The Turing Option

by Harry Harrison

  Major Wood knocked and entered. A big man, built like a boxer with a narrow waist and wide shoulders. The scar on his right cheek made a ridge on his black-brown skin, ran down to his mouth and tucked up the corner of it to give him a tiny perpetual grin.

  “Brian, this is Major Wood, who is in charge of security now at Megalobe.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Brian. If it is going to be first names my friends call me Woody. But not in front of the troops. We’re going to take good care of you. Better than the last bunch.” His nostrils flared slightly with anger. “The only thing good about the security that they used to have at Megalobe is that we can learn from their mistakes. Their one big mistake.”

  “Tell me,” Benicoff said. “I’m still investigating what happened.”

  “Security is people—not machines. Anything one man can build another man can trick. Of course I’m going to use all the security apparatus that has been built in and installed there—plus some additions of my own. Machines and wire fences help. But it will be my men who will be guarding you and the others, Brian. That is security.”

  “I feel better already,” Brian said—truthfully.

  “Then stay that way,” Dr. Snaresbrook said as she entered. “This is going to be a stressful day whether you realize it or not. Five hours maximum—then you lie down. Understood?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.” Her smile softened the imperiousness of her command. “I’ll give you a few days to get into your work. I’ll need that time to move my equipment to the Megalobe infirmary. Since you won’t be coming to this hospital anymore we’ll do the machine sessions there. See if we can give you access to all those technical memories you are going to need. Now—take care of yourself.”

  “I will, Doc—don’t worry.”

  “Are you ready?” Major Wood asked as soon as she had gone.

  “Just waiting for orders.”

  “That’s the correct attitude. Do what I say and you’ll get there safely—and will stay safe. Sergeant.”

  The soldier entered the room an instant after the sharp-barked command and handed the Major one of the two stubby, ugly automatic weapons he was carrying. Benicoff grabbed up Brian’s bag and computer and they all left together.

  Although this trip lacked the showiness of the Marine transfer that had brought Brian to the hospital, everything still proceeded with professional efficiency. A squad of soldiers moved into place, surrounding them when they walked down the hall; others kept pace before and behind. The officers’ parking lot had been cleared of all vehicles—despite a lot of high-level protests—and a large transport copter now sat in the middle of it with its rotors turning. It lifted off as soon as they had all climbed in. Fast attack choppers circled them as they rose, getting altitude before they headed across the bay and over the sweep of streets and homes of San Diego. They followed the freeway west, then turned and went even higher to get over the mountains. It was a beautiful, sunny day with visibility apparently unlimited.

  Away from the hospital at last, Brian felt elated and confident. He liked the view, first the craggy and bare mountains, then the parched colors of the desert beyond. They passed over the buildings and golf courses of Borrego Springs, then on to the desert. The slashed and desolate badlands drifted by below, then greenery appeared ahead. The squared-off area of low buildings and grassy plots grew larger as they dropped down toward it, settling easily onto the helipad. The attack copters dipped in one last protecting circle, then hurtled away—tracked automatically by the SAM radar. A soldier opened the copter’s door.

  Brian climbed out with no qualms, no fear. He would never remember what had happened to him here, was confident that it would not happen in this place again. What he wanted to do most was to get to work.

  “Want to see your quarters?” the Major asked. Brian shook his head.

  “Later if you don’t mind. The lab first.”

  “You’re the man. Your personal gear will be in your room. I’ll walk you about today so the troops can see you.”

  “No ID needed?”

  “Everyone else is going to be heavy with it. You don’t need it. All the security is designed with one end in mind—keeping you safe. I hope that you will get to know the men. They’re a good team. But right now it is more important that they know you. If you will just wait here for a minute I’ll be right back and we will get started.”

  He moved quickly away toward the buildings. Ben pointed.

  “That’s the lab building,” he said. “The big one with the gold-sputtered windows. Your own lab entrance is around the back, a special wing.”

  “It looks great! You know—I really can’t wait to get my hands on more computer power, to debug the new systems described in the notes. I have already worked up some opening programs on the portable—but it simply isn’t adequate for the kind of debugging I need to do. I need much more speed than that old portable laptop has. And much more memory. I am using some extremely large knowledge bases—which must be maintained in memory. Without memory, there can be no knowledge. And without knowledge, there can be no intelligence—I should know!”

  “Are you saying that intelligence is just memory?” Ben said. “I can’t believe that.”

  “Well, something like that, but without the ‘just.’ As far as I’m concerned, you need two kinds of things for thought to proceed—and both are based on memory. I don’t care if it’s a man or machine. First you need your processes—the programs to do the actual work. And you need the stuff that those programs will work on—that’s your knowledge, your records of your experiences. And both the programs themselves and the knowledge they use must be embodied in memory.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Benicoff said. “But surely, you’d also need something else, beyond the purely mechanical. The me that is me must still be around even when I’m not using my memory.”

  “What use would a me be if it doesn’t actually do anything?”

  “Because without it, we’d just have a computer. Working, but not feeling. Speaking, without understanding. Surely thinking must involve more than the simple processing of memory. There must also be something to initiate the wanting and intending—and then there must be something to appreciate whatever is accomplished and then to want something more. You know, the central spirit-thing that seems to sit in the center of my head, that understands what things really mean, that’s aware of itself and of what it can do.”

  Dolly is not the only superstitious person, Brian thought. “Spirit my eye! I don’t believe we need any such thing. A machine doesn’t need any magic force to make it do whatever it does. Because each present state is sufficient cause to carry it into its subsequent state. If there were that spirit inside your head, it would only be getting in your way. Minds are simply what brains do. The hard part is that, as good as technology is, we cannot make an exact duplicate of the human brain.”

  “Why not? I thought that was exactly what you were doing.”

  “Then you thought wrong. We only have to get parts that have similar functions, not exact copies.”

  “But if you don’t duplicate all the details, it won’t think the same way, will it?”

  “Not exactly—but why should that matter as long as it does the right sorts of things? My research is only to discover the general principles, the general patterns of function. Once the machine is able to learn the right sorts of things, it will fill in the small details itself.”

  “It sounds awfully hard. I’m with you—and don’t envy your job.”

  The Major returned, then led them toward the building. The guard at the door snapped to attention when they approached. But instead of staring directly ahead of him in the approved manner, he turned as they passed, watching Brian closely, remembering.

  “I’ll take you inside,” Major Wood said. He handed Brian an identification bracelet. “But first—I would appreciate it if you would put this on and wear it all the time. It’s waterproof and pretty indestructib
le. I hope you won’t mind—but once I lock it on, it will have to be sawn off. It doesn’t unlock.”

  Brian turned it over, saw that his name was engraved on it. “Any particular reason for this?”

  “A big one. Squeeze it once and you will get me—twenty-four hours a day. But if you squeeze it for more than one second the alarms go off everywhere and all hell breaks loose. Can do?”

  “Can do. Seal it on.”

  Woody put it on Brian’s wrist and joined the open ends together; it closed with a metallic clack. “Give it a try,” he said, stepping back. “Be enthusiastic, a little push like that could happen accidentally. That’s it.” A rapid bleeping sounded from his own communicator; he thumbed it off. “That will do just fine. Now I’ll show you the new laboratory—and I hope that you are not claustrophobic.”

  “Not that I know of—why?”

  “I saw the lab where you used to work. It’s a disaster—a security shambles. Too accessible in every way. You’ve got a brand-new one now. Only one entrance. Completely self-contained power supply, air-conditioning, the works. And belowground for the most part. That’s the door you’re looking at. Most of the equipment has been installed.”

  “We were in luck there,” Ben said. “We located a Russian technical exchange student who has never been out of Russia—or even out of Siberia—before. He never even considered studying here until we approached him. There is absolutely no chance that he could have been compromised by any industrial espionage agency.”

  “I’ll get him,” the Major said. “If you would wait here a moment.”

  He pulled open the unlocked door and went in, returning a moment later accompanied by a tall young man with a full blond beard.

  “This is Evgeni Belonenko, who installed all the stuff in there. Evgeni, Brian Delaney—your boss.”

  “A great pleasure,” he said, speaking with a thick Russian accent. “Fine machines you got here, the best. May I assume that you are prepared to begin operations now?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Koroshow! Good. I have installed this MHC matching machine here. Wonderful machine! Never saw one before but specs seem clear and complete. Adjust for input first—”

  Evgeni had the metal plate in the wall swung open and worked the controls inside it. When he was satisfied he closed the door to the lab and pointed to a black-ringed indentation in the plate.

  “Be so kind, Mr. Brian Delaney, to touch your fingertip here. Fine!”

  The green light above the opening flashed for a few seconds, then turned red.

  “Locked!” Evgeni said, closing the access plate, then pushed on the unyielding door. “Locked—and only you can open it, since it is coded to your DNA. The same goes for this access plate—only you can unlock it to change the DNA.” He pushed his own finger into the opening and the light blinked but stayed red. However, when Brian touched it the green indicator flashed and there was a clack as the door unlocked. He pushed it open and they followed him in.

  With great enthusiasm Evgeni pointed out all of the equipment that he had installed, the latest computers. Brian looked about but did not recognize most of the machines—finding out about them would be the first order of business. There was a good view from the large window that looked out onto the desert.

  “I thought the lab was underground,” he said—pointing at the roadrunner that scuttled by.

  “It is,” Ben said. “That is a five-thousand line high resolution TV screen. The camera is mounted on the wall outside. This screen used to be in the Chairman’s office but I thought that it had more practical value here.”

  “It does, many thanks.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Major Wood said. “Will you let me out, please, Brian? You are also the only one who can ever open that door. It may be a pain—but it is damn good security.”

  “No complaints. And thanks for what you have done.”

  “That’s my job. You’ll be safe here.”

  “Okay. Then I better get started working on my old AI ideas. I mean not my ideas, the ideas the old Brian was working on.” Many of the sketches were bits of code in a language he did not recognize. It must have been written in some computer language that his earlier self, the old Brian, had designed for the purpose.

  Brian walked over to the computer, took the GRAM from his pocket and plugged it in. The screen came to life and the computer spoke with a clear contralto voice.

  “Good morning. Will you be operating this machine?”

  “Yes. My name is Brian. Speak in a deeper voice.”

  “Is this satisfactory?” it said, now a deep baritone.

  “Yes. Keep it at that.” He turned to Evgeni. “Looks good.”

  “Is good. Latest model. Costs millions in Russia except not available there. Boy will I have stories for the hackers in Tomsk when I get home. I got other work to do if you don’t need me.”

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll give a shout if I have any questions.”

  “The same goes for me,” Ben said, looking at his watch. “I make it over four hours since we started this trip—which is deadline time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your orders from Dr. Snaresbrook. This is when you stop working for the day and lie down. No excuses accepted, she said—but there is no reason you can’t lie down with your portable computer.”

  Brian knew better than to protest. He gave one last long, lingering look at the laboratory—then led the way to the door and locked them all out. Major Wood was waiting outside.

  “Just coming to get you,” he said. “I had a call from Dr. Snaresbrook that if you were not yet in your quarters that you were to be taken there immediately.”

  “We’re on the way,” Brian said, putting up his hands in surrender. “The long arm of the doctor reaches everywhere.”

  “You better believe it,” Ben agreed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Brian was not surprised to discover that he was quartered in the barracks with the troops. “Right in the middle of the building,” Woody said. “You’ve got dogfaces on all sides, not to mention the guard stations. Here we are.”

  The apartment was small but comfortable; sitting room, bedroom, kitchen and bath. His computer was on the worktable and his bag had been unpacked.

  “Just pick up the phone when you want dinner—it will be brought up to you. Tonight’s meat loaf,” the Major added as he closed the door.

  21

  February 16, 2024

  Brian could not fall asleep. It was the excitement of the move, the new bed perhaps, all of the things that had happened that day conspired to keep him awake. At midnight he decided to stop twisting and turning and do something about it. He threw back the covers and got out of bed. The room circuitry detected this, checked the time, then turned on the dimmed lights that were just enough to enable him to walk without stumbling. The medicine chest was not as kind to him. It had been programmed not to let anyone take medicine in the dark—and he blinked in the sudden glare when he opened the door. If you can’t sleep take two with a glass of water, the doctor had printed on the label. He did as instructed and made his way back to bed.

  The dreams began as soon as he fell asleep. Confused happenings, bits of school, Paddy appeared in one of them, Texas sunshine, the glare of the sun on the Gulf. Blinking into its glare. Rising in the morning, setting in the evening. How beautiful, how wrong. Just an illusion. The sun stays where it is. The earth goes around the sun, around and around.

  Darkness and stars. And the moon. Moving moon, spinning around the earth. Rising and setting like the sun. But not like the sun. Moon, sun, earth. Sometimes all three lined up and there was an eclipse. Moon in front of sun.

  Brian had never seen a total eclipse. His father had, told him about it. Eclipse: La Paz, Mexico, in 1991. On July 11 the day became dark, moon in front of sun.

  Brian stirred in his sleep, frowning into the darkness. He had never seen an eclipse. Would he ever? Would there ever be an eclipse here in t
he Anza-Borrego desert?

  The equation to answer this should be a simple one. Just a basic application of Newton’s laws. The acceleration is inverse to the square of the distance.

  Each object pulled by the other two.

  Sun, earth, moon. A simple differential equation.

  With just eighteen variables.

  Set up the coordinates.

  Distances.

  The earth was how far from the sun?

  The Handbook of Astronautics, figures swimming before him, glowing in the dark.

  The distance from the earth to the sun at its nearest point. The axes and degrees of inclinations of the earth and the moon’s orbits …

  The precise elements of these orbits—their perihelions, velocities and eccentricities.

  Figures and numbers clicked into place—and then it happened.

  The differential equation began working itself out before him. Within him? Was he watching, living, experiencing? He murmured and twisted but it would not go away or stop.

  Streaming by, number by number.

  “November 14, 2031,” he shouted hoarsely.

  Brian found himself shouting, sitting up in bed and soaked with sweat, blinking as the lights came on. He fumbled for the glass of water on the night table, drained most of it and dropped back onto the crumpled bed. What had happened? The experience had been so strong, the racing figures so clear that he could still see them. Too strong to be a dream—

  “The IPMC. The implant processors!” he said aloud.

  Had that been it? Had he in the dreaming state somehow accessed the computer that had been planted in his brain? Could he possibly have commanded it to run some procedure? Some program for solving the problem? This seemed to be what had happened. It had apparently solved the problem, then fed the solution back to him. Is this what had happened? Why not? It was the most logical, plausible, least frightening explanation. He called out to his computer to turn on, then spoke a description of what had happened into its memory, adding his theory as well. After this he fell into a deep and apparently dreamless sleep. It was well after eight before he woke again. He turned the coffeemaker on, then phoned Dr. Snaresbrook. Her phone answered him and said that she would ring him back. Her call came as he was crunching into a second slice of toast.