32

The announcement of Silvana’s presentation before the Ideological Committee has roused so much expectation that, despite being accessible via the ComU’s closed circuit, the room is full to the brim when she enters. Keeping the greetings to an absolute minimum, she steps up to the orator’s position and downloads the graphics with which she will illustrate her argument. When they arrive, the members of the committee come over to her and, following the protocol, squeeze both her hands before sitting down in the semicircle of armchairs before her. The youngest will be the easiest to convince, she’s sure of it, she holds over some of them the moral authority of having tutored them when they were starting out. It seems to her that, despite there being a couple of middle-aged people she’s had little to do with, the hardest nuts to crack will be, as always, her beloved Balt and Seb, as dogmatic and intransigent as the best of them.

Only a slight shaking of her hands gives away the emotion that overwhelms her when she starts to talk. Her voice is firm, challenging with conviction the ten pairs of unblinking eyes fixed on her.

“Colleagues, I’m sure that many of you can sense what I’m going to tell you. We’ve all thought this at one time or another, but until now we’ve preferred to look away.” She pauses to give more emphasis to what she’s about to say. “Plain and simple: we haven’t stopped the boomerang and we never will.”

The only reaction is an even heavier silence.

“I will begin with a bit of history: fifteen years ago Baltasar projected this very graphic, right here in this room.” Above the horizontal line that stands for time, a growing blue curve represents technological progress and a red one follows it to the halfway point before heading downward in a parabolic trajectory. “The red boomerang is, as you all know, the index of human development. So we were just starting the descent then, and now our worst predictions have been proved right: the pro-technos take more than half their lifetime to become adults and, when the moment comes, many still shy away from any kind of responsibility.”

When she clicks on the line and numerous boxes appear with data that support her claims, a light coughing insinuates that the audience would appreciate a simpler explanation, but she is determined to remain firm in her intent to address the committee. It’s them she has to convince.

“Although, on the evolutionary scale, a species becomes more developed the longer the period of its upbringing, everything must have a limit. The contribution of the adult has to compensate for what it received as an infant. For thousands of years a balance was achieved for humans, until we turned a corner and the contribution became, as it is today, a net deficit.”

It’s like she can read what’s crossing Seb’s mind: she’s spent so much time outside the ComU performing home services that she’s been infected with the cold, economistic language of the outsiders.

“The Peter Pan generation, as Baltasar called it, has arrived, they fill our emotional stimulation sessions every day. And, let’s admit it, no matter how much skin we touch, we’re not achieving anything. Not even we masseuses are satisfied by all this contact.”

She almost literally bites her tongue: she must avoid mixing in personal obsessions.

“Our strategy has been to work back through the curve in order to stop the descent, to look to the past. I myself have focused my research on extinct emotions. I thought that, by recovering them, we could put things back on the right track. But I haven’t come here today to defend my research.”

Finally a spark of surprise in Seb’s eyes.

“Maybe we will get things back on track, but not in the way we imagined. Celia, who has been here, and some of you have met, didn’t feel any better among us than she did among the pro-technos. I’m tempted to say that she chose them, that they’ve delighted her with robots and hopes of future devices.”

Freed from the initial shakiness, her left arm shoots up and the bright shine of the ring makes Balt blink.

“Let’s open our eyes, the only people we’ve stopped are ourselves. We tried to drag them along, but it didn’t work. And, let’s face it, we do use some of their inventions to our advantage. Recently I was able to try out the marvel that is their highway for ultrarapid transport.” The impatient gesture of one member of the committee makes her realize that she’ll have to start setting out her proposal.

“Why do we so readily accept that technological progress and human development must follow irrevocably divergent trajectories? Because invention is their thing and feeling ours? We must also innovate if we don’t want to end up being a marginal collective. Enough of trying to change them with sterile massages, we need to change their products. There will be robots, whether we like it or not.” The image of Celia refusing to do without her ROBbie almost makes her lose her place. “I propose that they cease to be taboo at the ComU; furthermore, I propose we open a line of study on these devices and, once the different types available have been documented, that we dedicate ourselves to promoting those that are stimulating, that help their PROPs to grow rather than keeping them as spoiled brats. Many of us are psychologists, aren’t we? So let’s point them in the right direction, let’s have an influence over which robots are developed, over which robots are bought, over the robots themselves. Enough of touching skin, it’s time to touch the brain. Let’s get the boomerang back on track!”

Her eyes watering with effort, she watches as, on the graphic, the red parabolic line unfolds until it is running parallel to the blue one, and internally dedicates it to Leo. Hopefully he’ll manage it. And her too, she adds when she turns to the inscrutable faces of the committee members, where the only favorable sign is an attempt at a wink from Seb, quickly hidden when Baltasar, who is chairing the session, opens the discussion period.