conflations

I put aside my writing for a moment tonight and opened a couple of bookmarked pages at random, turning to archives to see what new old I could find. The internet didn’t disappoint.

This, stolen freely from Interconnected;
“There’s something that happens to your relationship with an object once that threshold [of interaction] is crossed, and that’s why we use the word robots instead of saying products or objects…. When we imagine something is intelligent, we simulate its mind inside our own, in order to anticipate it. We begin to think a bit like it, in some small way. We socialise with it, takes cues from it. On the one hand, this is very clever. Robots don’t need their own brains: they can parasite on ours. Be intelligent simply by appearing to be intelligent….”

And this, from Paleofuture and via a 1934 issue of Time Magazine;

“Encased from head to foot in chromium-plated steel armor, Alpha sat on a specially constructed dais with its cumbrous feet securely bolted to the floor, stared impassively over the knot of newshawks and store officials waiting for the first demonstration. The creature had a great sullen slit of a mouth, vast protuberant eyes, shaggy curls of rolled metal. In one mailed fist Alpha clutched a revolver…. Once it fired its pistol without warning, blasting the skin off the professor’s arm from wrist to elbow. Another time it lowered its arm unexpectedly, struck an assistant on the shoulder, bruised him so badly that he was hospitalized.”

I am, if you were interested, breaking in a new paragraph;
Tonight, the waters of the Zoloty Rog were almost still, a black mirror choppily reproducing the night sky’s face back at itself. The lights reflected in that vast blackness were not stars – the dawdling smoke from the city’s chimneystacks blotted out any chance of that – but rather oil lanterns dangling from the massive cranes that marked the labyrinthine borders of the dockyards. These robotawere new additions, one of the few changes Yuri had seen to this area in his years passing through. Back in the western ports of Kalinin and Leningrad, it was said that these hulking frames were decorated with ornate plates of bronze and electrum, converting them into stately metal dragons. Here, they were looming skeletons of industry, roughly joined, and reeking of the diesel that ran through their stolid mechanical veins. Their harsh angles gave the skyline a stark and jagged edge; despite the flickering illumination from the lanterns that draped their frame, the night seemed darker, more starless.

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