I Sing The Body Electric!

Ray Bradbury
I Sing The Body Electric! (1969)

Trata-se de outra colecção de contos de Ray Bradbury, boa parte deles já publicada em diversas revistas, à época da edição original. Dos dezoito, poucos são os que se inscrevem estritamente no imaginário de FC que notabilizou o escritor mas, ainda assim, a sua temática é sempre surpreendente e plena de vivacidade.
Destaques para "Night Call, Collect", onde um velho e único habitante de Marte, começa a receber chamadas telefónicas de si próprio, preparadas mecanicamente há mais de 50 anos, quando era ainda jovem e ficara sozinho após uma guerra nuclear, ou para "I Sing The Body Electric!", uma história nostálgica de três crianças órfãs de mãe, entregues pelo pai aos cuidados de uma "avó" robótica andróide, ou, ainda "The Man in the Rorschach Shirt" onde encontramos um psicólogo que abandonou a profissão, após décadas de trabalho, depois de ter chegado à conclusão que passara uma vida a interpretar mal o que lhe era dito pelos pacientes, por um defeito de audição (conseguindo, apesar disso, sucesso profissional), andando agora pelas praias com camisas estampadas com desenhos do Teste Rorschach e perguntando às pessoas com quem se cruzava o que viam naquelas manchas. Destaque ainda para "The Lost City of Mars", onde um grupo heterogéneo de excursionistas entra numa velhíssima cidade-máquina, há muito deserta mas completamente operacional, que torna reais, a cada um deles, os seus sonhos — ou pesadelos.

“Listen,” said the salesman, “the voices of all kinds of women. Weigh and find just the right one…!”
And listen we did, to all the high, low, soft, loud, in-between, half-scolding, half-affectionate voices saved over from times before we were born.
And behind us, Agatha tread backward, always fighting the river, never catching up, never with us, holding off.
“Speak,” said the salesman. “Yell.”
And speak and yell we did.
“Hello. You there! This is Timothy, hi!”
“What shall I say!” I shouted. “Help!”
Agatha walked backward, mouth tight.
Father took her hand. She cried out.
“Let go! No, no! I won’t have my voice used! I won’t!”
“Excellent.” The salesman touched three dials on a small machine he held in his hand.
On the side of the small machine we saw three oscillograph patterns mix, blend, and repeat our cries.
The salesman touched another dial and we heard our voices fly off amidst the Delphic caves to hang upside down, to cluster, to beat words all about, to shriek, and the salesman itched another knob to add, perhaps, a touch of this or a pinch of that, a breath of mother’s voice, all unbeknownst, or a splice of father’s outrage at the morning’s paper or his peaceable one-drink voice at dusk. Whatever it was the salesman did, whispers danced all about us like frantic vinegar gnats, fizzed by lightning, settling round until at last a final switch was pushed and a voice spoke free of a far electronic deep:
“Nefertiti,” it said.
Timothy froze. I froze. Agatha stopped treading water.
“Nefertiti?” asked Tim.
“What does that mean?” demanded Agatha.
“I know.”
The salesman nodded me to tell.
“Nefertiti,” I whispered, “is Egyptian for The Beautiful One Is Here.”
“The Beautiful One Is Here,” repeated Timothy.
“Nefer,” said Agatha, “titi.”
And we all turned to stare into that soft twilight, that deep far place from which the good warm soft voice came.
And she was indeed there.
And, by her voice, she was beautiful…

Li anteriormente:
S is for Space (1966)
R is for Rocket (1962)
Crónicas Marcianas (1950)