Supertoys Trilogy
BY BRIAN ALDISS

Introduction

The sound of that title, ‘Supertoys Last All Summer Long’, is, on the face of it, pleasant and soothing. Yet there is sorrow in the package, for summer is followed by the frosts of autumn – sorrow, and the kinds of things that may afflict us all. Of course, we know that summer does not last forever. So what else will this story tell us? Well, of course it is the story of an artificial boy who is programmed to believe himself to be human. The tender tale also tells us about over-population, and regulation, and the progress of technology.

After it was first published, in 1969, Stanley Kubrick wanted to make a film of it, and so for a year or so a limousine would come to my house in the morning and take me to the Kubrick fortress just outside St Alban’s.

We worked away but got nowhere. Kubrick sacked me, and turned his back on me (a gesture I found he had practiced on others). Then, sadly, he died, and in the end, Stephen Spielberg took over the completion of a film by now called A.I.

Spielberg is a brilliant film director, from his first movie, Duel, onwards to the recent Lincoln. Spielberg wrote to me saying he wanted my permission to use one sentence of a letter I had written him. Around this time I now wrote the other two ‘Supertoys’ stories, and took care to use in one the sentence Spielberg had requested.

He paid me, paid me generously and without quibble. He said he would shortly be staying at the Ritz in London and invited me to have tea with him. That treat did not materialise, but the vital sentence he wanted is transformed in the final A.I. into a telling visual sequence where my small boy ventures into a factory and finds there, to his shock, a production line of bodies much resembling his own.

The flooding of New York in the movie is well enough as spectacle, but the poor animated lad’s fate and failure could have attended better to our sensibilities, as I would guess Spielberg understood.

Contents

Title Page

Introduction

Supertoys Last All Summer Long

Supertoys When Winter Comes

Supertoys in Other Seasons

About the Author

Also by Brian Aldiss

Copyright

About the Publisher

Supertoys Last All Summer Long

In Mrs Swinton’s garden, it was always summer. The lovely almond trees stood about it in perpetual leaf. Monica Swinton plucked a saffron-coloured rose and showed it to David.

‘Isn’t it lovely?’ she said.

David looked up at her and grinned without replying. Seizing the flower, he ran with it across the lawn and disappeared behind the kennel where the mowervator crouched, ready to cut or sweep or roll when the moment dictated. She stood alone on her impeccable plastic gravel path.

She had tried to love him.

When she made up her mind to follow the boy, she found him in the courtyard floating the rose in his paddling pool. He stood in the pool engrossed, still wearing his sandals.

‘David, darling, do you have to be so awful? Come in at once and change your shoes and socks.’

He went with her without protest, his dark head bobbing at the level of her waist. At the age of five, he showed no fear of the ultra-sonic dryer in the kitchen. But before his mother could reach for a pair of slippers, he wriggled away and was gone into the silence of the house.

He would probably be looking for Teddy.

Monica Swinton, twenty-nine, of graceful shape and lambent eye, went and sat in her living-room arranging her limbs with taste. She began by sitting and thinking; soon she was just sitting. Time waited on her shoulder with the manic sloth it reserves for children, the insane and wives whose husbands are away improving the world. Almost by reflex, she reached out and changed the wavelength of her windows. The garden faded; in its place, the city centre rose by her left hand, full of crowding people, blow-boats, and buildings – but she kept the sound down. She remained alone. An overcrowded world is the ideal place in which to be lonely.

The directors of Synthank were eating an enormous luncheon to celebrate the launching of their new product. Some of them wore plastic face-masks popular at the time. All were elegantly slender, despite the rich food and drink they were putting away. Their wives were elegantly slender, despite the food and drink they too were putting away. An earlier and less sophisticated generation would have regarded them as beautiful people, apart from their eyes. Their eyes were hard and calculating.

Henry Swinton, Managing Director of Synthank, was about to make a speech.

‘I’m sorry your wife couldn’t be with us to hear you,’ his neighbour said.

‘Monica prefers to stay at home thinking beautiful thoughts,’ said Swinton, maintaining a smile.

‘One would expect such a beautiful woman to have beautiful thoughts,’ said the neighbour.

Take your mind off my wife, you bastard, thought Swinton, still smiling.

He rose to make his speech amid applause.

After a couple of jokes, he said, ‘Today marks a real breakthrough for the company. It is now almost ten years since we put our first synthetic life-forms on the world market. You all know what a success they have been, particularly the miniature dinosaurs. But none of them had intelligence.

‘It seems like a paradox that in this day and age we can create life but not intelligence. Our first selling line, the Crosswell Tape, sells best of all, and is the most stupid of all.’

Everyone laughed.

‘Though three-quarters of our overcrowded world is starving, we are lucky here to have more than enough, thanks to population control. Obesity’s our problem, not malnutrition. I guess there’s nobody round this table who doesn’t have a Crosswell working for him in the small intestine, a perfectly safe parasite tape-worm that enables its host to eat up to fifty per cent more food and still keep his or her figure. Right?’

General nods of agreement.

‘Our miniature dinosaurs are almost equally stupid. Today, we launch an intelligent synthetic life-form – a full-size serving-man.

‘Not only does he have intelligence, he has a controlled amount of intelligence. We believe people would be afraid of a being with a human brain. Our serving-man has a small computer in his cranium.

‘There have been mechanicals on the market with minicomputers for brains – plastic things without life, supertoys – but we have at last found a way to link computer circuitry with synthetic flesh.’

David sat by the long window of his nursery, wrestling with paper and pencil. Finally, he stopped writing and began to roll the pencil up and down the slope of the desk-lid.

‘Teddy!’ he said.

Teddy lay on the bed against the wall, under a book with moving pictures and a giant plastic soldier. The speech-pattern of his master’s voice activated him and he sat up.

‘Teddy, I can’t think what to say!’

Climbing off the bed, the bear walked stiffly over to cling to the boy’s leg. David lifted him and set him on the desk.

‘What have you said so far?’

‘I’ve said –’ He picked up his letter and stared hard at it. ‘I’ve said, “Dear Mummy, I hope you’re well just now. I love you.’”

There was a long silence, until the bear said, ‘That sounds fine. Go downstairs and give it to her.’

Another long silence.

‘It isn’t quite right. She won’t understand.’

Inside the bear, a small computer worked through its program of possibilities. ‘Why not do it again in crayon?’

David was staring out of the window. ‘Teddy, you know what I was thinking? How do you tell what are real things from what aren’t real things?’

The bear shuffled its alternatives. ‘Real things are good.’

‘I wonder if time is good. I don’t think Mummy likes time very much. The other day, lots of days ago, she said that time went by her. Is time real, Teddy?’

‘Clocks tell the time. Clocks are real. Mummy has clocks so she must like them. She has a clock on her wrist next to her dial.’

David had started to draw an airliner on the back of his letter. ‘You and I are real, Teddy, aren’t we?’

The bear’s eyes regarded the boy unflinchingly. ‘You and I are real, David.’ It specialised in comfort.

Monica walked slowly about the house. It was almost time for the afternoon post to come over the wire. She punched the O.L. number on the dial on her wrist but nothing came through. A few minutes more.

She could take up her painting. Or she could dial her friends. Or she could wait till Henry came home. Or she could go up and play with David …

She walked out into the hall and to the bottom of the stairs.

‘David!’

No answer. She called again and a third time.

‘Teddy!’ she called, in sharper tones.

‘Yes, Mummy!’ After a moment’s pause, Teddy’s head of golden fur appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Is David in his room, Teddy?’

‘David went into the garden, Mummy.’

‘Come down here, Teddy!’

She stood impassively, watching the little furry figure as it climbed down from step to step on its stubby limbs. When it reached the bottom, she picked it up and carried it into the living-room. It lay unmoving in her arms, staring up at her. She could feel just the slightest vibration from its motor.

‘Stand there, Teddy. I want to talk to you.’ She set him down on a tabletop, and he stood as she requested, arms set forward and open in the eternal gesture of embrace.

‘Teddy, did David tell you to tell me he had gone into the garden?’

The circuits of the bear’s brain were too simple for artifice.

‘Yes, Mummy.’

‘So you lied to me.’

‘Yes, Mummy.’

‘Stop calling me Mummy! Why is David avoiding me? He’s not afraid of me, is he?’

‘No. He loves you.’

‘Why can’t we communicate?’

‘Because David’s upstairs.’

The answer stopped her dead. Why waste time talking to this machine? Why not simply go upstairs and scoop David into her arms and talk to him, as a loving mother should to a loving son? She heard the sheer weight of silence in the house, with a different quality of silence issuing from every room. On the upper landing, something was moving very silently – David, trying to hide away from her …

He was nearing the end of his speech now. The guests were attentive; so was the Press, lining two walls of the banqueting chamber, recording Henry’s words and occasionally photographing him.

‘Our serving-man will be, in many senses, a product of the computer. Without knowledge of the genome, we could never have worked through the sophisticated biochemics that go into synthetic flesh. The serving-man will also be an extension of the computer – for he will contain a computer in his own head, a microminiaturised computer capable of dealing with almost any situation he may encounter in the home. With reservations, of course.’

Laughter at this; many of those present knew the heated debate that had engulfed the Synthank boardroom before the decision had finally been taken to leave the serving-man neuter under his flawless uniform.

‘Amid all the triumphs of our civilisation – yes, and amid the crushing problems of overpopulation too – it is sad to reflect how many millions of people suffer from increasing loneliness and isolation. Our serving-man will be a boon to them; he will always answer, and the most vapid conversation cannot bore him.

‘For the future, we plan more models, male and female – some of them without the limitations of this first one, I promise you! – of more advanced design, true bio-electronic beings.

‘Not only will they possess their own computers, capable of individual programming: they will be linked to the Ambient, the World Data Network. Thus everyone will be able to enjoy the equivalent of an Einstein in their own homes. Personal isolation will then be banished for ever!’

He sat down to enthusiastic applause. Even the synthetic serving-man, sitting at the table dressed in an unostentatious suit, applauded with gusto.

Dragging his satchel, David crept round the side of the house. He climbed on to the ornamental seat under the living-room window and peeped cautiously in.

His mother stood in the middle of the room. Her face was blank; its lack of expression scared him. He watched fascinated. He did not move; she did not move. Time might have stopped, as it had stopped in the garden. Teddy looked round, saw him, tumbled off the table, and came over to the window. Fumbling with his paws, he eventually got it open.

They looked at each other.

‘I’m no good, Teddy. Let’s run away!’

‘You’re a very good boy. Your mummy loves you.’

Slowly, he shook his head. ‘If she loves me, then why can’t I talk to her?’

‘You’re being silly, David. Mummy’s lonely. That’s why she has you.’

‘She’s got Daddy. I’ve got nobody ‘cept you, and I’m lonely.’

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