by Simon Ings
Lita screamed.
Then the surrogate put his arms around her and whispered, “It’s all over, darling. All over. We did it! He really thought I was a robot, that I’d go through with his aberrated notion of dramatizing his revenge.”
The Adjustor smiled and lifted her face to his. “From now on you and I will always be together. We’ll have our child, lots of children if you wish. There’s nothing to come between us now.”
“But you killed him,” Lita whispered. “What will they do to you?”
“Nothing. It was self-defense. Don’t forget, I’m an Adjustor. From the moment he came into my office, everything he did or said was recorded during our interviews. The evidence will show that I tried to humor him, that I indicated his mental unbalance and allowed him to work out his own therapy.
“This last interview, today, will not be a part of the record. I’ve already destroyed it. So as far as the law is concerned, he had no grounds for jealousy or suspicion. I happened to stop in here to visit this evening and found him trying to kill you—the actual you. And when he turned on me, I blasted him in self-defense.”
“Will you get away with it?”
“Of course I’ll get away with it. The man was aberrated, and the record will show it.”
The Adjustor stood up. “I’m going to call Authority now,” he said.
Lita rose and put her hand on his shoulders. “Kiss me first,” she whispered. “A real kiss. I like real things.”
“Real things,” said the Adjustor. She snuggled against him, but he made no move to take her in his arms. He was staring down at Henson.
Lita followed his gaze.
Both of them saw it at the same time, then—both of them saw the torn hole in the left side of Henson’s head, and the thin strands of wire protruding from the opening.
“He didn’t come,” the Adjustor murmured. “He must have suspected, and he sent his robot instead.”
Lita began to shake. “You were to send your robot, but you didn’t. He was to come himself, but he sent his robot. Each of you double-crossed the other, and now—”
And now the door opened very quickly.
Henson came into the room.
He looked at his surrogate lying on the floor. He looked at Lita. He looked at the Adjustor. Then he grinned. There was no madness in his grin, only deliberation.
There was deliberation in the way he raised the pocket-blast. He aimed well and carefully, fired only once, but both the Adjustor and Lita crumpled in the burst.
Henson bent over the bodies, inspecting them carefully to make sure that they were real. He was beginning to appreciate Lita’s philosophy now. He liked real things.
For that matter, the Adjustor had some good ideas, too. This business of dramatizing aggressions really seemed to work. He didn’t feel at all angry or upset any more, just perfectly calm and at peace with the world.
Henson rose, smiled, and walked towards the door. For the first time in years he felt completely adjusted.
(1955)
A LOGIC NAMED JOE
Murray Leinster
The inventor and writer William F. Jenkins (1896–1975) lived in Gloucester, Virginia, for most of his adult life and had four children. His work appeared frequently in Collier’s, The Saturday Evening Post, and other mass-circulation magazines of the 1940s and 1950s, but it was his science fiction, written under the pen-name Murray Leinster, that has secured Jenkins’s reputation. His first story, “The Runaway Skyscraper”, was published in Argosy in 1919. “First Contact”, the first and arguably the best story of humanity’s first deep-space encounter with intelligent aliens, was published in Astounding in 1945. “A Logic Named Joe”, published a year later, predicts, in unnerving detail, today’s digital landscape: social media, fake news, information bubbles and all. Jenkins won a Hugo at the age of sixty (three years after the award was instituted) and continued writing into the 1960s. His obituary in the New York Times called him “The Dean of Science Fiction”.
It was on the third day of August that Joe come off the assembly line, and on the fifth Laurine come into town, an’ that afternoon I saved civilization. That’s what I figure, anyhow. Laurine is a blonde that I was crazy about once—and crazy is the word—and Joe is a logic that I have stored away down in the cellar right now. I had to pay for him because I said I busted him, and sometimes I think about turning him on and sometimes I think about taking an ax to him. Sooner or later I’m gonna do one or the other. I kinda hope it’s the ax. I could use a coupla million dollars—sure!—an’ Joe’d tell me how to get or make ’em. He can do plenty! But so far I’ve been scared to take a chance. After all, I figure I really saved civilization by turnin’ him off.
The way Laurine fits in is that she makes cold shivers run up an’ down my spine when I think about her. You see, I’ve got a wife which I acquired after I had parted from Laurine with much romantic despair. She is a reasonable good wife, and I have some kids which are hell-cats but I value ’em. If I have sense enough to leave well enough alone, sooner or later I will retire on a pension an’ Social Security an’ spend the rest of my life fishin’ contented an’ lyin’ about what a great guy I used to be. But there’s Joe. I’m worried about Joe.
I’m a maintenance man for the Logics Company. My job is servicing logics, and I admit modestly that I am pretty good. I was servicing televisions before that guy Carson invented his trick circuit that will select any of ’steenteen million other circuits—in theory there ain’t no limit—and before the Logics Company hooked it into the tank-and-integrator set-up they were usin’ ’em as business-machine service. They added a vision screen for speed—an’ they found out they’d made logics. They were surprised an’ pleased. They’re still findin’ out what logics will do, but everybody’s got ’em.
I got Joe, after Laurine nearly got me. You know the logics setup. You got a logic in your house. It looks like a vision receiver used to, only it’s got keys instead of dials and you punch the keys for what you wanna get. It’s hooked in to the tank, which has the Carson Circuit all fixed up with relays. Say you punch “Station SNAFU” on your logic. Relays in the tank take over an’ whatever vision-program SNAFU is telecastin’ comes on your logic’s screen. Or you punch “Sally Hancock’s Phone” an’ the screen blinks an’ sputters an’ you’re hooked up with the logic in her house an’ if somebody answers you got a vision-phone connection. But besides that, if you punch for the weather forecast or who won today’s race at Hialeah or who was mistress of the White House durin’ Garfield’s administration or what is PDQ and R sellin’ for today, that comes on the screen too. The relays in the tank do it. The tank is a big buildin’ full of all the facts in creation an’ all the recorded telecasts that ever was made—an’ it’s hooked in with all the other tanks all over the country—an’ everything you wanna know or see or hear, you punch for it an’ you get it. Very convenient. Also it does math for you, an’ keeps books, an’ acts as consultin’ chemist, physicist, astronomer, an’ tea-leaf reader, with a “Advice to the Lovelorn” thrown in. The only thing it won’t do is tell you exactly what your wife meant when she said, “Oh, you think so, do you?” in that peculiar kinda voice. Logics don’t work good on women. Only on things that make sense.
Logics are all right, though. They changed civilization, the highbrows tell us. All on accounta the Carson Circuit. And Joe shoulda been a perfectly normal logic, keeping some family or other from wearin’ out its brains doin’ the kids’ homework for ’em. But somethin’ went wrong in the assembly line. It was somethin’ so small that precision gauges didn’t measure it, but it made Joe a individual. Maybe he didn’t know it at first. Or maybe, bein’ logical, he figured out that if he was to show he was different from other logics they’d scrap him. Which woulda been a brilliant idea. But anyhow, he come off the assembly-line, an’ he went through the regular tests without anybody screamin’ shrilly on findin’ out what he was. And he went right on out an’ was duly installed in the home of Mr. Thaddeu
s Korlanovitch at 119 East Seventh Street, second floor front. So far, everything was serene.
The installation happened late Saturday night. Sunday morning the Korlanovitch kids turned him on an’ seen the Kiddie Shows. Around noon their parents peeled ’em away from him an’ piled ’em in the car. Then they come back in the house for the lunch they’d forgot an’ one of the kids sneaked back an’ they found him punchin’ keys for the Kiddie Shows of the week before. They dragged him out an’ went off. But they left Joe turned on.
That was noon. Nothin’ happened until two in the afternoon. It was the calm before the storm. Laurine wasn’t in town yet, but she was comin’. I picture Joe sittin’ there all by himself, buzzing meditative. Maybe he run Kiddie Shows in the empty apartment for awhile. But I think he went kinda remote-control exploring in the tank. There ain’t any fact that can be said to be a fact that ain’t on a data plate in some tank somewhere—unless it’s one the technicians are diggin’ out an’ puttin’ on a data plate now. Joe had plenty of material to work on. An’ he musta started workin’ right off the bat.
Joe ain’t vicious, you understand. He ain’t like one of these ambitious robots you read about that make up their minds the human race is inefficient and has got to be wiped out an’ replaced by thinkin’ machines. Joe’s just got ambition. If you were a machine, you’d wanna work right, wouldn’t you? That’s Joe. He wants to work right. An’ he’s a logic. An’ logics can do a lotta things that ain’t been found out yet. So Joe, discoverin’ the fact, begun to feel restless. He selects some things us dumb humans ain’t thought of yet, an’ begins to arrange so logics will be called on to do ’em.
That’s all. That’s everything. But, brother, it’s enough!
Things are kinda quiet in the Maintenance Department about two in the afternoon. We are playing pinochle. Then one of the guys remembers he has to call up his wife. He goes to one of the bank of logics in Maintenance and punches the keys for his house. The screen sputters. Then a flash comes on the screen.
“Announcing new and improved logics service! Your logic is now equipped to give you not only consultive but directive service. If you want to do something and don’t know how to do it—ask your logic!”
There’s a pause. A kinda expectant pause. Then, as if reluctantly, his connection comes through. His wife answers an’ gives him hell for somethin’ or other. He takes it an’ snaps off.
“Whadda you know?” he says when he comes back. He tells us about the flash. “We shoulda been warned about that. There’s gonna be a lotta complaints. Suppose a fella asks how to get ridda his wife an’ the censor circuits block the question?”
Somebody melds a hundred aces an’ says:
“Why not punch for it an’ see what happens?”
It’s a gag, o’ course. But the guy goes over. He punches keys. In theory, a censor block is gonna come on an’ the screen will say severely, “Public Policy Forbids This Service.” You hafta have censor blocks or the kiddies will be askin’ detailed questions about things they’re too young to know. And there are other reasons. As you will see.
This fella punches, “How can I get rid of my wife?” Just for the fun of it. The screen is blank for half a second. Then comes a flash. “Service question: Is she blonde or brunette?” He hollers to us an’ we come look. He punches, “Blonde.” There’s another brief pause. Then the screen says, “Hexymetacryloaminoacetine is a constituent of green shoe polish. Take home a frozen meal including dried-pea soup. Color the soup with green shoe polish. It will appear to be green-pea soup. Hexymetacryloaminoacetine is a selective poison which is fatal to blond females but not to brunettes or males of any coloring. This fact has not been brought out by human experiment, but is a product of logics service. You cannot be convicted of murder. It is improbable that you will be suspected.”
The screen goes blank, and we stare at each other. It’s bound to be right. A logic workin’ the Carson Circuit can no more make a mistake than any other kinda computin’ machine. I call the tank in a hurry.
“Hey, you guys!” I yell. “Somethin’s happened! Logics are givin’ detailed instructions for wife-murder! Check your censor-circuits—but quick!”
That was close, I think. But little do I know. At that precise instant, over on Monroe Avenue, a drunk starts to punch for somethin’ on a logic. The screen says “Announcing new and improved logics service! If you want to do something and don’t know how to do it—ask your logic!” And the drunk says, owlish, “I’ll do it!” So he cancels his first punching and fumbles around and says: “How can I keep my wife from finding out I’ve been drinking?” And the screen says, prompt: “Buy a bottle of Franine hair shampoo. It is harmless but contains a detergent which will neutralize ethyl alcohol immediately. Take one teaspoonful for each jigger of hundred-proof you have consumed.”
This guy was plenty plastered—just plastered enough to stagger next door and obey instructions. An’ five minutes later he was cold sober and writing down the information so he couldn’t forget it. It was new, and it was big! He got rich offa that memo! He patented “SOBUH, The Drink that Makes Happy Homes!” You can top off any souse with a slug or two of it an’ go home sober as a judge. The guy’s cussin’ income taxes right now!
You can’t kick on stuff like that. But a ambitious young fourteen-year-old wanted to buy some kid stuff and his pop wouldn’t fork over. He called up a friend to tell his troubles. And his logic says: “If you want to do something and don’t know how to do it—ask your logic!” So this kid punches: “How can I make a lotta money, fast?”
His logic comes through with the simplest, neatest, and the most efficient counterfeitin’ device yet known to science. You see, all the data was in the tank. The logic—since Joe had closed some relays here an’ there in the tank—simply integrated the facts. That’s all. The kid got caught up with three days later, havin’ already spent two thousand credits an’ havin’ plenty more on hand. They hadda time tellin’ his counterfeits from the real stuff, an’ the only way they done it was that he changed his printer, kid fashion, not bein’ able to let somethin’ that was workin’ right alone.
Those are what you might call samples. Nobody knows all that Joe done. But there was the bank president who got humorous when his logic flashed that “Ask your logic” spiel on him, and jestingly asked how to rob his own bank. An’ the logic told him, brief and explicit but good! The bank president hit the ceiling, hollering for cops. There musta been plenty of that sorta thing. There was fifty-four more robberies than usual in the next twenty-four hours, all of them planned astute an’ perfect. Some of ’em they never did figure out how they’d been done. Joe, he’d gone exploring in the tank and closed some relays like a logic is supposed to do—but only when required—and blocked all censor-circuits an’ fixed up this logics service which planned perfect crimes, nourishing an’ attractive meals, counterfeitin’ machines, an’ new industries with a fine impartiality. He musta been plenty happy, Joe must. He was functionin’ swell, buzzin’ along to himself while the Korlanovitch kids were off ridin’ with their ma an’ pa.
They come back at seven o’clock, the kids all happily wore out with their afternoon of fightin’ each other in the car. Their folks put ’em to bed and sat down to rest. They saw Joe’s screen flickerin’ meditative from one subject to another an’ old man Korlanovitch had had enough excitement for one day. He turned Joe off.
An’ at that instant the pattern of relays that Joe had turned on snapped off, all the offers of directive service stopped flashin’ on logic screens everywhere, an’ peace descended on the earth.
For everybody else. But for me—Laurine come to town. I have often thanked Gawd fervent that she didn’t marry me when I thought I wanted her to. In the intervenin’ years she had progressed. She was blonde an’ fatal to begin with. She had got blonder and fataler an’ had had four husbands and one acquittal for homicide an’ had acquired a air of enthusiasm and self-confidence. That’s just a sketch of the background. Laurine w
as not the kinda former girlfriend you like to have turning up in the same town with your wife. But she came to town, an’ Monday morning she tuned right into the middle of Joe’s second spasm of activity.
The Korlanovitch kids had turned him on again. I got these details later and kinda pieced ’em together. An’ every logic in town was dutifully flashin’ a notice, “If you want to do something and don’t know how to do it—ask your logic!” every time they was turned on for use. More’n that, when people punched for the morning news, they got a full account of the previous afternoon’s doin’s. Which put ’em in a frame of mind to share in the party. One bright fella demands, “How can I make a perpetual motion machine?” And his logic sputters a while an’ then comes up with a set-up usin’ the Brownian movement to turn little wheels. If the wheels ain’t bigger’n a eighth of an inch they’ll turn, all right, an’ practically it’s perpetual motion. Another one asks for the secret of transmuting metals. The logic rakes back in the data plates an’ integrates a strictly practical answer. It does take so much power that you can’t make no profit except on radium, but that pays off good. An’ from the fact that for a coupla years to come the police were turnin’ up new and improved jimmies, knob-claws for gettin’ at safe-innards, and all-purpose keys that’d open any known lock—why—there must have been other inquirers with a strictly practical viewpoint. Joe done a lot for technical progress!
But he done more in other lines. Educational, say. None of my kids are old enough to be int’rested, but Joe bypassed all censor-circuits because they hampered the service he figured logics should give humanity. So the kids an’ teenagers who wanted to know what comes after the bees an’ flowers found out. And there is certain facts which men hope their wives won’t do more’n suspect, an’ those facts are just what their wives are really curious about. So when a woman dials: “How can I tell if Oswald is true to me?” and her logic tells her—you can figure out how many rows got started that night when the men come home!
