Robert Reed - The Myrtle Man.pdf

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ROBERT REED
THE MYRTLE MAN
He had a pleasant face, in a reliable, unhandsome way, and his warm brown eyes
and easy smile made Amy want to believe the best in him. His name was Jacob
Tumbull, the crisp brown uniform and two IDs proving that he came from the
library dealership. Gazing at the camera above the sealed front door, he said,
"You have myrtle problems, as I understand it." He lowered his passport, then
brightened his smile. "Something about John Wayne riding into battle on a
fire-breathing dragon. Is that right, Ms. Taylor?"
"Oh," she exclaimed, "it's a lot more than that."
Referring to the reader on his belt, he laughed and said, "And something about
the shape of the world, too."
"It's round," she blurted.
"Yes, ma'am. I know."
Amy said, "But my son doesn't. Our library taught him it's like an apple. You
know, with holes at both ends."
"It's a common myrtle, ma'am."
"Can you help me?" Did she sound anxious? Vulnerable? Or just crazy?
Crazy would be the worst, she believed. "I don't dare let him read or watch
anything. I mean, he's a boy. He doesn't understand --"
"Yes, ma'am."
"The library is lying to him!"
"Ms. Taylor," he said, "I want to help. But first, I need to examine your
equipment and determine the extent of your trouble."
"'A purge and refill job.' That's what I was told to expect."
"Eventually, yes." He sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "But first I need to
check the hardware, then I'll have to protect all the files that belong to you
and your family. A general purge would erase them."
She said, "Fine."
She said, "I understand," without meaning it. A long truck was parked at the
curb, and she focused on its license, jotting down the number because she
didn't
trust her library to record this critical detail. Then she touched a button,
saying, "Come in," as the door unsealed with a menacing kla-chunk.
These were clever, malicious times.
What if she'd just invited a thief into her home?
Yet Mr. Turnbull didn't appear the least bit criminal. Looking nowhere but at
her, his eyes showed nothing but a bloodless, professional interest. And she
 
still couldn't relax, blurting out, "My husband's going to be home soon. Maybe
any minute."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you need me to show you the library?"
The face only hinted at amusement. "It would help, yes."
Then from behind: "Mom? Who is it?"
Harry came charging out of the basement. Her son was wearing shorts and an
unflattering mesh shirt, and he was sweating, a large orange ball in his hands
and his breathing damp and fast. In a secret way, she was glad the library was
broken. Her son needed this exercise. She knew it as surely as she knew she
should do it too, but then again, he was young enough to change his ways. A
vigorous game in the playroom was a good thing. Harry had inherited her
fat-hoarding genes, and that was just another thing to make her lie awake in
fear.
"You're the myrtle man," said Harry.
"I am," the invader confessed.
Amy motioned. "It's just upstairs." She took the first few stairs, then paused
and looked over her shoulder.
"I'm following," the myrtle man promised. "Lead on."
"So where's your cable?" asked Harry, something suspicious in the tone.
"You're
supposed to bring in a glass cable, and stuff."
"I will. My stuff's in my truck."
Harry waited for an instant, then said, "I found the myrtles."
"Did you?"
"Well, a bunch of them."
"So," the man asked, "what's the shape of the world?"
"Round," Harry replied, almost growling. "That's what Mom says." Amy hesitated
on the top stair, remaining silent.
"It is round. How can it be anything else ?" The myrtle man laughed, then
asked,
"What's your name?"
"Harry. What's yours?"
"Jacob."
"It says Jacob on your shirt," Harry observed.
"Very astute."
"What's astute mean?" He shouted up at his mother, "Can I look up 'a-stute'?"
 
She said, "No."
"Why not?"
She entered the library, suddenly angry. "Because it's lying to us, Harry.
Didn't I tell you?"
Jacob seemed oblivious of them. Walking into the little room, he stopped and
turned in a slow, observant circle, saying, "Oh, this is a fine one. A
beautiful
old Universal, isn't it?"
She couldn't say.
"A Universal 8. No, it's the 9."
"Is it?"
"Twenty years old, if it's a nanosecond." Jacob began to stroke the bindings
of
the false books, then pulled on one as if to test its falseness. No, it was
rooted in place. It and the others were camouflage for the machinery set
within,
the sum total of human knowledge-- every published word and painting video and
photograph, plus every recorded musical and dramatic performance -- existed in
a
digital form, literally at their fingertips.
As were the damned myrtles, too.
"The library came with the house," said Amy, as if to apologize for its age.
"We
thought about buying a new one --"
"Don't," Jacob interrupted.
She hesitated.
Grinning, he said, "The new ones are smaller, and faster too. I know." Another
stroke of the bindings. He had long hands, she noticed. Kind hands, perhaps.
"If
you're worried about running low on capacity, buy Universal Add-Ons. Another
shelf or two would double your space, and you'd keep this ambiance."
"Mom," said Harry, "what's ambiance?"
There was a reader in one comer-- the most unused reader in the house. Jacob
sat, adjusting the chair to fit his lanky frame. Then he activated the
library,
asking, "What was your first sign of trouble?"
Amy beat Harry to the answer. "The cowboy on the dragon."
Jacob laughed in a gentle, knowing way. "You know, my grandfather loved John
Wayne. He would have hated that myrtle." On the view screen, in perfect color
but without sound, a one-eyed actor rode across a mountain meadow on the back
of
a golden dragon. "If you ask me, the best myrtles are the subtle ones. The
ones
we don't suspect."
 
A "best" myrtle? She doubted there was such a thing, but she wanted to appear
interested. "What subtle ones?"
"Well, like with this cowboy. Back when the first libraries came on the
market,
some of the actor's fans managed to insert a lot of modest changes into them.
Some fans removed his weight. Others made him look younger, more idealized.
But
what really matters, and what's hardest to spot and remove, are the doctorings
that made him a better actor. Someone gave him more feeling, a better sense of
timing. Things more subtle than subtle, if you know what I mean."
Not particularly, no.
Jacob glanced up at her, shrugging. "Nine out of ten libraries, if they
haven't
been thoroughly demyrtled, carry the new and improved John Wayne. People who
watch don't know better, and why should they? We get better movies as a
consequence."
On the screen, in vivid orange and red, the dragon spit up a ball of fire,
incinerating the bad men and setting an entire mountainside ablaze.
"That's my favorite part," said Harry, with conviction.
"Tell you what." Jacob winked at the boy. "I'll save it for you. We'll make a
special category and keep it, and you can watch it whenever you want."
"Great," the boy squealed, jumping until his belly jiggled.
"Honey," said his mother, "why don't we leave Mr. Turnbull alone? He'll call
us
when everything's fixed."
"I don't want to go," Harry admitted. "Jacob? Will you save me all the good
stuff?"
With a mixture of charm and inviolable authority, the myrtle man shook a
finger,
remarking, "The best stuff is always saved, Harry. When you're older you'll
see
what I mean."
After a lot of complaining, Harry left them, exiled to the basement. But
despite
her own pledge to leave the myrtle man alone, Amy lingered in the doorway,
watching him work while telling herself that she wasn't suspicious or unfair.
Libraries were important appliances. She kept telling herself that it was time
to learn about the damned things.
"Do you know where 'myrtle' comes from?"
She blinked her eyes several times. "Pardon me?"
"The term. The concept." Jacob was squatting on padded knees, an
incomprehensible tool in one hand, a dusty component in the other. "Back in
ancient times, even before this 9 was built, a top library designer gave a
speech about creative viruses and sophisticated forgeries. She likened them to
lies told by the software that computers, gullible and possessing perfect
 
memories, would believe without hesitation. Without end." What was he saying?
She waited, unsure what to think.
"In the speech she told a story about her Aunt Myrtle-- have you heard it,
ma'am? -- who would leave her house lights burning all day and all night. And
why? Because when Myrtle was a little girl she was told that most of the cost
of
any light came when it was turned on. It only stood to reason that if you
never
turned the light off, you saved money and energy in the long run. Right?"
Amy could believe Myrtle's logic. But then again, she had no feel for
technological questions, deciding just to nod and say, "I guess so."
"For a while," said Jacob, "we called them aunt myrtles."
"Who?"
"The untruths accepted by the libraries. But somewhere along the line, the
'aunt' was dropped."
Amy was a teenage girl when libraries became cheap enough to afford and yet
rare
enough to appeal to snobs. The attraction of the machines was genuine enough.
To
be able to say, "I own the sum total of human experience," was always an
impressive statement.
Jacob said, "They're called myrtles, and most of the human race knows what the
word means. The fictions that our machines believe to be truths, and because
we
believe our machines, we can be fooled, too. I mean, what choice do we have?"
She considered her myrtles. The worst of them, she believed, were a lot more
dangerous than leaving the lights burning all night. After a cleansing deep
breath, she confessed, "Harry has found other things, too."
"Kids do, ma'am."
"There's not a planet on the other side of the sun, is there? One just like
Earth?"
"No. No, there isn't."
"I knew that." She took another breath. "I mean, Harry loves science. I don't
know why, neither of his parents do. But he does, and I let him study what he
wants, just so long as he finishes his tutor's assignments." A pause. "He's
being educated at home."
"I know. Here's your AI." He patted the shell of an old dictionary. "It's a
popular model. Very strict."
"It showed Harry a map of the solar system, and there was this second earth
hidden by the sun." She hesitated, reading something in the man's expression.
"What's wrong?"
"That AI wouldn't be fooled by such a big myrtle. When it accesses maps of the
solar system, it accesses thousands of them, ignoring the odd ones." He
paused,
giving a charming little wink. "The boy found it on his own, I bet. While
 

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