“You need an observation post up on top of the ridge,” Dyer commented. “Send a patrol up there.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Chris murmured.
“It’ll take all day,” Ron protested. “Why don’t we risk it and to hell with it? If anything does come over that ridge we’ve got three artillery batteries back there behind the town that can take care of it until we bring up some more tanks.”
“They’re only 45-millimeter,” Chris pointed out. “Too far back. Try a couple of ranging shots at the ridge and I bet they won’t reach. The 203s over the hills there would have covered it but they’ve just been hit by air strikes and won’t be in action again for a while . . .” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Now that is interesting. Why did they have to go at the 203s now of all times? See—it all adds up. They don’t want us covering that ridge.” Ron grumbled beneath his breath and bent his head to conduct a brief dialogue via touchpad with one of the console’s screens.
“Okay, you’re right,” he declared irascibly. “The shots fell short and the latest data says the 203s will be out for another five turns. So what do you want to do?”
“What Ray says,” Chris replied. “Send an infantry platoon up the ridge, dig the tanks in where they are and move another two brigades up behind that village on the left to cover. Then, if any rubbish does come over the top, we can act as if we have been surprised and retreat back toward the village. If they come after us, we’ll lead them right into the 45s. The way their shells have been falling makes me think they don’t know that the 45s are there yet. Then we’ll catch them at their own game.”
Ron frowned at the display for a while and considered the suggestion.
“Okay,” he said at last, and began tapping commands into the console panel.
Dyer watched as small groups of red symbols began moving toward their new positions. Then Ron transferred his attention to the other areas of the display and continued with the development of tactics in other places which he had already evidently agreed upon with Chris. Leaving Ron to his task, Dyer turned his head toward Chris.
“You’ve wrapped Hector up early today, eh? Have a busy day yesterday?”
“We were at it until gone ten,” Chris told him. “Those mods you put into the B7 tree—what did you do to it? Hector was going nuts.”
“I was trying to improve his generalizing abilities,” Dyer replied. He caught the expression on Chris’s face and grinned. “Why, didn’t it work?”
“Work!” Chris pulled back the corners of his mouth into a grimace. “I’ll say it worked. In fact it worked too well. He’s been overgeneralizing.”
“How?”
“Now that FISE has realized that Brutus has got some of the same basic attributes as Hector, he thinks he’s supposed to make Brutus do all the things that Hector does. He can’t tell the difference . . . thinks he’s Brutus as well as Hector. The problem is he can’t manipulate Brutus the same way so he keeps making Hector chase him around all the time. Tries to make him sit in chairs and eat off the table and all sorts of idiotic things like that, but PROPS won’t cooperate. Either FISE or Ron was about to have a breakdown so we packed it in for the day.”
Dyer started to laugh. Ron pushed himself back; from the console and looked up.
“The patrol’s on its way up,” he announced. “They’re grouping panzers out there on the right for what could be an attack so I’m moving up a reserve division from the rear to that sector. I’ve pulled our line there back to the lake to close the flank so we should be okay. Now let’s wait and see what they do.” The display became inanimate while Mike and Dave at Cornell considered their next moves.
“There was something I wanted to ask you both,” Dyer said, changing the subject. “I was talking to Ted Richter on the tube coming back from Washington yesterday.” Chris and Ron looked at him curiously. “Remember what those people from Princeton were talking about when they were here on Tuesday . . . about TITAN deciding to go its own way and do its own thing. I know I said I couldn’t see it ever happening and all that, but just suppose that it could. What could we do to make sure that we knew about it before it had time to go too far? I’m interested in new ideas.” The other two stared at him in an odd sort of way and then at each other. Chris immediately went into introspection mode and began examining the question for cryptic meanings. Ron rubbed his beard and continued to look at Dyer curiously.
“You been having nightmares or something?” he asked.
“No. Just looking for some original thinking,” Dyer answered.
“I don’t see the problem,” Ron said with a shrug. “Why do we have to know about it in advance? It’s just like any other machine—you give it a try and hope for the best. If it starts screwing around you pull the plug. Where’s the big problem?”
“Mmm . . .” Chris was staring absently through the side of the holo-tank. “Suppose it gets to the point where it won’t let you pull the plug,” he said in a faraway voice.
“That’s what I was getting at,” Dyer nodded.
“Oh, I see. The unpullable-plug argument,” Ron said. “The only way I can see, if somebody was really worried about it, would be to pre-empt it. Power the net through manually controlled switching stations that are isolated from the distribution grid. That way you’d always have a plug that the system’s got no access to.”
“Too messy.” Dyer shook his head. “You’d have to rewire the whole planet and it’d cost a bomb. Think of something else.”
That issue had been debated ad nauseam at Washington and rejected or relegated to the category of last resort for a whole list of reasons of that kind. Dyer didn’t mention the other reason that ruled out an approach of that type. A decision to go ahead with a program of precautionary engineering on a scale that vast would equate to a public admission of a real danger that the world could go out of control; the alarm that would undoubtedly follow ruled it out. It would be like passing legislation that required surgeons to administer last rites along with anesthetics.
Similar considerations ruled out putting remote-triggered destructive devices into the primary node centers of the net, devices to cut the trunk data links, reconfiguring the net into segments that could be easily isolated and other such possibilities that had been discussed at the meeting. In every case too many people would have to know what was going on and why. Sooner or later the media would find out about it and once that happened the dust wouldn’t settle for years.
“What you need is a supersimulator,” Chris said at last. He gestured toward the miniature landscape inside the holo-tank. “Something like that but big enough to simulate the whole world. Then you’d need a supercomputer connected to it, large enough to run the whole TITAN system. Give it the equivalent of a couple of centuries of accelerated evolution, and if it doesn’t do anything nasty with that world plug the real one in. Simple.” He kept his face absolutely serious, which usually meant that he’d given up looking for a serious comment to offer. The suggestion was, of course, ridiculous. There was no computer even remotely conceivable with the capacity to simulate the billions of operations being performed every nanosecond, day and night, throughout the TITAN complex. In terms of representing the real thing, Hector’s simple world came about as close as would a child’s sketch of a pinwheel to conveying the molecular structure of the Milky Way Galaxy. The question of simulation had also been examined in Washington but dismissed as being totally impracticable.
“Why wait for it to go its own way anyhow?” Ron asked. “Why not plant some instincts in it to start with that will make it want to do the kinds of things you’re happy with . . . like Kim’s doing? Why be passive about it?”
“What kind of instincts?” Dyer inquired, although he thought he already knew the answer.
“Tell it that it has to love people,” Ron said.
“What if it doesn’t know what people are?”
“Tell it.”
“How?”
“Hell, if it was as obvious
as that we’d be out of a job,” Ron said defiantly. “If FISE thinks he’s Hector, why can’t a super-FISE think it’s people?”
“Oh come off it, Ron,” Chris chipped in. “It’s not as simple as that and you know it. FISE can associate with Hector because Hector is really only a load of program code running inside FISE. The visuals are just by-products for our benefit. How are you suggesting we turn the whole population into program code?”
“If super-FISE associated with anything, it’d associate with something running inside itself,” Dyer added, elaborating the point further. “And people are outside, not inside.”
“So even if you did give it some instincts regarding people, it’d be just as likely to evolve new ones of its own that overrode them,” Chris pointed out.
“So it goes its own way,” Dyer completed. “Which brings us back to my original question. If it was going to do that, how would you find out about it, before it did it?”
Ron scowled and stared into the display, which had suddenly become active again, He propped his chin on his fist and glared over the top of the console housing.
“Ray, why do you always have to come up with things like this just before weekends? That neat idea you had for a new default-weighting algorithm cost me all of last Sunday and half of Saturday. I’m not even gonna think about this until we come back next week.” With that he returned himself fully to Kursk, 1943, swiftly assessed the latest developments and began hammering in a sequence of responses.
“Our patrol’s getting near the top of the ridge,” Chris observed casually. “Are you in a mood for taking bets, Ron?” Then he became more thoughtful once more and looked back at Dyer. “Why are you taking the pessimistic view anyway, Chief? Why does TITAN have to go the wrong way? It might go the other way. Suppose a mob of mean green things in UFOs decided to move in to stay one day. We could end up finding that TITAN was the best insurance we ever bought . . . It could turn out to be a bloody good general. As far as I can see, the whole thing could just as easily turn out to be for the better as for the worse.”
While Dyer thought the proposition over, the small red square reached the crest of the ridge. Immediately a mass of tightly clustered blue symbols appeared on the previously empty stretch of terrain beyond.
“Bloody hell!” Chris exclaimed. “What did I tell you! They’ve got a whole army there! We need a new fire plan—fast!” Ron went frantically to work on the console. Chris studied the position for a few more seconds and changed the subject back again without looking up. “It’s fifty-fifty, isn’t it, Ray?” he said.
“Probably,” Dyer agreed. “But the stakes are a lot higher than when you’re betting on what’s over the ridge, aren’t they.” He paused. Chris caught the tone of his voice and looked up curiously. “Look at it this way,” Dyer suggested. “You’ve got a house full of young kids and somebody’s just given them a one-month-old animal from some other planet as a pet. Right now it’s cute and cuddly but nobody knows what it’s going to grow up into. And since you don’t know anything about it, it might grow up overnight for all you know. Now . . . it’s a fifty-fifty risk, but would you be prepared to take it?”
Chris pondered on the problem for a long time.
“There’s only one safe way,” he said eventually. “You have to take it out of the house and let it grow up somewhere else . . . in a zoo maybe.” He shrugged. “It’s the only way you can avoid having to take the risk.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Dyer said. “There isn’t any zoo. Your family lives on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean. That’s all there is. There isn’t anywhere else to take it.”
“Then you have to get rid of it. There’s no other way.”
“Not so easy. The kids wouldn’t stand for that.”
Chris gave a long sigh and shook his head slowly.
“In that case, if you want to be sure they’ll be okay, you’d better make damn sure you teach them how to look after themselves before it grows up,” he offered. “Just in case it comes to the worst . . .”
CHAPTER TEN
Dyer hoisted his feet up onto the couch and relaxed with one arm draped loosely along the backrest. The sun lay dying on the shore across the river from Irvington, spilling its lifeblood into the rippling water and throwing a soft orange glow up onto the walls of his apartment. Surely nothing could more aptly express the ending of an eventful day than a sunset, he thought to himself. This was the time to sift through the litter left along the trail of another day’s living for things worth filing permanently under Accumulated Experience. After a night of unconscious data reduction, the sharp detail would be gone forever. Chris had made one of his profound observations about sunsets once. What was it? He smiled faintly to himself as he remembered: “Pronounced atmospheric scattering of shorter wavelengths, resulting in selective transmission below 650 nanometers with progressively reducing solar elevation, produces a tendency toward irrational euphoria among primitive herders of domesticated ovines.”
Sharon came out of the kitchen carrying a couple of glasses and swaying her body to the music drifting out from the speakers concealed in the walls. She crossed the room, pushed a beer into Dyer’s hand and oscillated away again toward the window.
“I really can’t understand why you’d rather stay in,” she exuberated over her shoulder. “On an evening like this? . . . And it’s Friday. The whole city’s out there waiting to be lit up. Why d’you want to stay here?”
“Aw, I’ve seen enough of the goddam city.” Dyer stretched himself back luxuriously and sipped his drink. “Why don’t we relax for once. How about a really nice meal, cooked in for once, open a few bottles, turn on some nice music . . .”
“Then what?” Sharon asked suspiciously.
“Then nothing. Just enjoy it.” He downed half of his beer in a long smooth gulp and wiped his moustache with the side of his finger. “We could have a philosophic discussion about cabbages, kings and the meaning of the universe.”
“Philosophy always turns out to be a fancy word for something shorter.” Sharon twirled between the couch and the window, at the same time throwing out an arm to wave vaguely in the direction of the door leading to the bedroom. “Tonight I feel like being friendly.”
“So, what could be friendlier?”
“I mean friendly to everybody . . . people. I feel like being with people. How about going back into town and trying the Cat’s Whisker or the Marquis—someplace we can dance. It’s Sue’s sister’s birthday today. There’ll be a good crowd in the Marquis tonight. I told them we’d most likely show up.”
Dyer frowned at the bubbles streaming up through his beer. That crowd—the fun people—walking examples of what survived when minds became victims of infant mortality. He didn’t think he could stand that. The problem with women like Sharon who had been told that they looked like Venus was that they sometimes developed an addiction to pedestals. The picture of himself as an incidental accessory to satisfying Sharon’s need for public admiration caused his expression to darken.
“Philosophy’s out, so is tribal anthropology,” he said. “How about a compromise? I’ll take you out to dinner.”
Sharon pouted. “But I’m not in the mood for a quiet cozy evening for two,” she insisted. “I need some fun,” she said. “How about a compromise? I’ll take you out to the party.” As she spoke her voice rose and fell with an exaggerated slur, as if she were already delirious, but beneath it her tone was an ultimatum. If he didn’t agree to enjoying a lousy evening he’d end up having a lousy evening instead. Dammit! He wasn’t going along with it. The tightening of his mouth telegraphed his mood across the room.
“Uh, uh,” Sharon said. “I can feel black clouds looming somewhere around here.” Her gaiety evaporated while she waited a few seconds for a response. She sipped her drink and stared expectantly over her glass at Dyer’s sprawled and seemingly unhearing form. “Anyhow,” she went on, “let’s put it this way. I’m going. You can decide whatever you want.” No visible
reaction. “Well, don’t just lie there swigging booze like Julius Caesar or somebody. Say something. Are you coming or not?”
“This organization does not negotiate to terrorist demands,” Dyer informed her, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“What are you talking about? Who’s terrorizing anybody? I just said what I’m doing, that’s all.”
“Blackmail then,” Dyer told her with a sigh.
“I don’t understand,” she answered. Even as she said it, the insinuation that she was being slow on the uptake about something irked her further. She countered instinctively. “Well, if that means you’re opting out, that’s okay by me. Bill and Lee will be there for sure. They’re always good fun to have around.”
“Screw all of you! I’ve had it!” Before he realized what he was doing, Dyer jumped up off the couch and stormed through into the kitchen. He tore the top off another beer, refilled his glass, and swallowed enough to empty the can, which he hurled into the waste-disposal hatch. Implied blackmail, probably unwitting, was one thing; overt threats was another. Why did people who had to have everything spelled out in three-letter words infuriate him so much? The damn woman was about as perceptive as a stampeding rhino.
He took another long draught while he brought his feelings under control again. He didn’t give a damn about Bill and Lee, or anybody else for that matter, but the remark had been typically tactless and totally pointless; that was what had incensed him. This was the time to see the whole thing through once and for all, he decided. He composed himself, thought about how he was going to broach it, and tried to anticipate the probable reaction. Tears? He’d be flattering himself if he thought that. The yelling-and-screaming routine? Might cost a few bits of china but he could handle that okay. The icy walkout with head held high? Oh well, it wouldn’t be the first time.
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