Free In the Deadlands by David Gerrold

know.”
    â€œAfter all, compared to some of the stuff we’re up to now—”
    â€œWhat? Time magazine?”
    â€œSalvador Dali, Ed Kienholz, Heinz Edelmann, to name a few. Also Lennon and McCartney, Dylan, Ionesco, McLuhan, Kubrick, and so on. Don’t forget, we’re dealing with the art of the experience now. This isn’t the same as—oh, say the Renaissance masters.”
    â€œI know. I’ve got one of his imitation da Vincis in my living room.”
    â€œI’ve seen it,” said Auberson. “Remember?”
    â€œOh, yeah—that night we spiked the punch with acid.”
    â€œYeah. Well, look, that da Vinci stuff is easy.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œSure—the Renaissance masters were mainly concerned with such things as perspective and structure, color, shading, modeling—things like that. Da Vinci was more interested in how the body was put together than in what it felt like. He was trying to anticipate the camera. So were the rest of them.”
    Hanley nodded, remembered to inhale deeply, then nodded again.
    Auberson continued. “So what happens when the camera is finally invented?”
    Hanley let his breath escape in a whoosh. “The artists are out of jobs?”
    â€œWrong. The artists simply have to learn how to do things that the camera can’t . The artist had to stop being a recorder and start being an interpreter. That’s when expressionism was born.”
    â€œYou’re oversimplifying it,” Hanley said.
    Auberson shrugged. “True—but the point is, that’s when artists began to wonder whatthings felt like. They had to. And when we reached that point in art history, that’s when we started to lose HARLIE. He couldn’t follow it.”
    Hanley was thoroughly stoned by now. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of anything to say.
    Auberson interpreted the look as one of thoughtfulness. “Look, all this stuff we’ve been having trouble with—it all has one thing in common: It’s experience art. It’s where the experience involving the viewer is the object of the artist’s intention—not the artwork itself. They’re trying to evoke an emotional response in the viewer. And HARLIE can’t handle it—because he doesn’t have any emotions.”
    â€œBut. that’s just it, Aubie— he does . He should be able to handle this stuff. That’s what the analogue circuits are supposed to do—”
    â€œThen why does he keep tripping out? He says it’s GIGO.”
    â€œMaybe that’s the way he reacts to it—”
    â€œAre you telling me the past hundred years of art and literature is garbage?”
    â€œUh-uh, not me. That stuff has communicated too much to too many people for it to be meaningless.”
    â€œI’m not an art critic either,” Auberson admitted.
    â€œBut HARLIE is .” Hanley said.
    â€œHe’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be an intelligent and objective observer.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m getting at—the stuff must be getting to him somehow. It’s the only possible explanation. We’re the ones who are misinterpreting.”
    â€œUm, he said it was GIGO himself.”
    â€œDid he?” Hanley demanded. “Did he really?”
    Auberson paused, frowned thoughtfully, tried to remember, found that he couldn’t remember anything. “Uh, I don’t know. Remind me to look it up later—I suppose you’re right, though. If all that art can communicate to people and HARLIE’s supposed to be a Human Analogue, he should be getting some of it.” He frowned again. “But he denies any knowledge or understanding of his periods of nonrationality.”
    â€œHe’s lying,” snapped Hanley.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œI said, he’s lying. He’s got to be.”
    â€œNo.” Auberson shook his head, stopped when he