room itself was at the top of the house, tucked under the eaves. The light on the landing had been left on and a thin beam peeked under the door. Otherwise, the only light was the pale glow of a streetlamp through the curtainless window.

  EGR3 had spent nearly all his life in the room. Yet he had traveled through the streets of the city, climbed steps and hills. He had run in the woods, dodging fallen logs and holes that showed themselves at the last moment. He had stood in awe, looking up at great trees and listening to the murmuring of their leaves and the creaking of their branches. He had walked up and down trains and hoverbuses, keeping his balance as they tipped and turned or sped over bumps. He had practiced chopping wood and threading needles, pouring water and moving heavy objects. And all the time his brain was asking, and comparing, and cataloging, and storing away the experiences.

  A gust of wind knocked him off balance and he hastily stepped back from the edge of the cliff. He heard the door of the room slide open. A human would not have heard, but EGR3’s hearing was as sharp as an owl’s.

  “Good evening, Professor,” he said, turning toward the door just in time to glimpse a luminous ball as it floated across the landing and out of sight. The professor, a stocky man with unruly white hair, came into the room and smiled a broad smile. It surprised and delighted EGR3, rather as the sudden appearance of the sun had thrilled him, the first time he had seen it rise.

  “Good evening, EGR3. And how are you tonight?”

  “I’m on the edge of a cliff,” replied EGR3, who understood the question to be about his progress. “Looking down on the sea.” A hoverbus skirted the window, plunging them into darkness. It moved slowly by, and light seeped into the room again.

  “And are you going to go down to the sea?” asked the professor.

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed EGR3. “It’s much too rough. Besides, if I try to climb down the cliff I may fall and break something. And if I step over the edge I will … be destroyed.” He stopped, an unfamiliar sensation rising inside him.

  The professor nodded. “Go on.”

  “The cliff edge is uneven. It is possible that I might lose my footing. Or the ground might give way. The edge is too dangerous. I will step back.”

  The professor moved further into the room. EGR3 could see his eyes clearly now in the light from the window.

  “EGR3.” The professor’s voice was soft. “I believe you are ready.” He looked intently at him for a moment, then walked toward the door.

  “Professor?”

  “Yes?” He stepped back into the room and EGR3 could see his face once more.

  “Your eyes. The look they have. Is that what you call a ‘kind’ expression?”

  The corners of the professor’s mouth turned slightly upward. “I hope so, EGR3.…. Yes, yes, it is.”

  He turned again and was gone, the door sliding gently behind him.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Bell family lived in the suburbs, in a house built of glass and steel, designed by Mr. Bell. Their neighbors in Wyn-ston Avenue, who also lived in glass houses, had planted tall dense hedges to shield them from view. Mr. and Mrs. Bell said what was the point of a beautiful house if no one else could enjoy it, and built themselves a low brick wall. However, they liked their privacy as much as anyone, and it was fortunate that the house was secluded by being set on a bend in the road. There was also a huge lime tree in the front garden that veiled one side of the building.

  The center of the house was an atrium, paved with brick and full of plants and flowers. A wide hallway opening onto it connected the ground-floor rooms. There was a half-landing with an office, exercise room and study area; bedrooms and bathrooms were on the top floor. The land at the back was divided into grass, a vegetable garden and a slightly wild overgrown patch at the far end.

  As dawn approached, the birds in the lime tree began their chorus. A gray cat slinked across the lawn and over the brick wall. Seconds later the house swept a sensor around the garden for the hundredth time that night to check for intruders. It took the outside temperature and barometric pressure. Today was going to be a mild day with the possibility of a light shower before the evening.

  A noise downstairs alerted the house that someone was up. It turned on its electronic eye in the kitchen and saw that the butler was at work. He was chopping something on a large wooden board and talking to the kettle.

  Room by room, the house checked its occupants. Fleur Bell was buried so deeply in the duvet that it was impossible to tell which way up she was. The house zoomed in somewhere about her middle to reassure itself that she was still breathing. Satisfied that the duvet was gently rising and falling, the house turned its eye to the bedroom next door. Fleur’s younger brother, Gavin Bell, was sprawled across the bed, the covers thrown off as if he had been wrestling in his sleep. Normal, concluded the house promptly, with barely a glance at him.

  Charlotte Bell, lying in a cot in the nursery, was twitching in her sleep. No cause for alarm there. In the main bedroom Mr. and Mrs. Bell looked comfortable enough, but Mr. Bell was muttering to himself and the house considered that he might have a fever. It looked for other symptoms, found none, and decided that he was nearing the end of a dream cycle.

  The hours passed and the house grew busier—waking everyone up and setting the temperature for showers and baths. It checked the gobetween for news that might interest the Bells, adjusted roof panels to create more heat and raised the blinds on the day ahead.

  Gavin was the first to come downstairs. He was in a bad mood, though he didn’t know why. It felt as if his body had been given a good shake and parts of him had fallen back into the wrong place. He had been looking forward to today. After home study he was going to the learning center for a game of liveball. That was the good bit. On the other hand, he was sure he had instructed the house to wake him with his favorite music; instead, a shrill voice had screeched “Wakey! Wakey!” in his ear. He hadn’t had breakfast yet, and he had a nagging feeling that his mum and dad were going to have one of their Discussions. He jumped the final steps and burst into the dining room, his shirt half undone and one of his socks twisted.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Your mother is in the shower and your father is changing Charlotte’s nappy,” replied the house in a soothing, feminine voice. “Your sister is—”

  “All right,” snapped Gavin. “I didn’t really expect an answer. It was a rit…. ret…”

  “Rhetorical question?” prompted the house.

  “Yes, I know.” Gavin sat down to adjust his sock. “Anyway, you’re not supposed to be on in here. You know Mum doesn’t like machines in the dining room.”

  “I am not a machine,” corrected the house.

  “Yes you are, drybrain. You just don’t have a body.” He looked up. “Go on th
en, turn yourself off.”

  There was a long pause before the green light beside the door began to flicker, and an even longer pause before it went out. Gavin frowned. He knew that machines were not supposed to have personalities, apart from the one people might choose for them. But if anyone had asked him, he would have said that the house was stubborn and sulky.

  His father came into the room carrying the baby and placed her in the high chair. Gavin kissed Charlotte on the forehead. Normally, he didn’t do a lot of kissing, but his little sister was an exception. Charlotte craned her neck to look at him and chuckled, revealing a dimple and a row of tiny white teeth.

  “Morning,” said Mr. Bell. He was wearing a high-necked jacket and slim-legged trousers. A narrow piece of cloth poked up behind the collar of the jacket.

  “Morning, Dad. You look interesting.”

  “Interesting?” said Mr. Bell.

  Gavin eyed his father up and down. “Well, like something out of the twentieth century. All you need is a watch on your wrist instead of a jinn, and a top hat.”

  “Top hats are Victorian, I think you’ll find. I’ve a very important meeting today and I think I look very smart.”

  Gavin’s dad hardly ever dressed up. He worked with a lot of other architects who also looked most of the time as if they had just got out of bed.

  “I’m meeting the top people at LifeCorp,” he continued. “We’re going to build them a new factory.”

  “Euphoric, Dad! Congratulations. But how come they’ve chosen you? I don’t remember you mentioning it.”

  Mr. Bell looked guilty. He tied a bib around Charlotte’s neck and sat down beside her. “I didn’t,” he admitted. “They held a competition to choose the architects last summer. We were asked not to tell anyone but since we’ve won we can hardly keep it a secret anymore. Now, I wonder what’s for breakfast?”

  Gavin had a sneaking feeling his father was changing the subject. They examined the dining table. “Bowls and side plates,” mused Mr. Bell. “Well, that doesn’t look too ominous.”

  The door slid open and Mrs. Bell and Fleur entered. They too stared at the table.

  “Cereal and toast. That’s OK,” said Fleur with relief.

  His mum kissed Gavin. “Morning,” she murmured. “Did you sleep well?”

  He wondered whether to tell her about the house screeching in his ear and decided not to. It would be just like her to go back to alarm clocks, or to volunteer to wake him herself. At least with the house he could tell it to let him snooze for ten minutes.

  They joined Mr. Bell at the table.

  “Dad’s going to build a new factory for LifeCorp,” Gavin told his sister.

  “Really?” said Fleur. “Whereabouts?”

  “Don’t get excited,” their father said. “It’s on the edge of the city. I was hoping it might be somewhere exotic like Italy or Tanzania so I’d be allowed to travel.”

  The door opened and the butler rolled into the room, to an accompaniment of squeaks and whirrs.

  “Good evening,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  Fleur and Gavin exchanged looks of alarm.

  “Actually, Grumps…,” began Mr. Bell.

  A ring indicated that the food lift had arrived. Mr. Bell left his sentence unfinished. The butler creaked his way toward the lift and took out a large tureen.

  “Soup is served,” he announced, setting down the tureen in the center of the table.

  “Soup!” echoed Fleur. “For breakf—?”

  “Shhh,” said her mum. “You’ll hurt his feelings. Thank you, Grumps.”

  “Tomato soup,” intoned the butler. He lifted the lid. Steam wafted up and the unmistakable smell of cooked tomatoes filled the room.

  The family stared in silence at the tureen. Grumps waited patiently, the lid in his hand.

  “Perhaps a ladle?” said Mrs. Bell at last. “And some cereal and a yogurt for Charlotte.”

  “I forgot. I am most sorry.” The butler replaced the lid and trundled out of the door. They heard him squeaking down the hallway.

  “He doesn’t have any feelings, Chloe,” Mr. Bell said to his wife. “He’s a machine.”

  “You know what I think,” she retorted. “Grumps cares for us just like one of the family.”

  “He’s programmed to care for us. The fridge cares for us too by looking after our food, but we don’t get sentimental about it.” Mr. Bell was growing a little tetchy, as he often did when they had this conversation.

  This was exactly the Discussion that Gavin had feared. He wondered how far it would go today.

  “My digestion cannot possibly tolerate the odor of soup at this hour,” Gavin said grandly. “Why can’t we have cereal too?” He looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s eight o’clock. Eight o’clock in the morning!”

  “It’s only a vegetable,” said his mother.

  “Or a fruit,” said Fleur. “Tomatoes are both.”

  “Chloe,” urged Mr. Bell. “We really can’t go on like this.….”

  The door opened and Grumps entered with Charlotte’s food, a ladle and a plate of bread rolls. He put the rolls on the table with a flourish. “Hot,” he said, “with the compliments of the oven.”

  “We’d like some jam,” said Fleur.

  “Jam?”

  Mr. Bell looked up from feeding Charlotte. “And marmalade,” he added.

  “Very well,” said the butler, “if that’s what you want.” He looked inquiringly at Mrs. Bell.

  She nodded and he went out. Gavin buried his head in his hands. “Bread and jam,” he groaned. “What kind of a breakfast is that?”

  “A perfectly respectable one,” replied his mother. “Please sit up straight. And pass me your bowl.”

  Gavin’s jaw dropped as his mother ladled tomato soup into his bowl. He would have liked to protest but he knew her too well. She could be very funny where Grumps was concerned.

  “Just a small bowl for me, please,” said Fleur in a small voice. “I’m not feeling very hungry.”

  Gavin shot her a look. Mrs. Bell tipped the hot scarlet liquid into her own bowl, then handed the ladle to her husband.

  “Umm,” she said, “makes a nice change. Especially on a chilly spring day.”

  “Actually, it’s warm today. I just checked the weather and pollution levels on the gobey,” said Fleur.

  Her mum ignored her. “In lots of countries, soup is a common food for breakfast. India, for example.”

  “My friend Sarupa in Bombay has cornflakes,” declared Fleur.

  Mr. Bell dropped the ladle in the tureen with a clatter. “We need to talk about this….”

  Grumps entered with a collection of jars on a silver tray.

  “Jam,” he declared, “and marmalade.”

  Gavin seized one of the jars and unscrewed the lid. “Euphoric! Rations arrive just in time to save the starving troops.”

  “Will there be anything else?” Grumps stood stiffly in the doorway. Everyone’s attention turned to Charlotte, who was swinging her bowl above her head.

  “No, thank you,” said Mrs. Bell distractedly.

  Grumps exited. Mr. Bell took the bowl from Charlotte and placed it gingerly in front of her. Mrs. Bell put down her spoon and looked at her family around the table. “All right,” she sighed. “I give in.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Grumps stood in the kitchen and looked at his vegetable pie. He had made it as a main course to follow the tomato soup, but he had an inkling that it would not be welcome in the dining room. This was not the first time the family had failed to show their usual enthusiasm for his meals. There was something amiss and it troubled him.

  “I’m getting old, of course,” he told his friend, the kettle, which sat next to the sink. He began to sweep vegetable peelings into the waste-disposal unit. “When I was launched onto the market—fifteen years ago that is—I was the very latest model. The butler. We were all butlers in those days, or housekeepers. We weren’t the first robots, of course. Did you know, w
e go back to the twentieth century? My ancestors used to assemble cars and television sets. They couldn’t think, mind you. Not as you can,” he added kindly. “They just did the same repetitive task. We were the first who could do everything— move, talk, think, reason, learn …” His voice trailed off. The light on the kettle flashed on.

  “Hello!” chirped the kettle. “How many cups do you require?”

  “The first fully automated household robot, that was me,” continued Grumps. “Of course, it’s all changed. The world does, you know. No one wants old-fashioned domestic servants anymore. They want robots to be ‘personal assistants’ or even friends!” He turned off the waste-disposal unit.

  “I am plumbed into the main water supply and can fill myself automatically,” trumpeted the kettle. “How many cups do you require?”

  Grumps went to check whether the vegetable pie had cooled. It had not been long in the oven before he took it out, but the pie dish had been very hot to the touch. The green light by the door came on.

  “Grumps,” said the house, “you are needed in the dining room. That baby once again has thrown away its bowl.”

  Grumps decided against the robot cleaner for such a small job and went to fetch a dustpan and floor cloth.

  “By the way,” remarked the house, “I’ve been listening to the family. They’re talking about getting rid of you.” It turned its attention back to the Bells.

  The dining room was still buzzing with talk. Now that Mrs. Bell had agreed that there was a problem with Grumps, everyone was determined to find a solution. It was not proving an easy task.

  “Switch off,” said Gavin, noticing the green light by the door.

  “I just want to tell you that he’s on his way,” said the house. “In my opinion, you should go ahead and replace him. What good is he with a broken timer? He doesn’t know whether it’s noon or night, or what day of the week it is, for that matter.”

  “You could have told him!” said Gavin accusingly.

  “The house is right,” said Fleur. “Breakfast was a fiasco. We can’t be telling him the time every five minutes.”