"FWLS45" - читать интересную книгу автора (A Future We'd Like to See)

And the man ran off. User gone, my help mode disengaged. I
looked around for a hole to crawl up and die in, but didn't find
one. Where's a good sepulchre when you NEED one?

I did NOT ask for this. I was an early experiment in AI
cyborgs, built by Macroware to store helpfiles. Sure, that'd be
bad enough, but because I ran on base AI code, I had a
personality too. Normal teenage girl personality, sociable, an
all around okay person. And thanks to the extra programming,
forced to help people by providing whatever service they needed.

Only I had more info in me than I really wanted to know.

I shrugged, lowering my umbrella a little to cover my face,
and marched on.

*

I've never held a job for more than a week. At first,
they're impressed with my memory, and make me soak up more info.
Occasionally they'd try talking with me. After a day, they start
avoiding me. By the end of the week, I'm being fired for
badgering the customers. After a few jobs, I'm blacklisted as a
Chatty Worker, and it's time to move to another city.

I've also never had any friends. I'm not an annoying
person, but this silly help program gets in the way of normal
conversation. I try to keep my chatter to smalltalk, stuff that
doesn't trigger a memory response, but eventually we hit some
obscure topic; obscure ones tend to provide the most information.
Next thing you know, I'm running off at the mouth about moth
breeding or baseball statistics or something else, unable to
stop.

I've tried disengaging my voice chips. Being mute beats
being a blabbermouth, after all... problem is that the info
builds up, trying to get out -- eating up my runtime -- until I
pass out.

Like it or not, I'm a walking encyclopedia.

God, that depresses me. I turned the corner and dove into
the first dance club I could find... the louder, the better.
Maybe nobody'd be able to hear me this way.

Mirrors everywhere. Of course; this is the Peasluvdope, the
most popular club in C'atel. It has a fire safety limit of five
hundred patrons, and the speakers on the dance floor are usually
pumping out music at exactly 200 decibels. The mirrors are