Caitlin said – but she wasn’t happy with the way that had come out: this “it” business was surely contributing to her parents’ concern. Webmind wasn’t a monster. It was a being, and it really needed to be a him or a her. She’d heard it speak using JAWS, her screen-reading software, which she currently had set for a female voice, but that had been an arbitrary choice; JAWS also came with male voices, and she sometimes selected one of those just for variety.

Caitlin had been struggling in her French classes, but she’d enjoyed the one in which the teacher had asked the students whether ordinateur, the French for “computer,” was masculine or feminine. He’d divided the class into boys and girls, and let each side consider the question and come up with reasons for their answers. The boys – it had been Trevor, now that she thought about it, who had spoken on their behalf – declared that ordinateur was clearly feminine, but the best justification they could come up with was that if you had one, you’d probably end up spending half your money on accessories for it.

Caitlin herself had gotten to make the case that ordinateur must be masculine. First, she’d said, if you want it to do anything, you have to turn it on. Second, the darn thing is supposed to solve problems, but half the time is the problem itself. And the clincher, which she’d delivered with a wide grin: as soon as you commit to one, you realize if you’d waited a little longer, you’d have gotten a much better model.

„Watch“, Robert J. Sawyer, 2010

Dillon couldn’t help himself. “Small world,” he said, earning a shush! from Werner. But he was right: it was a small world, and it was getting smaller every day. Dr. Marcuse was nodding in quiet satisfaction at the spectacle of a chimpanzee talking to an orangutan over the Web. For her own part, Shoshana couldn’t stop grinning. The first-ever interspecies webcam call was off to a great start.

„Wake“, Robert J. Sawyer, 2009

Lunch was okay, but I swear to God I’ll never get used to Canadians. They put vinegar on French fries! And BG4 told me about this thing called poontang. Kidding, friends, kidding! It’s poutine: French fries with cheese curds and gravy thrown on top – it’s like they use fries as a freakin’ science lab up here. Guess they don’t have much money for real science, ‘cept here in Waterloo, of course. And that’s mostly private mollah.

Her spell-checker beeped. She tried again: mewlah.

Another beep. The darn thing knew „triskaidekaphobia,“ like she’d ever need that word, but – oh, maybe it was: moolah.

No beep. She smiled and went on.

„Wake“, Robert J. Sawyer, 2009