Beyond Control

by Anthology

  From the truck popped a metal cylinder. The cylinder dropped at Morrison’s feet; he quickly snatched it up and tore it open.

  STATE NATURE OF DEFECT

  The instruction sheets listed rows of possible defects, with neat boxes by each; a punch-stick was included to indicate the particular deficiency of the product.

  “What’ll I check?” Morrison asked. “Contaminated? Bacterial? Sour? Rancid? Incorrectly labeled? Broken? Crushed? Cracked? Bent? Soiled?”

  Thinking rapidly, O’Neill said, “Don’t check any of them. The factory’s undoubtedly ready to test and resample. It’ll make its own analysis and then ignore us.” His face glowed as frantic inspiration came. “Write in that blank at the bottom. It’s an open space for further data.”

  “Write what?”

  O’Neill said, “Write: the product is thoroughly pizzled.”

  “What’s that?” Perine demanded, baffled.

  “Write it! It’s a semantic garble—the factory won’t be able to understand it. Maybe we can jam the works.”

  With O’Neill’s pen, Morrison carefully wrote that the milk was pizzled. Shaking his head, he resealed the cylinder and returned it to the truck. The truck swept up the milk tanks and slammed its railing tidily into place. With a shriek of tires, it hurtled off. From its slot, a final cylinder bounced; the truck hurriedly departed, leaving the cylinder lying in the dust.

  O’Neill got it open and held up the paper for the others to see.

  A FACTORY REPRESENTATIVE WILL BE SENT

  OUT. BE PREPARED TO SUPPLY COMPLETE

  DATA ON PRODUCT DEFICIENCY.

  For a moment, the three men were silent. Then Perine began to giggle. “We did it. We contacted it. We got across.”

  “We sure did,” O’Neill agreed. “It never heard of a product being pizzled.”

  Cut into the base of the mountains lay the vast metallic cube of the Kansas City factory. Its surface was corroded, pitted with radiation pox, cracked and scarred from the five years of war that had swept over it. Most of the factory was buried subsurface, only its entrance stages visible. The truck was a speck rumbling at high speed toward the expanse of black metal. Presently an opening formed in the uniform surface; the truck plunged into it and disappeared inside. The entrance snapped shut.

  “Now the big job remains,” O’Neill said. “Now we have to persuade it to close down operations—to shut itself off.”

  II

  Judith O’Neill served hot black coffee to the people sitting around the living room. Her husband talked while the others listened. O’Neill was as close to being an authority on the autofac system as could still be found.

  In his own area, the Chicago region, he had shorted out the protective fence of the local factory long enough to get away with the data tapes stored in its posterior brain. The factory, of course, had immediately reconstructed a better type of fence. But he had shown that the factories were not infallible.

  “The Institute of Applied Cybernetics,” O’Neill explained, “had complete control over the network. Blame the war. Blame the big noise along the lines of communication that wiped out the knowledge we need. In any case, the Institute failed to transmit its information to us, so we can’t transmit our information to the factories—the news that the war is over and we’re ready to resume control of industrial operations.”

  “And meanwhile,” Morrison added sourly, “the damn network expands and consumes more of our natural resources all the time.”

  “I get the feeling,” Judith said, “that if I stamped hard enough, I’d fall right down into a factory tunnel. They must have mines everywhere by now.”

  “Isn’t there some limiting injunction?” Perine asked nervously. “Were they set up to expand indefinitely?”

  “Each factory is limited to its own operational area,” O’Neill said, “but the network itself is unbounded. It can go on scooping up our resources forever. The Institute decided it gets top priority; we mere people come second.”

  “Will there be anything left for us?” Morrison wanted to know.

  “Not unless we can stop the network’s operations. It’s already used up half a dozen basic minerals. Its search teams are out all the time, from every factory, looking everywhere for some last scrap to drag home.”

  “What would happen if tunnels from two factories crossed each other?”

  O’Neill shrugged. “Normally, that won’t happen. Each factory has its own special section of our planet, its own private cut of the pie for its exclusive use.”

  “But it could happen.”

  “Well, they’re raw-material-tropic; as long as there’s anything left, they’ll hunt it down.” O’Neill pondered the idea with growing interest. “It’s something to consider. I suppose as things get scarcer—”

  He stopped talking. A figure had come into the room; it stood silently by the door, surveying them all.

  In the dull shadows, the figure looked almost human. For a brief moment, O’Neill thought it was a settlement latecomer. Then, as it moved forward, he realized that it was only quasi-human: a functional upright biped chassis, with data-receptors mounted at the top, effectors and proprioceptors mounted in a downward worm that ended in floor-grippers. Its resemblance to a human being was testimony to nature’s efficiency; no sentimental imitation was intended.

  The factory representative had arrived.

  It began without preamble. “This is a data-collecting machine capable of communicating on an oral basis. It contains both broadcasting and receiving apparatus and can integrate facts relevant to its line of inquiry.” The voice was pleasant, confident. Obviously it was a tape, recorded by some Institute technician before the war. Coming from the quasi-human shape, it sounded grotesque; O’Neill could vividly imagine the dead young man whose cheerful voice now issued from the mechanical mouth of this upright construction of steel and wiring.

  “One word of caution,” the pleasant voice continued. “It is fruitless to consider this receptor human and to engage it in discussions for which it is not equipped. Although purposeful, it is not capable of conceptual thought; it can only reassemble material already available to it.”

  The optimistic voice clicked out and a second voice came on. It resembled the first, but now there were no intonations or personal mannerisms. The machine was utilizing the dead man’s phonetic speech-pattem for its own communication.

  “Analysis of the rejected product,” it stated, “shows no foreign elements or noticeable deterioration. The product meets the continual testing-standards employed throughout the network. Rejection is therefore on a basis outside the test area; standards not available to the network are being employed.”

  “That’s right,” O’Neill agreed. Weighing his words with care, he continued, “We found the milk substandard. We want nothing to do with it. We insist on more careful output.”

  The machine responded presently. “The semantic content of the term pizzled is unfamiliar to the network. It does not exist in the taped vocabulary. Can you present a factual analysis of the milk in terms of specific elements present or absent?”

  “No,” O’Neill said warily; the game he was playing was intricate and dangerous. “Pizzled is an over-all term. It can’t be reduced to chemical constituents.”

  “What does pizzled signify?” the machine asked. “Can you define it in terms of alternate semantic symbols?”

  O’Neill hesitated. The representative had to be steered from its special inquiry to more general regions, to the ultimate problem of closing down the network. If he could pry it open at any point get the theoretical discussion started . . .

  “Fizzled,” he stated “means the condition of a product that is manufactured when no need exists. It indicates the rejection of objects on the grounds that they are no longer wanted.”

  The representative said, “Network analysis shows a need of high-grade pasteurized milk-substitute in this area. There is no alternate source: the network controls all the synthetic mammary-t
ype equipment in existence.” It added, “Original taped instructions describe milk as an essential to human diet.”

  O’Neill was being outwitted: the machine was returning the discussion to the specific. “We’ve decided,” he said desperately, “that we don’t want any more milk. We’d prefer to go without it at least until we can locate cows.”

  “That is contrary to the network tapes.” the representative objected. “There are no cows. All milk is produced synthetically.”

  “Then well produce it synthetically ourselves.” Morrison broke in impatiently. “Why can’t we take over the machines? My God. we’re not children! We can run our own lives!”

  The factory-representative moved toward the door. “Until such time as your community finds other sources of milk supply, the network will continue to supply you. Analytical and evaluating apparatus will remain in this area, conducting the customary random sampling.”

  Penne shouted futilely. “How can we find other sources? You have the whole setup! You’re running the whole show!” Following after it, he bellowed, “You say we’re not ready to run things—you claim we’re not capable. How do you know? You don’t give us a chance! We’ll never have a chance!”

  O’Neill was petrified. The machine was leaving; its one-track mind-had completely triumphed.

  “Look,” he said hoarsely, blocking its way. “We want you to shut down, understand. We want to take over your equipment and run it ourselves. The war’s over with. Damn it, you’re not needed any more!”

  The factory representative paused briefly at the door. “The inoperative cycle,” it said, “is not geared to begin until network production merely duplicates outside production. There is at this time, according to our continual sampling, no outside production. Therefore network production continues.”

  Without warning, Morrison swung the steel pipe in his hand. It slashed against the machine’s shoulder and burst through the elaborate network of sensory apparatus that made up its chest. The tank of receptors shattered; bits of glass, wiring and minute parts showered everywhere.

  “It’s a paradox!” Morrison yelled. “A word game—a semantic game they’re pulling on us. The Cyberneticists have it rigged.” He raised the pipe and again brought it down savagely on the unprotesting machine. “They’ve got us hamstrung. We’re completely helpless.”

  The room was in uproar. “It’s the only way,” Perine gasped as he pushed past O’Neill. “We’ll have to destroy them—it’s the network or us.” Grabbing down a lamp, he hurled it in the “face” of the factory representative. The lamp and the intricate surface of plastic burst; Perine waded in, groping blindly for the machine. Now all the people in the room were closing furiously around the upright cylinder, their impotent resentment boiling over.

  The machine sank down and disappeared as they dragged it to the floor.

  Trembling, O’Neill turned away. His wife caught hold of his arm and led him to the side of the room.

  “The idiots,” he said dejectedly. “They can’t destroy it; they’ll only teach it to build more defenses. They’re making the whole problem worse.”

  Into the living room rolled a network repair team. Expertly, the mechanical units detached themselves from the half-track mother-bug and scurried toward the mound of struggling humans. They slid between people and rapidly burrowed. A moment later, the inert carcass of the factory representative was dragged into the hopper of the mother-bug. Parts were collected, torn remnants gathered up and carried off. The last plastic strut and gear was located. Then the units restationed themselves on the bug and the team departed.

  Through the open door came a second factory representative, an exact duplicate of the first. And outside in the hall stood two more upright machines. The settlement had been combed at random by a corps of representatives. Like a horde of ants, the mobile data-collecting machines had filtered through the town until, by chance, one of them had come across O’Neill.

  “Destruction of network mobile data-gathering equipment is detrimental to best human interests,” the factory representative informed the roomful of people. “Raw material intake is at a dangerously low ebb; what basic materials still exist should be utilized in the manufacture of consumer commodities.”

  O’Neill and the machine stood facing each other.

  “Oh?” O’Neill said softly. “That’s interesting. I wonder what you’re lowest on—and what you’d really be willing to fight for.”

  Helicopter rotors whined tinnily above O’Neill’s head; he ignored them and peered through the cabin window at the ground not far below.

  Slag and ruins stretched everywhere. Weeds poked their way up, sickly stalks among which insects scuttled. Here and there, rat colonies were visible: matted hovels constructed of bone and rubble. Radiation had mutated the rats, along with most insects and animals. A little farther, O’Neill identified a squadron of birds pursuing a ground squirrel. The squirrel dived into a carefully prepared crack in the surface of slag and the birds turned, thwarted.

  “You think we’ll ever have it rebuilt?” Morrison asked. “It makes me sick to look at it.”

  “In time,” O’Neill answered. “Assuming, of course, that we get industrial control back. And assuming that anything remains to work with. At best, it’ll be slow. We’ll have to inch out from the settlements.”

  To the right was a human colony, tattered scarecrows, gaunt and emaciated, living among the ruins of what had once been a town. A few acres of barren soil had been cleared; drooping vegetables wilted in the sun, chickens wandered listlessly here and there, and a fly-bothered horse lay panting in the shade of a crude shed.

  “Ruins-squatters,” O’Neill said gloomily. “Too far from the network—not tangent to any of the factories.”

  “It’s their own fault,” Morrison told him angrily. “They could come into one of the settlements.”

  “That was their town. They’re trying to do what we’re trying to do—build up things again on their own. But they’re starting now, without tools or machines, with their bare hands, nailing together bits of rubble. And it won’t work. We need machines. We can’t repair ruins; we’ve got to start industrial production.”

  Ahead lay a series of broken hills, chipped remains that had once been a ridge. Beyond stretched out the titanic ugly sore of an H-bomb crater, half filled with stagnant water and slime, a disease-ridden inland sea.

  And beyond that—a glitter of busy motion.

  “There,” O’Neill said tensely. He lowered the helicopter rapidly. “Can you tell which factory they’re from?”

  “They all look alike to me,” Morrison muttered, leaning over to see. “We’ll have to wait and follow them back, when they get a load.”

  “If they get a load,” O’Neill corrected.

  The autofac exploring crew ignored the helicopter buzzing overhead and concentrated on its job. Ahead of the main truck scuttled two tractors; they made their way up mounds of rubble, probes burgeoning like quills, shot down the far slope and disappeared into a blanket of ash that lay spread over the slag. The two scouts burrowed until only their antennas were visible. They burst up to the surface and scuttled on, their treads whirring and clanking.

  “What are they after?” Morrison asked.

  “God knows.” O’Neill leafed intently through the papers on his clipboard. “We’ll have to analyze all our backorder slips.”

  Below them, the autofac exploring crew disappeared behind. The helicopter passed over a deserted stretch of sand and slag on which nothing moved. A grove of scrubbrush appeared and then, far to the right, a series of tiny moving dots.

  A procession of automatic ore carts was racing over the bleak slag, a string of rapidly moving metal trucks that followed one another nose to tail. O’Neill turned the helicopter toward them and a few minutes later it hovered above the mine itself.

  Masses of squat mining equipment had made their way to the operations. Shafts had been sunk; empty carts waited in patient rows. A steady stream of l
oaded carts hurried toward the horizon, dribbling ore after them. Activity and the noise of machines hung over the area, an abrupt center of industry in the bleak wastes of slag.

  “Here comes that exploring crew,” Morrison observed, peering back the way they had come. “You think maybe they’ll tangle?” He grinned. “No, I guess it’s too much to hope for.”

  “It is this time,” O’Neill answered. “They’re looking for different substances, probably. And they’re normally conditioned to ignore each other.”

  The first of the exploring bugs reached the line of ore carts. It veered slightly and continued its search; the carts traveled in their inexorable line as if nothing had happened.

  Disappointed, Morrison turned away from the window and swore. “No use. It’s like each doesn’t exist for the other.”

  Gradually the exploring crew moved away from the line of carts, past the mining operations and over a ridge beyond. There was no special hurry; they departed without having reacted to the ore-gathering syndrome.

  “Maybe they’re from the same factory,” Morrison said hopefully.

  O’Neill pointed to the antennas visible on the major mining equipment. “Their vanes are turned at a different vector, so these represent two factories. It’s going to be hard; we’ll have to get it exactly right or there won’t be any reaction.” He clicked on the radio and got hold of the monitor at the settlement. “Any results on the consolidated back-order sheets?”

  The operator put him through to the settlement governing offices.

  “They’re starting to come in,” Perine told him. “As soon as we get sufficient samplings, we’ll try to determine which raw materials which factories lack. It’s going to be risky, trying to extrapolate from complex products. There may be a number of basic elements common to the various sublots.”