The Eyes of the Beholders - A. C. Crispin [2]
Data glanced up as his friend entered, and he placed some sort of cap over the thing he held. “Hello, Geordi,” he said in his precise, unaccented tones.
“Hi, Data. What have you got there?”
“An exact replica of an old-fashioned fountain pen,” the android officer replied, holding it up.
“A what?”
“A fountain pen.” Evidently recognizing La Forge’s continued bewilderment, he added helpfully, “An instrument for writing by hand.”
“You mean producing hard copy by writing on paper? Why would you want to do that?” La Forge asked. Inwardly, he sighed. He’d already had considerable experience with Data’s sudden enthusiasms, and something told him he was about to gain more.
“To awaken my muse,” Data said. “A famous twentieth-century author whose works I have been reading has stated categorically that it is impossible to produce true literature by electronic means.”
This time La Forge sighed aloud. It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that not only did Data function by electronic means, but so, in the final analysis, did human beings. But he restrained himself. “Uh, you mean that you’re producing literature by writing it out manually?”
“I believe I said that,” Data replied.
“What kind of literature?”
Something akin to pride tinged the android’s voice. “I am writing a novel.”
“Oh,” La Forge managed, after a surprised pause. “Uh … that’s … great, Data. What is it about?”
“It is a fictionalized retelling of the first days of interstellar travel. A work of epic scope, full of passion and nobility, but stylistically rendered to be accessible to a popular audience,” Data explained.
“What’s it called?”
“The work is as yet untitled. I am confident that inspiration regarding an appropriate title will strike before it is published.”
“Published?” Geordi was nonplussed. “You’ve sold this book?”
“No, it is not complete, so I have not yet submitted it. However, when the time comes, I am certain that it will be deemed worthy of publication,” Data said evenly. “After all, I have analyzed more than five hundred years of human literature down to its most basic themes and components. I am confident that I can match—if not exceed—the quality of the fiction appearing currently.”
“Uh … yeah,” La Forge said without much conviction. He’d had a friend in the Academy once, Laura Wu, who’d tried to publish several of her short stories, only to meet with rejection. Crushed, she’d abandoned her aspirations.
“Would you like me to read you the scene I am currently polishing?” Data asked.
Geordi groaned silently at the idea, remembering as he did the times that he’d tried to read and comment on Laura’s efforts. Hurt feelings and mutual resentment had been the only result. “Sure,” he said aloud, managing a credible amount of enthusiasm.
“Very well.” Data picked up a piece of paper with a proud flourish. “Ahem,” he said, attempting to theatrically clear his throat but managing only a sort of artificial gargle. “This scene takes place between Fritz and Penelope, my two protagonists. They are at Luna Starbase, beneath one of the observation domes—a most romantic setting for a love scene, do you not agree? Penelope is upset because Fritz is departing the next day aboard his ship, and she is afraid that she will never see him again.” He began to read:
“The jagged lunar mountains stabbed the blackness of the star-studded sky like tuning forks vibrating to the music of the celestial spheres. Penelope turned to Fritz with tears streaking her makeup and reddening her otherwise exquisite sapphire eyes.
” ‘We only have tonight,’ she whispered.