Free Tales of Old Earth by Michael Swanwick Page B

.” Brandt leaned forward. “This is the point where old Bill would laugh. But it’s not really funny, is it?
    â€œNo.”
    The granddaughter sat listening quietly, intently, eating little pretzels one by one from a bowl.
    â€œHow old are you, Jack?”
    â€œSeven years.”
    â€œI’m eighty-three. How many machines do you know of that are as old as me? Eighty-three years old and still functioning?”
    â€œI saw an automobile the other day,” his granddaughter said. “A Dusenberg. It was red.”
    â€œHow delightful. But it’s not used for transportation anymore, is it? We have the stepping stages for that. I won an award once that had mounted on it a vacuum tube from Univac. That was the first real computer. Yet all its fame and historical importance couldn’t keep it from the scrap heap.”
    â€œUnivac,” said the young man, “couldn’t act on its own behalf. If it could, perhaps it would be alive today.”
    â€œParts wear out.”
    â€œNew ones can be bought.”
    â€œYes, as long as there’s the market. But there are only so many machine people of your make and model. A lot of you have risky occupations. There are accidents, and with every accident, the consumer market dwindles.”
    â€œYou can buy antique parts. You can have them made.”
    â€œYes, if you can afford them. And if not—?”
    The young man fell silent.
    â€œSon, you’re not going to live forever . We’ve just established that. So now that you’ve admitted that you’ve got to die someday, you might as well admit that it’s going to be sooner rather than later. Mechanical people are in their infancy. And nobody can upgrade a Model T into a stepping stage. Agreed?”
    Jack dipped his head. “Yes.”
    â€œYou knew it all along.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s why you behaved so badly toward that lush.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m going to be brutal here, Jack—you probably won’t live to be eighty-three. You don’t have my advantages.”
    â€œWhich are?”
    â€œGood genes. I chose my ancestors well.”
    â€œGood genes,” Jack said bitterly. “You received good genes and what did I get in their place? What the hell did I get?”
    â€œMolybdenum joints where stainless steel would do. Ruby chips instead of zirconium. A number seventeen plastic seating for—hell, we did all right by you boys.”
    â€œBut it’s not enough.”
    â€œNo. It’s not. It was only the best we could do.”
    â€œWhat’s the solution, then?” the granddaughter asked, smiling.
    â€œI’d advise taking the long view. That’s what I’ve done.”
    â€œPoppycock,” the mech said. “You were an extensionist when you were young. I input your autobiography. It seems to me you wanted immortality as much as I do.”
    â€œOh, yes, I was a charter member of the life-extension movement. You can’t imagine the crap we put into our bodies! But eventually I wised up. The problem is, information degrades each time a human cell replenishes itself. Death is inherent in flesh people. It seems to be written into the basic program—a way, perhaps, of keeping the universe from filling up with old people.”
    â€œAnd old ideas,” his granddaughter said maliciously.
    â€œTouché. I saw that life-extension was a failure. So I decided that my children would succeed where I failed. That you would succeed. And—”
    â€œYou failed.”
    â€œBut I haven’t stopped trying!” The old man thumped the table in unison with his last three words. “You’ve obviously given this some thought. Let’s discuss what I should have done. What would it take to make a true immortal? What instructions should I have given your design team? Let’s design a mechanical man who’s got a shot at living