The Turing Option

by Harry Harrison

  “All right.” Ben turned to the terminal. “My name is Benicoff and I am looking for Dick Tracy.”

  “Program on line,” the computer said.

  “What is your objective?”

  “To locate the criminals who committed the crime in the laboratory of Megalobe Industries on February 8, 2023.”

  “Have you located the criminals?”

  “Negative. I have still not determined how exit was accomplished and how the stolen material was removed.”

  Brian listened in awe. “Are you sure that this is only a program? It sounds like a winner of the Turing test.”

  “Plug-in speech program,” Shelly said. “Right off the shelf. Verbalizes and parses from the natural language section of the CYC system. These speech programs always seem more intelligent than they are because their grammar and intonation are so precise. But they don’t really know that much about what the words mean.” She turned back to Ben. “Keep querying it, Ben, see if it has come up with any answers. You can use ordinary language because it has a large lexicon of criminal justice idioms.”

  “Right. Tell me, Dick Tracy, what leads are you exploring?”

  “I have reduced the search to three possibilities. One, that the stolen material was hidden nearby for later retrieval. Two, that is was removed by surface transportation. Three, that it was removed by air.”

  “Results?”

  “Hidden nearby, very unlikely. Surface transportation more probable. However removal by air is the most likely when all factors are considered.”

  Benicoff shook his head and turned to Shelly. “What does it mean by most likely? Surely a computer can do better than that, give us a percentage or something.”

  “Why don’t you ask it?”

  “I will. Dick Tracy—be more precise. What is the probability of removal by air?”

  “I prefer not to assign an unconditional probability to a situation with so many contingencies. For this kind of situation it is more appropriate to estimate by using fuzzy distributions rather than deceptively precise-seeming numbers. But plausibility summaries on a scale of one to one hundred can be provided if you insist.”

  “I insist.”

  “Hidden nearby—three. Removed by surface transportation—twenty-one. Removed by air—seventy-six.”

  Ben’s jaw dropped. “But—suspend program.” He turned to the others, who were as astonished as he was. “We’ve investigated the air theory very thoroughly and there is just no way they could have flown the stuff out of here.”

  “That’s not what Dick Tracy says.”

  “Then it must know something that we don’t know.” He turned back to the computer. “Resume operation. What is basis for estimate of removed-by-air estimate?”

  The computer was silent for a moment. Then, “No summary of basis is available. Conclusion based on weighted sum of twelve thousand intermediate units in discovery program’s connectionist evaluation subsystem.”

  “That’s a common deficiency of this type of program,” Shelly explained. “It’s almost impossible to find how it reaches its conclusions—because it adds up millions of small correlations between fragments of data. It’s almost impossible to relate that to anything we might call reasoning.”

  “It doesn’t matter—because the answer is wrong.” Benicoff was irritated. “Remember—I was in charge of the investigation. The airport here at the plant is completely automated. Most of the traffic is copters, though we get executive jets as well as cargo VTOLs and STOLs.”

  “How does an automatic airport work?” Brian asked. “Is it safe?”

  “Safer than human control, I can assure you. It was finally realized back in the 1980s that more accidents were being caused by human error than were being prevented by human intervention. All aircraft must file flight plans before takeoff. The data goes right into the computer network so every airport knows just what traffic is going out or coming in—or even passing close by. When an aircraft is within radar range a signal identifies them by transponder and they are given clearance or instructions. Here at Megalobe all of the aircraft movements are of course monitored and recorded by security.”

  “But security was compromised for that vital hour.”

  “Doesn’t matter—everything was also recorded at the Borrego airport control tower, as well as the regional FAA radar station. All three sets of records agree and the technical investigation proved that it would have been impossible to alter all of them. What we saw were true records of all aircraft movements that night.”

  “Were there any flights in or out of the airport during that hour?”

  “Not one. The last flight was at least an hour before the blank period, a copter to La Jolla.”

  “How big an area does the radar cover?” Brian asked.

  “A lot. It’s a standard tower unit with a range of about one hundred and fifty miles. From Borrego it reaches out right to the Salton Sea to the east and across it to the hills beyond. Forty, fifty miles at least. Not as far in the other directions with all the hills and mountains that surround this valley.”

  “Dick Tracy, activate,” Shelly said. “During the day in question, twenty-four hours, how many flights were recorded by the Megalobe radar?”

  “Megalobe flights, eighteen. Borrego Springs Airport, twenty-seven. Passing flights, one hundred and thirty-one.”

  “Borrego Springs is just eight miles away,” Shelly said, “but they had no flights in or out during the period in question, none that night at all. All three sets of radar records were identical, except for inconsequential minor differences, on all the passing flights. These are flights that are detected at the radar fringes that don’t originate or end in the valley.”

  “There seems to be a lot of air traffic out here in the desert,” Brian said. “One hundred and seventy-six in one day. Why?”

  “Business flights to Megalobe we know about,” Ben said. “Borrego Springs has a few commercial flights, the rest are private planes. The passing stuff is the same, plus some military. So we are back to zero again. Dick Tracy says that the stuff left by air. Yet there were no flights out of the valley. So how could it have got out of the valley? Answer that and you have the answer to the whole thing.”

  Ben had phrased the question clearly. How could it have got out of the valley? There was a paradox here; it had to go out by air, nothing went out by air. Brian heard the question.

  His implanted CPU heard the question as well.

  “Out of the valley by truck. Out of the area by air,” Brian said.

  “What do you mean?” Shelly asked.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I didn’t say that, the CPU did.” He tried not to smile at their blank expressions. “Look, we’ll go into that some other time. Right now let’s analyze this. How far could the truck have gone?”

  “We worked out a computer model early in the investigation,” Ben said. “The maximum number of men to have loaded the truck, without getting in each other’s way, is eight. The variables are driving time from the gate to the lab, loading time, back to the gate. Once out of the gate the best figure we could come up with was twenty-five miles distance at fifty-five miles an hour. There were roadblocks up on every road out of here as soon as the crime was reported, well outside that twenty-mile zone. Radar covered the area as well, from copters and ground units, and after dawn the visual searches began. The truck could not have escaped.”

  “But it did,” Shelly said. “Is there any way a truck and cargo could have been airlifted out? We don’t know—but we are sure going to find out. Let me at the computer, Ben. I am going to have this program check every flight recorded that day within a hundred- then a two-hundred-mile radius.”

  “Couldn’t the criminals have gotten records of that flight erased? So there would be no traces at the time of the crime?”

  “No way. All the radar signals are maintained for a year in FAA archives, as well as screen-dumps from each air traffic controller’s terminal. A good computer hacker
can do many wonderful things, but the air traffic system is simply too complex and redundant. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of different kinds of records of every detected flight.”

  Shelly did not look up, was hard at work, oblivious of them as they left.

  “Shelly doesn’t know about the implant CPU,” Ben said. “Was that what you were talking about?”

  “Yes. I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but Dr. Snaresbrook and I have had some success in my accessing the CPU by thought alone.”

  “That is—what can I say—incredible!”

  “That’s what we think. But it is early times yet. I have instructed it to do some math—that’s how it started, in a dream, would you believe it? And I read data from its memory files. It is all exciting and a little frightening. Takes some getting used to. I have a strange head and I’m not sure I like it.”

  “But you’re alive and well, Brian,” Ben said grimly. “I saw what that bullet did to you …”

  “Don’t tell me about it! Someday, maybe. In fact I would like to forget this for a while, get on with AI. And you and Shelly get on with your Dick Tracy program. I don’t like hiding—or the perpetual threat to my life. I’m beginning to feel like Salman Rushdie—and you remember what happened to him! I would like to, what can I say, rebuild my life. Be as normal as the rest of you. I’m beginning to feel like some kind of freak—”

  “No, Brian—don’t ever think that. You are a tough kid that has been through too much. Everyone who has worked with you admires your guts. We’re on your side.”

  There was little more that could be said. Ben mumbled an excuse and left. Brian punched up yesterday’s work where he had been transcribing his notes in more complete and readable form but it made no sense to him. He realized that he was both depressed and tired and could hear Dr. Snaresbrook’s voice giving the obvious order. Right, message received, lie down. He told Shelly that he would be back later and went to his rooms.

  He must have fallen asleep because the technical journal was lying on his chest and the sun was just dropping behind the mountains to the west. The black depression still possessed him and he wondered if he should call the doctor and report it. But it just didn’t seem serious enough. Maybe it was the room that was getting him down—he was spending more time alone here than he had in the hospital. At least there someone was always popping in and out. Here he even had to eat his meals alone; the novelty of this had worn off quickly.

  Shelly had finished for the day and she mumbled good-bye when she left, her thoughts involved in her work. He locked her out and went in the opposite direction. Maybe some fresh air would help. Or some food, since it was getting dark and he had forgotten to eat lunch again. He left the building and walked around the lake and toward the orderly room. He asked if the Major was in—and was taken at once to his office.

  “Any complaints—or recommendations?” Woody asked as soon as they were alone.

  “No complaints, and I think your troops are doing a tremendous job. They never seem to get in the way, but when I am out of the lab there always seem to be a few in sight.”

  “There are a lot more than a few, I assure you! But I’ll tell them what you said. They are trying hard and doing damn well at this assignment.”

  “Tell the cooks that I like the food too.”

  “The chow hall will be delighted.”

  “Chow hall?”

  “That’s another name for the mess hall.”

  “Mess?”

  Woody smiled. “You’re a civilian at heart. We’ve got to teach you to talk like a dogface.”

  “Bark you mean?” They both laughed. “Woody, even though I’m not in the Army—is there a chance that a civilian dogface could have a meal in your chow hall?”

  “You’re more than welcome. Have all your meals there with the grunts if you like.”

  “But I’m not in the Army.”

  The Major’s perpetual twisted grin widened at the thought. “Mister, you are the Army. You are the only reason that we are here and not jumping out of planes every day. And I know that a lot of the troops would like to meet you and talk to you.” He glanced up at the time readout on the wall. “Do you drink beer?”

  “Is there a Pope in Rome?”

  “Come along, then. We’ll have a brew in the club until the chow hall opens at six.”

  “There’s a club here? That’s the first I heard.”

  Woody stood and led the way. “A military secret which, I would appreciate, you didn’t word about among the Megalobe civilian types. As far as I can find out the entire establishment is dry outside these walls. But this building right now is a military base for my paratroop unit. All army bases have an officer’s club, separate ones for the NCOs and E.M. as well—” He saw Brian’s eyes widen. “The military probably invented acronyms, they love them so much. Noncommissioned officers and enlisted men. This unit is too small for all that boozing discrimination—so we got this all-ranks club.”

  He opened the door marked SECURITY AREA—MILITARY PERSONNEL ONLY and led the way inside. It wasn’t a big room, but in the few weeks that the paratroopers had been here they had managed to add some personal touches. A dart board on one wall, some flags, guidons and photographs—a nude girl on a poster with impossibly large breasts—tables and chairs. And the bottle-filled, beer-pump-sporting bar at the far end.

  “How about Tiger beer from Singapore?” Woody asked. “Just tapped a fresh keg.”

  “Never heard of it, much less tasted it. Draw away!”

  The beer was cold and delicious, the bar itself fascinating. “Some of the troops will be coming in soon, they’ll be happy to meet you,” Woody said, drawing two more glasses. “There is only one thing that I’ll ask of you—don’t talk about your work. None of them will speak to you about what goes on in the laboratory—that order is out—so please don’t volunteer. Hell, even I don’t know what you are doing in there—nor do I want to know. Top Secret, we’ve been told, and that’s all the orders we need. Other than that, shoot the breeze.”

  “Shoot the breeze! My vocabulary grows apace!”

  Soldiers, some of whom he recognized from their guard duties, came in one by one. They seemed please to meet him personally at last, to shake his hand. He was their age, in fact older than most, and he listened with pleasure to their coarse military camaraderie—heard heroic bragging about sexual prowess and learned some fascinating vulgarities that he had never dreamed existed. And all the time he was listening he never let on that he was only fourteen years old. He was growing up faster every moment!

  They told stories and old, familiar jokes. He was included in the talk and was asked what part of the States he came from, phrased politely but with the implication that they were puzzled about his brogue. The soldiers of Irish descent were full of questions and they all listened eagerly when he told them about growing up in Ireland. Later they went into dinner together—getting him a line tray and supplying him with plenty of advice on what to eat and what to avoid.

  All in all it was an enjoyable evening and he resolved to eat in the mess hall again, whenever he could. What with all the talk and friendliness, what the Irish called good crack—not to forget all the beers either, he had pulled completely out of the glooms. The grunts were a great bunch of government-issue dogfaces. He would still start the day alone with coffee and toast, since he hated to talk to anyone first thing in the morning. And he had got into the habit of making himself a sandwich to take to the lab for lunch.

  But he was going to join the human race for dinner just as often as he could. Or at least that portion of it represented by the 82d Airborne. Come to think of it the human race really was well represented there. White and black, Asian and Latin. They were all good guys.

  He went to sleep smiling. The dreams did not bother him this night.

  23

  February 22, 2024

  Brian was sitting on the edge of the decorative planter when Shelly came out of the Megalobe visitors’ quarters
the next morning.

  “How is it in there?” he asked as they started toward the lab, the attendant bodyguards walking before and behind.

  “Spartan but comfortable. The place was obviously designed for visiting salesmen and executives who manage to miss the last plane of the day. Fine for overnight—but a little grim by the second evening. Still, not too different from the first air force barracks I ever stayed in. I can stick it out for a few days at least.”

  “Have they found you a better place to stay?”

  “Megalobe Housing Advisors is on the job. They are taking me to see an apartment right down the road. Three this afternoon.”

  “Good luck. How is Dick Tracy doing?”

  “Keeping me busy. I had no idea before I started running this program that there were so many data bases in the country. I suppose it is Murphy’s Law of computers. The more memory you have the more you fill it up.”

  “You’ll have quite a job filling up this mini-mainframe here.”

  “I’m sure of that!”

  He unlocked the lab door and held it so she could go by. “Will you have some time to work with me today?” he asked.

  “Yes—if an hour from now is okay. I have to get permission to access some classified data bases that Dick Tracy wants to look at. Which will probably lead me to even more classified information.”

  “Right.” He turned away and hadn’t gone a dozen steps before she called after him.

  “Brian! Come see this.” She was studying the screen closely, touched a key and a copy emerged from the printer. She handed it to him. “Dick Tracy has been working all night. I found this displayed when I came in just now.”

  “What is it?”

  “A construction site in Guatay. Someone was building prefabricated luxury apartments there. Dick T. has pointed out the interesting fact that this construction is taking place almost directly under the flight path for the planes landing at the San Diego Airport in Miramar.”

  “Am I being dumb? I don’t see the connection …”