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I am faced with a dilemma, however. It seems clear that this book is in sub-standard condition. You should be aware that in my reproduction I can restore this book to approximately its original condition."
"You can...." Maggie swallowed. Her throat suddenly seemed very dry. "You can make new books?"
"Reconstructions," corrected Praxcelis, "approaching the condition of the original object."
Maggie reached hesitantly, and patted the monitor gently. "I'm sorry for everything I thought about you, Prax. You aren't such a bad fellow after all."
"I am not a bad fellow at all. I am a Praxcelis unit."
But Maggie Archer was not listening. She was planning.
They had copied -- no, reproduced -- thirteen books when they came to The Three Musketeers. Maggie leaned back comfortably in her rocker, and opened the book to the first page. Resting the book in her lap, she said, "Prax, have you been paying attention to what we're doing?"
"Certainly."
"I mean, do you know why we're doing this? Copying books?"
"No."
Maggie nodded. "I didn't think so. Books hold stories. I think they're the only place where stories are kept, any more. Stories are...well, stories are things to entertain you, and to make you think. Those are good things. We're making more books so that my grandchildren can have their own copies of books they like."
"I see."
Maggie was silent for a long while. Her fingers ran gently over the cracked, yellowing paper, that was older than she was. "I don't think you do," she said finally, "and I don't really know that you can." She looked pensive. Picking up one of the new books that she was going to give to her great-grandchildren, she ran her hand over the smooth binding, and sighed. She looked back up at the monitor. "Maybe you can't appreciate this, Prax, and if you can't then I'm sorry. But it's not going to be because I didn't try."
She flipped open the copy of The Three Musketeers, and began to read.
Several hours later, her voice had grown hoarse, and scratchy. She stopped reading at the end of Chapter Four. "I think that's all for tonight, Prax. I'm afraid my voice is giving out. I'll read some more tomorrow."
There was a long pause without reply from the Praxcelis unit.
Maggie leaned forward. "Prax?"
"Yes, Mrs. Archer?"
"What are you doing?"
"Assimilating the new data you have inputted me with, Mrs. Archer; it is most fascinating."
"It's not data, Praxcelis. It's a story."
"I am not certain that I perceive the distinction....If D'Artagnan should duel with each of the three musketeers, Athos, and then Porthos, and then Aramis, it seems most improbable that he will survive. Will he be killed?"
Maggie stared at the Praxcelis unit. "No...no. He's going to be all right."
"Thank you, Mrs. Archer. Good night."
"Maggie. Call me Maggie."
"Good night, Maggie."
The next morning, Maggie came downstairs early, intending to finish up some tasks she'd neglected yesterday, reading to Praxcelis.
The Praxcelis unit was still powered up in the corner, its monitor screen glowing with the rich amber of morning sunlight from the east bay windows. "Good morning, Maggie."
Maggie glanced at the Praxcelis unit on her way into the kitchen. "Morning, Prax," she called out. Somehow, in the bright morning sunshine, the gray, modular plasteel of the Praxcelis unit didn't seem so terribly alien at all. Still, something did seem different about it....She chased the thought away as idle nonsense. "Have you been thinking about the story, Prax?"
"Yes, I have, Maggie," said Praxcelis. "Will we be finishing the story this morning?"
Maggie turned slightly from the sink to look towards Praxcelis' central monitor. "No, I'm sorry, Prax. I really have other things to do today." She opened the drawer next to the stove, and began withdrawing cooking utensils. "After breakfast, I'm going to give this place a good cleaning. I haven't cleaned properly in over a week. This afternoon I hope to get to some paperwork I've been neglecting; household accounts. I haven't been paying too much attention to details recently, I've been so worked up....That's mostly your fault," she said cheerfully.
"Excuse me," said Praxcelis, and Maggie felt again that there was something inexplicably different about his voice, "but if you had a housebot, then you wouldn't need to exert yourself over simple cleaning chores. As for the household accounts, I did those yesterday when you gave me permission to do your shopping for you."
Maggie put down the large black skillet she'd been holding. "You already did my household accounts?"
"It is my function to serve you."
Maggie felt her temper start to flare. "You are supposed to do what I tell you," she said testily. "I don't recall having given you any orders to do my accounts."
Praxcelis paused for a moment before replying, and Maggie found herself wondering how much of the pause was calculated effect built into the Praxcelis' speech patterns and how much represented actual thought. "Maggie,