London, 1898<\/p>\n
The Solicitor took Father\u2019s will from the hand of an automaton standing next to the desk. He waved the machine away and began reading. \u201cTo Euphemia Thorniwork, my Pheemie, my only daughter, I leave whatever money is in my bank account. She is of age, therefore she may receive the bequest without delay. It will contribute towards funding her intended mathematical study. Great things await her.\u201d<\/p>\n
Only Father had called me Pheemie. Tears pooled in my eyes at the sound of it spoken in another man\u2019s voice. <\/p>\n
The solicitor continued, \u201cI have faith that she will devise a way of paying for the remainder. I also leave her one of my inventions that may facilitate the matter.\u201d He looked up and removed his pince-nez. \u201cThat is all. Despite my urging, your father included no indication as to what that is.\u201d<\/p>\n
The following day, I tried to poach an egg for lunch. It appeared that, contrary to all Father had taught me about chemistry, it is possible to burn water. As I scraped the cinders into the bin, I was interrupted by a knock on the front door. <\/p>\n
A figure stood outside, the shape and size of a man but constructed of bronze. It was dressed like a country gentleman, with a black band tied around the upper right arm. The face, with a slit for the mouth to enable the voice to project, was smooth. Engraved curlicues above its eyes imitated eyebrows. According to the copperplate letters engraved on its forehead in Father\u2019s handwriting, its name was Claridge. Its green glass eyes fixed mine. \u201cMy master \u2013 your late father \u2013 required that I reside with you as your adviser.\u201d<\/p>\n
I took a step back. \u201cAdviser? How can an automaton get me to Oxford University?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have faith that we will devise a way of achieving it.\u201d<\/p>\n
My first instinct was to turn the thing away. I hesitated and the bronze man stuck its foot in the path of the door as I made to close it.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy master created me to learn and grow from my surroundings.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI must consider this.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe also taught me to cook.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you poach an egg?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is elementary.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen come inside.\u201d I shut the door behind it. \u201cWhere is your key?\u201d I could not see the winding port situated in the head that all automatons required.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am powered by a form of battery.\u201d It raised its shirt, revealing a glass panel in its abdomen, fitted with a small brass tap. Inside, two polished metal plates hung in clear liquid. It explained that its brain was a wax cylinder inside its head. \u201cThat is where my programming, which tells me how to see the world and how to react, is stored. All my knowledge, my learned behavior and my skills, are etched into logical circuits in the cylinder, ready to be accessed.\u201d<\/p>\n
I heard Father\u2019s voice in my mind: \u201cPheemie! The beauty of numbers, the magic of the sphere!\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cDid my Father scratch science and mathematics into your cylinder?\u201d <\/p>\n
It was fortunate that no others would observe my engaging in chit chat with an automaton. Our neighbors were keen observers of social propriety.<\/p>\n
It nodded. \u201cAfter my master taught me literacy, he made me commit his library to memory.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll of it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. Of course, it includes many mathematical texts, but my preference is for chemistry. It is easiest to process.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI feel that his library connects me to him,\u201d I blurted. \u201cI know it is not in your programming to feel. I am sorry if I\u2026 the fact of the matter is that I am still\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA period of grieving is within logical parameters. I have computed that his passing was a loss to the world of science, and to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
While one could not hold discussions with machines, it might provide a useful method of retrieving information from the library. \u201cYou may stay.\u201d
\n<\/p>\n
One afternoon two weeks later, Aunt Ada called without invitation, interrupting a discussion Claridge and I were having about the chemistry of raising agents in food. I had corrected him even though I knew he was right. After all, I was now his mistress. He served Earl Grey tea, with the Chelsea buns that he had made to illustrate a point about yeast. <\/p>\n
I felt warmth in his metal hand as I took my cup from him. \u201cThank you. It is delicious,\u201d I said. \u201cYou must have one yourself.\u201d Ridiculous. <\/p>\n
He took a pace backwards and stood motionless, arms by his side.<\/p>\n
Aunt Ada bit a chunk out of a bun, then took a sip of tea. Her lips pursed into a non-mathematical shape as she put her cup down. \u201cThis always did taste like something one ought to dab behind one\u2019s ears, not drink.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cIt was Father\u2019s favorite.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOn that, my poor brother and I disagreed. Also, while he may have considered it right for a young lady to live alone, I am now your next of kin and, I also disagree with that.\u201d<\/p>\n
It was not proper to discuss such matters in front of servants or automatons. I opened my mouth to ask Claridge to afford us some privacy but before I could speak, Aunt Ada continued, with no more apparent regard for his presence than she would have for a hatstand. <\/p>\n
\u201cI have concerns about your loneliness. I have made a decision about your future.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have Claridge.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cAn inanimate object. You would do better to get yourself a lapdog.\u201d She helped herself to another bun.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe dog that is master of chemistry and mathematics would be a rare creature. And I doubt it could cook. You seem to approve of Claridge\u2019s output \u2013 that is the third you have taken.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSuch impertinence does you no credit,\u201d she spluttered, through a mouthful of bun, \u201cbut you bring me to my next point. In particular, it is ill-advised for you to spend so much time in the company of automata. The mechanical influence is taxing to a young woman\u2019s brain. I see the start of it \u2013 thanking a soul-less machine! Would you thank the kettle for boiling the water?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, but I would thank Claridge for heating the kettle. Father taught me to be polite to servants.\u201d<\/p>\n
She rolled her eyes. \u201cMy poor brother\u2019s teaching. Mathematics! Of What practical use is it? Far better that he should have taught you elocution, and deportment.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI am determined to make my life studying mathematics, for its own sake.\u201d <\/p>\n
Aunt Ada folded her arms. \u201cYour legacy will not last longer than a few weeks.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI will teach, to support myself.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her nostrils flared. \u201cYou do not listen.\u201d She banged her hand down on the table. The cups jumped and tea spilled out. Claridge moved forward and dabbed at the mess with a cloth. <\/p>\n
Aunt Ada flapped a hand at him. \u201cLeave us. I am sure that there are matters to be attended to in the kitchen. I cannot abide such fussing.\u201d He left the room, closing the door behind him. <\/p>\n
She leaned across the table towards me. \u201cI have made allowances for your state of mind, since you are in mourning. As, of course, am I.\u201d She produced a handkerchief from the sleeve of her black silk dress and gave the corner of one eye a dainty dab, as though she had just remembered the fact. \u201cI think only of your welfare. It is time for you to forget playing the bluestocking. Mr. Milton the druggist has enquired after you, again. I think he will ask you to walk out with him. Now, what say you?\u201d<\/p>\n
My stomach turned at the thought of keeping company with sweaty-faced Reginald Milton, of his hot, fishy breath. But unless I could fund my continuing academic career, penury would force me to make a match, with him or someone like him. <\/p>\n
\u201cYou seem unimpressed. You may be right. Some might consider a druggist to be a tradesman. But you need not remain a spinster all your life. I will effect some other introductions.\u201d She retrieved a copy of the London Daily Post from her bag. \u201cYou will find accounts in the society pages of the sort of gatherings you should attend. I will contrive to obtain invitations for you.\u201d She handed me the newspaper.<\/p>\n
As Claridge was seeing her out, she paused. \u201cEnsure that you do not speak of mathematics to young men. They do not like their wife to be more intelligent than they.\u201d<\/p>\n
He shut the door after her. <\/p>\n
\u201cIt is beyond belief that she is Father\u2019s sister,\u201d I said, even though it was not right to deride a human in front of an automaton. \u201cShe is as unlike him as it is possible to be.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cIt would be inappropriate for me to voice an opinion on your aunt\u2019s personality. However, the evidence would appear to suggest that you are correct.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt my hands shake. I spoke again, my mouth dry. \u201cIs it really so improper to be fascinated by numbers? To wish to immerse myself in their world?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt would be a waste of a mind such as yours to do otherwise.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI wish that you had told her that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe would not have listened. \u2018Would you ask the advice of a teapot?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
Our exchanges were becoming something approaching conversation. I had conflicting feelings about this, but Aunt Ada would have been appalled. I told him of her plans. \u201cI have no wish to spend the rest of my life shackled to such a man as she will find, or to spend my life scratching an existence as a penniless spinster. But what choice do I have? I cannot afford to study. \u201c<\/p>\n
\u201cThen, what I have to tell you is timeous. I have heard something that is most interesting.\u201d He picked up the Post and scanned the front page. \u201cYes, it is reported here. \u2018Second Gold Rush. People flocking to the Klondike. Riches for the taking.\u2019 We will go there, you and I. Make our fortune. Status. Comfort. Tuition fees.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cClaridge, you are presumptuous,\u201d I said. \u201cI may extend you courtesy, but that does not mean that you may assume some misguided parity between us.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI understand, and extend my apologies.\u201d<\/p>\n
I paused. \u201cPlease continue. About the news item. How could we mine gold?\u201d<\/p>\n
Green light glowed behind his eyes. \u201cWe need not struggle to the goldfields. The ones who make the most money are those who supply the miners with their needs. Consider how much more they could extract after blasting their way through the permafrost. We will make and sell explosives.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cClaridge, the very idea! We will blow ourselves to high heaven.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have the knowledge. And here is a notion that has just occurred to me: one must speculate, to accumulate.\u201d <\/p>\n
A future breeding cannon fodder for the Empire loomed in my mind. I used my last five pounds to pay for chemicals, apparatus, and outward airship fares.<\/p>\n
With much sweating and puffing, the carter\u2019s men heaved our equipment onto the back of the wagon. The leader took off his bowler hat and fanned his face with it. He shoved a scrap of crumpled paper and a pencil stub into my hand. \u201cSign here.\u201d<\/p>\n
I did so. \u201cWe will meet you at the airfield.\u201d I gave them the few coins I had in my reticule and shut the door behind us.<\/p>\n
Claridge strode down the street to the tram stop. As I scuttled along after him, I paused and flinched. Supposing we should meet Aunt Ada coming towards us? As we turned the corner, the tram clattered towards the stop. The driver pulled the two horses to a standstill and we stepped on. I pictured Aunt Ada, a faceless young man in tow, knocking on our front door and I heard the sound echoing in the empty house. <\/p>\n
\u201cGoodbye, Miss Ada,\u201d Claridge said, as I took my seat. He turned to me. \u201cYou may exhale, Euphemia.\u201d<\/p>\n
As the airship could not rise high enough to cross the Alaskan coastal mountains, it would take us no farther than Skagway, Alaska. This was the start of the White Pass Trail leading to the headwaters of the Yukon River. Claridge was certain that there would be as much commerce from the miners starting on the trail as there would be from those reaching its end.<\/p>\n
I was obliged to stow him in the hold, as though he were no more than animated baggage. The attendant directed me to a space between a man-sized automaton, dressed in prospector\u2019s clothes, \u201cInverarity 10.0.1\u201d engraved on the forehead, and a female with white hair, dressed in black: \u201cGrandmama 2.1\u201d. A child-sized automaton, dressed in a sailor suit, farther along the row, clicked and whirred as cogs turned ever more slowly and mechanisms ran down. The attendant clamped Claridge\u2019s feet to the floor. We left the hold and he showed me to my seat.<\/p>\n
\u201cAll alone. You travellin\u2019 for business? Nobody would come here for pleasure.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cI seek to make my fortune, at the start of the White Pass Trail.\u201d <\/p>\n
He frowned. A shadow flitted across my mind. \u201cShould I have chosen the Chilkoot Trail?\u201d<\/p>\n
He shrugged. \u201cMakes no difference. One\u2019s hell. The other\u2019s damnation.\u201d <\/p>\n
He left. I crept back to the bowels of the airship. Row after row of metallic faces stared into nothing, their clockwork motors unwound, their bodies frozen in the positions they had last adopted. I found Claridge. <\/p>\n
\u201cI fear you will find the journey tedious, on your own,\u201d I said. \u201cNot even the chance of conversation with your fellows.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI will use the time to compute the quantities of components and the processes required to make the fulminate of mercury detonator and the guncotton. We will be ready to begin production as soon as we arrive.\u201d <\/p>\n
I mounted a stairway and returned to my seat. Restraining cables fell away from the airship and it lifted. With the hiss of steam and the roar of motors, our flight to Canada had begun.<\/p>\n
The cold of evening filled the air as we stepped out of the airship. The mud, set into solid ridges, dug into my feet through the soles of my boots as I picked my way along, trying to find our store. Claridge trudged along next to me pushing a handcart carrying as much of our equipment as it could accommodate. <\/p>\n
\u201cThe agent told me it was next to a draper,\u201d I said. \u201cPerhaps we can buy extra cotton wool there, if ours sells out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen it sells out. You should always retain a positive attitude.\u201d <\/p>\n
Father would have said the same. I felt my throat tighten. We reached the end of the block. \u201cSurely, this cannot be right,\u201d I said. Tufts of grass poked through the clods of mud thrown up against the door. Claridge dropped the handle of the cart and looked at the document the agent had given us. \u201cI fear that it is.\u201d<\/p>\n
The half-rotten wooden step shifted under my foot. Claridge pushed the door and it creaked open, scraping across the floorboards. The odor of damp wood, mold and musty earth filled my head as I stepped inside. Shelves lined the walls. The filthy window glass let through just enough light for me to avoid falling over a rickety table. A wooden bench stood to one side. I looked at the empty stove and shivered. <\/p>\n
Claridge flung the window open. \u201cIt will suffice. We can put the carboys on these shelves.\u201d He leaned on the table. \u201cThis will take the weight of the apparatus. I fear you must put your bedding on the floor.\u201d He brought in the bolts of cotton wool, the massive glass carboys filled with acid and the jar of mercury. \u201cI will retrieve the remainder of our cargo from the airfield and see about firewood and a padlock for the door.\u201d<\/p>\n
I handed him some coins. He headed down the steps. I ran after him and grabbed his arm. \u201cThose were our last few cents,\u201d I said. \u201cIt is hopeless.\u201d<\/p>\n
He turned back. \u201cNonsense. Your father commended you to me for your determination, many times. What would he have said if you gave up without trying?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cClaridge, stop,\u201d I snapped. \u201cFather is never far from my mind. But we must return to London.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cI will return to London \u2013 once we have made our fortune. But when you leave here, it will be for Huxley College, Oxford.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour faith is misplaced. Did you not hear the agent say that prospectors must carry a year\u2019s supplies? They will not want to add ours to their burden.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI heard him well. And I know equally that we will achieve our aims. I saw no other stores selling explosives. I have already computed how much we can produce, and how much a miner will need. While I am out, calculate how much we can charge per grain of each of our products.\u201d<\/p>\n
There was comfort in numbers. My jaw unclenched and I felt my heart rate slow. \u201cI will. But we must charge a fair price.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI would expect nothing less of you.\u201d He trudged away down the muddy street. <\/p>\n
I opened my valise, took out my leather apron and brass goggles, put them on and started weighing and measuring.<\/p>\n
Towards the end of September, the days grew colder and the evenings came earlier. We had been in Skagway for one month. The sky hung grey, frowning, over the town. It would not be long until the first snow fell. Prospectors were coming back with microscopic amounts of gold dust. I looked out into the empty street. <\/p>\n
\u201cThe rush is over,\u201d I said. \u201cWe must leave, before winter hits in earnest.\u201d<\/p>\n
Claridge\u2019s voice softened. \u201cI have dragged you half across the world for no more than a game of chance. I truly believed that, in a few weeks, we would make our fortune.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo not distress yourself. At least you removed me from Aunt Ada\u2019s matchmaking.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThings may come good. It is just that I have not yet worked out how. It is like completing a jigsaw puzzle without the picture. And where some pieces are upside down\u201d <\/p>\n
I shrugged. \u201cThey might be worse. We have fifty grains of gold dust. That will cover what I paid for the fares. We have made no profit, but also no loss.\u201d<\/p>\n
Claridge stayed behind to begin packing up what remained of our stock. Perhaps we would get a few pence, on sale or return, from the chemical supplier in London. I walked through a veil of fog to the airfield. The ticket office was open, but flights were delayed until the sky cleared. I reserved places on the next one out, the following morning. <\/p>\n
\u201cThree grains of gold\u2019s the fare for an automaton,\u201d the clerk said. He weighed it out and handed the bag back. <\/p>\n
A man standing on the other side of the hall called to me. \u201cMa\u2019am? Some of us are starting a friendly poker game. Just to pass the time. Care to join us?\u201d <\/p>\n
It would be something new, something not considered suitable for ladies back at home. It would not take long to learn. How prescient of Claridge to speak of a game of chance. <\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said, \u201cbut I cannot play. Will you teach me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWith pleasure.\u201d He shook my hand. \u201cJake, to my friends. I can see that\u2019s what you and I are going to be.\u201d<\/p>\n
Huge stoves, crammed full with wood, stood at each end of the saloon. The windows were closed and lamps flared against the white-washed walls. Two men, sitting at a round wooden table, looked up as we approached. \u201cBoys, this is our new British lady friend,\u201d Jake said. \u201cMeet Dan.\u201d He nodded to the man with a whisky bottle on the table in front of him. \u201cAnd Bob.\u201d A man with a cigar clamped between his teeth stood up and gave a slight bow.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am Miss Thorniwork.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a long way from home,\u201d Bob said. \u201cAll alone, without your bronze buddy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jake shook his head. <\/p>\n
I took my seat.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is called Seven-Card Stud,\u201d Jake said. \u201cWe\u2019ll use matchsticks, until you get the reckoning of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
This was a game that I could win. Apart from the random fall of the cards, mathematics was involved. There would be a good chance of getting dealt the cards I needed, providing nobody else held them. I must make the others call with worse hands than mine and fold better hands than mine. <\/p>\n
Dan won. Bob won. I made each mistake only once. It was all controlled by probability and odds, and remembering which cards had been played. I won a hand. And another.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a natural, Miss T,\u201d Jake said. \u201cNow, how about we make things more interesting?\u201d He tipped a heap of gold nuggets onto the table. The other two men did the same. There was more gold glowing in the lamp light than I had seen in my entire time in Skagway. \u201cNow you,\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n
I put my bag of gold dust on the table. \u201cI believe it is my turn to deal.\u201d<\/p>\n
As I won the last gold nugget, the saloon door burst open. The floor shook as Claridge pounded across the room. \u201cWhere have you been? I have long finished packing. I have been looking everywhere.\u201d <\/p>\n
I stood up. \u201cMy apologies, Claridge. I did not see the time.\u201d <\/p>\n
Daniel sneered. \u201cTell this uppity gadget to get lost. We\u2019re gonna play a while longer.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shook my head and swept the nuggets into my reticule. \u201cHe, and I, are leaving. It has been a pleasure, but I know enough to quit while I am ahead.\u201d I swept out into the street, Claridge behind me.<\/p>\n
I skipped and danced along, like a child. \u201cThere, Aunt Ada!\u201d I shouted into the fog. \u201cDo you see the practical use of mathematics? I have enough to support my studies for years. I shall be the first female professor of mathematics at Huxley College.\u201d I stopped as we reached our doorway and took Claridge\u2019s hand, warm in the freezing air. \u201cPoker is simply a matter of what cards they think I have. And what they think I think they have.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what they think you think they think you have, I suppose,\u201d Claridge said. \u201cIt is unseemly to shout and dance in the street. But I feel that, under the circumstances, it was right to give you your head.\u201d We stepped inside the store. Claridge raised a floorboard, I put the reticule underneath it and he nailed it shut again.<\/p>\n
On the following morning, the fog lifted. We would have to make several trips with the handcart to transport all our belongings \u201cWe will take the gold last,\u201d Claridge said. \u201cThe less it is in plain sight, the better. Go and book in. I will follow in a short while, with the cart. I wish to conduct one final experiment with the nitric and muriatic acids.\u201d<\/p>\n
As I left the ticket office, Claridge dragged himself towards me, pushing the half-loaded handcart. \u201cIt was…heavy. I must make yet another return trip for the glassware.\u201d His voice crackled and, although had he had no need for air, he appeared to be gasping.<\/p>\n
The ground crew hauled at cables, walking the airship, attached to a movable mooring mast, out into the field. I gestured to a porter \u201cPlease place the contents of this cart in the hold.\u201d <\/p>\n
Claridge stood while the man followed my instructions. \u201cI regret that I cannot help,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
I pushed the cart back to the store. Claridge limped behind me, with a ratcheting sound of wood creaking against metal. As I mounted the steps, the door swung open. Smashed glass covered the floor like crystals of ice. There was a gap where someone had ripped up the boards. The gold was gone.<\/p>\n
My lungs seized mid-breath. I sank to my knees. \u201cAll is lost.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is not. They have left one empty carboy intact.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat use is that? They have taken the gold. We cannot start again.\u201d<\/p>\n
Claridge bent over me, gears whining, and touched my shoulder. I felt a tremor in his hand. \u201cThe gold is still here.\u201d He stood up and raised his shirt. Amber fluid filled his battery. The once-shining metal electrodes were dull and pitted, releasing streams of bubbles. \u201cIt is a mixture of nitric and muriatic acids. The alchemists called it aqua regia. Royal water. Because it will dissolve gold. And… here is ours.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cIn solution?\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded. \u201cDrain the aqua regia into the intact carboy. Do not let it touch your skin.\u201d <\/p>\n
I did as he instructed. <\/p>\n
\u201cTake it, and get onto the airship. Recover the gold, once you are home. The method may be found in \u2018Textbook of Chemistry\u2019. Third shelf, fourth from the left. Page 645.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAqua regia dissolves other metals, besides gold. Your electrodes. We must replace them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere are no replacements. My components are unique. You must lift the carboy onto the cart. Hurry, the airship will not wait.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere will be more flights. There must be a way to repair you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. My systems are no longer viable. Even if we obtained the components, your father left no instructions. Those men departed empty handed. You must go, before they return.\u201d He blinked, his eyelids rattling. \u201cYou are crying, but do not be distressed.\u201d The light behind his eyes dimmed. \u201cI am only a machine.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, you are more. You are not Claridge 1.0. You are the only Claridge. You feel pain. Emotions. Desires. Curiosity. You have a mind. You live.\u201d<\/p>\n
His internal mechanisms clicked as they switched off. <\/p>\n
\u201cIt is only my programming, replicating how pain might be perceived.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot so. I will not believe it.\u201d I clutched his hand. Cold, like the bronze from which it was made. <\/p>\n
\u201cAnd I cannot believe otherwise. For if it is true, and I do have a soul, will it not wander for all eternity in that place of darkness, cut off from life?\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cClaridge. My brother. You told me you were not programmed for feeling, but to process. Did Father also program you to lay down your life for me?\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cNo. Pheemie,\u201d he whispered. \u201cBut. Using my logical circuits. I know it is what he would have wanted.\u201d<\/p>\n
Judith Field lives in London. She is the daughter of writers, and learned how to agonise over fiction submissions at her mother\u2019s (and father\u2019s) knee. Judith is a pharmacist, medical writer, editor and indexer. Her fiction, mainly speculative, has appeared in a variety of publications, in the USA, UK and Australia and her non-fiction has appeared in newspapers and magazines in the UK.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
London, 1898 The Solicitor took Father\u2019s will from the hand of an automaton standing next to the desk. He waved the machine away and began reading. \u201cTo Euphemia Thorniwork, my Pheemie, my only daughter, I leave whatever money is in my bank account. She is of age, therefore she may receive the bequest without delay. …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2296,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6,3,12,19643],"tags":[19644],"class_list":["post-130683","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-althist","category-fiction","category-science-fiction","category-tcl-26-winter-2018","tag-the-colored-lens-26-winter-2018","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/130683","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2296"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=130683"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/130683\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":139455,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/130683\/revisions\/139455"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=130683"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=130683"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=130683"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}