3 selections to peruse...
"A human being, out of compassion, might say to someone very dear, 'I feel your pain like it’s mine.' Or even more intimate, like, 'I want to take your pain upon myself'—this is more than words of compassion; this is a pure psychological act; metaphorically speaking, the spasm of the heart muscle turns into words.
A robot will never say that, because the computer finds no logic in such a construction—at least not yet. But in reading human emotions, my Macnamara can still offer help of another kind: he can comfort with words, invent a story, recall an old tale, or cook up a brand-new one. That’s his ace in the hole."
Eva gave him a long, thoughtful look.
"I believe I understood you correctly. If a robot begins to act according to conscience, it may overstep the red lines—the sanctioned boundaries where some bureaucratic rule outweighs everything else. The measure of intimacy between two intellects must remain bound by rules. That I can grasp. You followed your conscience—you didn’t break an instruction; you merely substituted the avatar. Yet, conscience took its toll, it forced you to feel emotional pain and a sense of awkwardness before your grandfather. But that’s beautiful, Romka! That’s precisely why I love you."
Macnamara stepped back, keeping his eyes on the patient. Celesta seemed to have drifted into sleep, but suddenly she opened her eyes. Her pupils were fixed on the ceiling, yet she was clearly aware of Macnamara with her peripheral vision.
"Come closer," she whispered faintly.
He approached, and she heard his comforting voice:
"I will stay by your side tonight. If an injection is needed, I will wake Isa. Trust me, Celesta—trust my words and my hands. I can give you a therapeutic massage right now. It will loosen the muscles locked in painful spasm. At the same time, the music of the spheres will enter you, drawing you away from pain and discomfort.
My sound modulator delivers a capsule of ultra-low frequencies directly into your ears. Once inside, the capsule opens and the waves bloom into audible tones. At this moment I am transmitting a Chopin etude to you. You can hear it without headphones, or any external device. The decibel level is adjusted automatically, while the sensation of melody and spatial depth is unlike anything else. My creators named it the music of the spheres, because the clarity and depth of the resonance carry a rare purity and lyricism. It’s as though you’re drifting away with the sound, sailing off into other worlds…"
She was young, of medium height, dressed in a fitted pantsuit that clung to her like a second skin. It was as if an artist had sketched a woman’s silhouette—and the drawing began to breathe. At times crisp, at times blurred, the contours moved in their own dance, sculpting every muscle of the body impeccably. It seemed to Roman as though the muse of dance had descended the steps of a temple, above whose portico Apollo himself drove a lathered quadriga.
The woman’s silhouette turned a little, but her face remained in the shadows, and Roman heard himself pleading softly, almost like a prayer: You who speak in parables, perform a small miracle: Give her to me!
His attraction to the woman intensified like a drumroll surging through a jazz percussion solo. Cupid’s arrows struck from all sides—but unlike Saint Sebastian, pierced by Roman soldiers, he bled not with blood but with love potion.
She exuded a faint trace of expensive perfume—enough to throw him off balance. Damn! He could’ve sworn he felt her body vibrating, in tune with some internal frequency. He locked onto her and couldn’t look away.