overlaid on each side of the map.
You make your way through parti-robed citizens and find the store. Inside, you
marvel at the systems available. There are computers for computing, and for just
about anything else imaginable. You can rent information networks, even gain
access to a world-wide library system for a low monthly fee. ("Less than one
percent of the average household income!" a display enthuses. There are two
billion subscribers.)
Your domicile can be turned into any environment you wish, complete with sounds
and smells. You can even create your own environment, using the Apple 89
Worldmaker.
"Occupation?" the clerk asks. The clerk grins and fades to transparency, then
opacifies again, as required by law in the first few minutes of service. You
realize you are being served by a very realistic hologram.
"Writer," you say.
"Oh, then you need a minezeye." It takes you a few minutes to realize the clerk
means "Mind's Eye." The unit is quite small, the size of a cigarette case, and
comes complete with plugs to hook directly into the cerebral cortex.
"The Mind's Eye is a Hair Trigger unit, taking instruction in basic Brainwave,
spoken language or even Touchcode, rather like typing. If you wish, it has a
translator which can turn a videotext into a visual experience. Plug the Mind's
Eye into a Page Turner and you can interactively turn your favorite classic into
a motion picture, just a you visualize it; you coordinate the action through the
cerebral cortex plugs. Some training required," the clerk informs you
cheerfully. Videotext combines visual and aural information with high-density
symbols--symbols which both inform and trigger intellectual and emotional cues
in the adept viewer. Some videotexts compress a hundred flashing signals within
heiroglyphs--and modern road signs. Some are based on the logos of famous
businesses. Some are as stylish as Japanese calligraphy.
Realtime units will soon be available. If you think it takes too long to imagine
a scene, Realtime can supplement your brainwaves. If a jungle is required,
Realtime has seventy different jungles in memory, and soon will have cable
connections with real jungles, which can be digitized and reshaped at will.
All computers in Chips'n'discs are, of course, Child Easy. In fact, the 1-Thru-5
unit is designed to be used by an infant. It comes complete with Sensual Crib
and access to the Sesame Net.
If you're a fiction writer, you can peddle your creation on the Lie Wire
(stet!). If you're a philosopher, your works can find their audience (for a fee,
of course) on the Mindbender cable. Historians frequently sell to the Pasttime
Cable.
On any of these networks, you can start out on the Low Rung and gradually,
through jury selection or User Acceptance (the ratings, that is) move up step by
step to the very height of success. A single work might reach as many people as,
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Bear, Greg - The Machineries of Joy.txt
say, the Britannica Visual.
Peripherals include MovieLife, a chip which can be dropped into your home
computer to turn any 20th century film into a living experience for you and your
family. If you'd prefer to see Humphrey Bogart star in THE MAN WHO WOULD BE
KING, instead of Michael Caine, that can be arranged. If you'd like to see an
enhanced color version of the original KING KONG, with synthesized stereo sound,
MovieLife will oblige. Live actors are still in great demand. They frequently
income--but virtually everyone acknowledges that a real actor is better than a
simulation. Some actors have ruined promising careers by selling rights to less
reputable retailers, who place their personas in all sorts of compromising
products.
But be warned--if you get too involved in all this, and happen to Drop
Out--leave the real world and zip along the underground nets, where all sorts of
unsavory stimulations are available--the Bug Police are tapping the wires every
day. There are many legitimate adult services, such as FantaFem and Woman of
Your Dreams, but many more balance precariously on the borders of the law, or
fall completely offsides. "Bookstores?" The clerk responds to your question with
some surprise. "We've heard of a few shops catering to the collector's
market--and of course, there's always the Winston Smith Society. It meets once a
month to trade crumbling paperbacks."
You look around the shop, at the profusion of systems that serve more to
supplement or replace creativity than enhance it. "Don't you have anything for
someone who just wants to tell his own story, with his own images?" you ask,
frowning.
"Sir," the clerk says indignantly, "that's where this all begins. Not everyone
is as privileged as you must be, however."
You are reminded of electronic music instruments, decades in the past. Some
became so elaborate that you barely had to touch a key to produce a tune.
Distasteful to the concert pianist, perhaps, but a great deal of fun for the
dabbler.
"Come with me," the clerk says, taking you in his ghostly hand. "Let me show you
some basic models. For the person who wants to create, rather than simply
You are led into a simply and tastefully furnished room. A boy and girl, no
older than ten, are sitting before an extensive keyboard. Colors and vague
shapes flicker in a cleared area beyond the machine. "Did we get all the numbers
right this time?" the girl asks. "We want it to be as accurate as possible."
"They're right," the boy assures her.
"Let's see it, then."
The boy pushes a display key.
In the cleared area, a tyrannosaurus rex appears in horrible, fascinating
detail, tail swishing back and forth, walking on its six clawed toes. It opens
its mouth and emits a curious, bird-like squawk. "Oh, they didn't sound like
that," the girl says, shaking her head vigorously.
"How do you know?" the boy asks.
"Let's make it roar."
With a few nimble keyboard touches, they make the beast change its tune and
roar.
"Don't you just love dinosaurs?" the girl asks, clapping her hands.
Your fingers twitch. Where was this kind of machine when you were a child? You
step forward and politely ask, "Here. May I play with that? "I've always fancied
sea monsters, myself..."
The Machineries of Joy, Redux
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