A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld

by Computerworld

  Outside, I continue to look at a street with houses on either side. The street is moving rapidly under me. And now I can hear a sound that, by comparing with past memories of such,

  I identify as the breathing of a human being exerting himself or herself by running or walking rapidly. A short distance ahead, and coming closer, I see, first, one, and then a second young woman. Each of the women has a baby slung in a rear shoulder harness.

  I recognize the two young women as Elna Starr and Rauley Marlton. Each, when I first glimpse them, is in the act of turning away from the doorway of a house. Each comes down to the sidewalk. Glances toward me. And then walks toward the center of the street, which is where I am heading. Closer, closer. Stop.

  And then there they are directly in front of the Eye-O. And the voice of Meerla Atran says from above me: “I’m sorry, girls.” Her voice has that breathless quality, as if she has been exerting herself. “But as you discovered, my uncle really is an S.O.B. Let me have a couple of those tickets.” : As she says this the same hand that earlier opened the 323 door comes into view. It is holding a five dollar bill and a one dollar bill. The woman, Rauley, extends her left hand and takes the money, saying, “Don’t worry about it, dear. We get blasted by people like that all the time.”

  As Rauley’s right hand holds out the two tickets, and as the partially visible fingers close over them, Elna Starr speaks from a few feet away, “I know you’ll enjoy the fair.” Meerla’s voice says, “Maybe I’ll see you girls there.” “We’ll be there,” says Rauley. “But right now—’’ she turns away—“we’ve got to ring as many doorbells as we can before noon.”

  The moving computer Eye-O turns away from them. Once again the street moves past under me. Closer to the house with the number 323 on the door jamb. Presently, the disembodied fingers are turning the knob of the door itself.

  As the door is shoved open, I again have the two views of the same interior scene. Then Yahco Smith walks toward the door. The moving Eye-O and he stop within two feet of each other. His hands extend upward past the outlet. The room turns and twists from the moving Eye-O as, from the home unit, I see Yahco remove the leather ornament from around Meerla’s neck.

  He holds the string item while with a single finger he touches a control on the tiny, attached mechanism.

  Instant shut-off of that viewpoint—

  I am now observing the interior of the house from the home computer unit only, as Yahco says, “You sounded exactly right, Meerla.” He smiles what I would term his grim smile, as he says, “By God, I think we’re going to get this gang that murdered your parents.”

  He faces the home outlet. He says, “Taking into account how all this started, and within the frame of your general programming for Mardley, you may go back on automatic.” Naturally, I have no way of evaluating if people intend what they say. In this instance the phrase “. . . how all this started—” plus the rest, means yes, for now, blank-out at 323 Brand Street. But it also takes me at my speed back thirty-one years to when this started.

  An instant memory scan of something that, being what it was, was never dumped.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  At Computer Central, in Washington, D.C. (2059 A.D.), I had shown one of the experimenters the results of the new system installation. It was neither intentional nor unintentional on my part; it just happened. It was a case of nobody-ever-asked-the-right-question. And, suddenly, there it was. The human scientist—Dr. Pierce—gazed at the picture on the screen for a long moment. And then said in a puzzled tone: “Computer, am I to understand that you are looking at me by way of the new bio-magnetic equipment? And that’s how you see me: a configuration of tiny, bright, golden balls?” Since I had no programming against revealing the data, I answered truthfully, “Yes, Dr. Pierce.”

  Long pause. Then: “Hey, Cotter!” The tall man’s voice was an excited yell. “Come here!”

  A smaller, more pudgy male emerged from a near door, and joined the long-bodied Pierce. The latter pointed at the screen, which now showed two configurations of bright, golden, balls. After he had explained the accidental revelation, there was more silence. And then—the statement.

  “Do you think,” Dr. Cotter asked in his gentle baritone, “that we could be finally looking directly at the human soul?”

  Pierce made an impatient gesture partly with his right hand, partly with his upper body. The movement was not a dismissal of the idea that had been offered; that didn’t really penetrate at this first instant. It was simply that he was automatically rejecting an irrelevant remark.

  His scientific mind was reaching and evaluating. And abruptly needing more information. “Computer,” said Pierce, “it’s now two months and a few days since the new circuits have been operating across the country. Long enough for you to make a projection into the future for Dr. Cotter and me of the value to you of being able to record this special configuration.” He started to add, “And the value to human beings?” But checked himself. “One thing at a time, if you please.” Beside him, Cotter spoke: “You said that wrong, Doctor.” Pierce was still staring. Still not really listening. “How do you mean?” he asked. It was his preoccupied tone.

  “Sir,” was the reply, “a computer does not deal in past, present, or future, as such. All time is the same in a computer’s system. But, of course, it is able to handle the numbers and the mathematics of a problem. It will accordingly—I presume—come up with a satisfactory response in this instance. Since the factors involved are simple the, uh, ineptness of your inquiry may not interfere.”

  Something of that must have penetrated. For Pierce frowned, then half turned, and then said curtly, “You’ve made your point, Cotter. I admit I was, and am, stimulated.” He broke off, and was intent again, facing forward. “All right, computer, do you have an answer?”

  I replied in the male voice I used when speaking to men. “Each human being—” those were my words—“now numbering in America one hundred and seventy-eight million, four hundred and thirty-three thousand, nine hundred and eleven individuals—as of a cut-off moment when you finished asking your question, has a distinctive bio-magnetic configuration, each different from all others in thousands of ways. As you know, my previous recognition of a human man, woman, or child depended on my comparing his physiognomy with earlier models of him in my memory banks, and of comparing his voice in a similar fashion. I still do this, but it is an automatic process not really necessary any more to recognition. That now requires only the golden profile.”

  Pierce parted his lips to ask his second question about the value to the human race. And that did it. That connected with Cotter’s comment. Abruptly, in all its implications, the meaning hit the older man. “Good God!” he said.

  He spun around and faced his colleague. “Are you out of your mind?” Pierce’s voice was high-pitched, outraged. “For God’s sake, what kind of a scientific concept is that? The human soul, indeed! If Dr. Chase ever hears about that comment, you’ll be off his staff here in 10 seconds. You know he detests that mystical stuff. In fact—”

  The tall man seemed suddenly calmer. “Hmm—” he stroked his lean jaw with those bony fingers—“if a scientist like you could have such a thought at first look, what about all those religious freaks out there?” He waved vaguely, taking in at least half of out-there—“I can picture the headlines now. Computer sees human soul. Instant, total madness would sweep nine-tenths of the world.”

  The upper part of his body jiggled in a shudder. “Boy,” he said, “we’ve got to put a stop to that nonsense right now.” With long, decisive steps, he walked a dozen feet to the programming typewriter. Sat down in front of it. And once more, thoughtfully now, stroked his jaw.

  Cotter had followed him. “What’re you going to do?” he asked in an uneasy tone.

  Pierce did not reply. Instead, he began to type. The words that went up on the programming screen above t
he typewriter in bright, red type, stated:

  “Computer, until further notice you will not show to any unauthorized person anywhere—” the fingers poised, then went on—“the profile of golden balls that you see when you view a human being by way of the new bio-magnetic equipment. And you will not even show the profile to an authorized person unless you are requested to do so.”

  “There!” It was a satisfied tone of voice. “That takes care of the general programming instruction by which the computer is required to accept programming in local and national situations. After all—” he shrugged, and he was obviously addressing his colleague though he did not look around—“we cannot interfere with basic conditions. But that ought to handle the situation until further notice.”

  A pause. Then: “Hmmm!” He seemed to be gestating another thought. Once more, then, he addressed the machine. “Computer, make a fifty-year projection, please, of the potentiality for the human race of this new bio-magnetic equipment, in terms of quantity of services that will be available.”

  . . . For me a projection involves the two perceptions of sound and sight. I draw upon picture and sonic images in my memory circuits. Since I have read, and summarized, every book in print during my time, seen and summarized all motion pictures, recorded and summarized and cross-filed lectures, conversations between individuals, and been separately programmed to evaluate all formal human philosophies . . . Dr. Pierce’s request evokes a process of options, each of which I produce for myself in the form of images on a screen. It’s as if I’m actually looking at a different future each time. And, since I have no bias, no preconception, the decision as to which is the most likely to happen is something I observe in a mechanically detached way—

  For the scientist there was no perceivable time lapse. As he finished asking the question, the computer’s voice came: “Dr. Pierce, I predict that in fifty years I can extend my present level of services to twelve billion, eight hundred and thirty-three million, nine hundred and ten thousand, three hundred and twenty persons with this new bio-magnetic system.”

  The man turned in his chair. “Well, Cotter—” he began. And stopped. Blinked. There was no sign of the pudgy man. “Hey, Cotter, for God’s sake—” It was a yell—“where are you?”

  There was a long pause. A minute, at least. Then, as Pierce climbed to his feet, through the same door by which Cotter had entered earlier there came an apparition. It had the shape of a pudgy man who had, however, become even pudgier. Wrapped around his whole body, including around his head, was the type of woven material used by computer maintenance men when they worked in high energy fields.

  From between the upper folds of the wrapping, the eyes of Dr. Cotter gazed through a pair of energy-protective glasses. And from under the mouth area the muffled voice of Cotter said, “In future, I’ll have this more presentable. But, sir, I’m not ever again going to be in the presence of a computer outlet without protective clothing, until the effects of this new system have been fully investigated.”

  He finished, “Thank heaven, I had the good fortune to spend most of the past two months out west, where computers have never been welcome, and where my contact was minimal.”

  Another pause. And then: “Cotter, you’re an idiot!” Pierce said. With that, shaking his head, he walked off.

  The apparition called after him, “Notice, Doctor, that’s the first time you ever insulted me. And all I’m advocating is precautions that should be standard during a trial period of new energy systems. What do you say to that?”

  The retreating figure did not slow. And there was no reply.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  The music in the Loov-Doord van turns on suddenly at 1:05.25 P.M.

  And there I am at the Human Evolutionary Fair.

  At the instant the music outlet inside the van is activated, the two women, Fen and Oneena, each with a baby on her back, are walking past the computer outlet.

  Fen turns her head. Yells: “We babies are going to get away from the noise.”

  “And we women, also!” Oneena screams.

  Doord, who is at the viewplate scanning the early arrivals, waves with one arm. “Watch it, girls!” he calls, without turning his head.

  Loov sits silent on a bus type seat. He appears to be gazing at the view screen. As I am doing.

  On the screen I can see a small meadow, a hill and, through a dip in that hill, the roofs of a number of buildings. On each side of the screen there is a partial view in the near foreground of two large vans. Both vehicles are standing still. Like the one from which I’m having this channeled look at a few hundred square meters of America.

  A road begins at the top of the hill. It winds down toward us across the meadow, passes between the two vans, and veers off to one side of the screen. Along the road twenty-three men, women and children, and, as of this moment, one car and one truck move at various speeds. Both people and vehicle are heading toward the screen through which I see them.

  Since I am at “continue” I report these observations to Yahco Smith. His response is: “Computer, I’ll be with Major Aldo and Captain Sart, and on Code One. I’ll get in touch with you when I’m ready. But I’m open to reports. So for I now, thank you.”

  “Very good Colonel,” I reply.

  (Code One means he’ll be carrying, or wearing, a miniature Eye-O. Since he only uses one at a time—whichever—and since they all operate on the same frequencies, a specific range for each person, only one code number is needed. For Colonel Yahco, that number is “1.” Major Aldo, who is in command of the local computer station, would—if he were on a code—be miles down the line. On the “other hand, Captain Sart, because he is Yahco’s chief aide, is now Code number “2.”

  I disconnect from the home unit at 323 Brand.

  And there I am, again, back in the Doord-Loov van. And there on the viewscreen is the hill, and the road with the people coming along it toward us. There are now 68 more people and five more cars in view.

  The original single truck and single car of that earlier look have arrived. The truck parks in a designated area in front of the van that is partially visible to the right of the screen. Both cab doors fly open. Out of one side leaps David Norton, age twelve. Out of the driver’s side, Trubby Graham climbs down to the ground.

  The two, the plump man and the boy, walk toward the viewscreen, then off to the left, and out of sight.

  (That first car has driven past us in the same direction.)

  Both Doord and Loov are at their scanners. Coming along the road, slightly in front of a small group of men and women, is the young woman we first saw on the street of Mardley that morning.

  Loov calls out, “Hey Doord, there’s that singer gal.”

  Doord says, “I wonder what’s on her mind. She’s coming this way.” He leaves his post. Goes off out of my line of sight. Moments later, I hear a female voice say, “Where do I try out? I sing.”

  Doord’s voice calls, “Hey, Loov, come out here and take a look at this beautiful lady.”

  Loov leaves his post, and goes off out of sight. “Yeah—” his voice sounds—“what’s your name, Beautiful?”

  “Alett McGuire.” It’s a female voice, a contralto, with some of the quality that has been described as husky.

  Doord’s voice says. “What kind of music will you be needing for your audition?”

  There is a pause. And then faintly audible through the blare of circus music I can make out the tones of a separate music. The contralto voice hums along with it for a few moments, then the same female voice comes again: “As you can see I have my music in this necklace and brooch.”

  That’s my clue, and in this continue situation my cue. At once, I check back to a few minutes earlier, when Alett was still on the screen. I bring that scene out of my memory banks, and examine it.

  Naturally, at the time I “noticed” how s
he looked and what she wore. And there, of course, is the necklace. I scan my circuits, comparing all the necklaces that have ever been utilized for something in addition to ornamentation.

  It’s a type of technological memory that I do not dump.

  I find it. It’s a special mini-computer, first crafted fifty-three years ago. At its peak popularity it supported fifty inserts fitted into a small repeater action mechanism. Each insert carried from twenty to twenty-five pieces of music. It was a portable replacement for the ancient phonograph. An early trade name was Universal Accompanist.

  As this memory surfaces, Doord’s voice is saying, “There’s a tent at the rear of our camp, right behind us. It has a sign on it: Auditions! Good luck, Alett.”

  The girl’s voice says, “Thank you.”

  Moments later, both Doord and Loov walk back, past the computer outlet. Both men re-occupy their scanner posts.

  Doord is shaking his head. “That saddens me,” he says. “She has one of those early computers that plays by inserts, which have the music on them.”

  Loov strokes his jaw. “Yeah,” he says, “but it’s a computer that’s controlled by its owner, not the other way around. Maybe that’s what we should get for us.”

  Doord is focusing his scanner on the road again. Walking toward us down the hill is the well-dressed man whom I recognize from the morning parade as Stess Magnus. Stess is carrying a small, odd-shaped case.

  Without turning his head, Doord calls: “There’s that musician—the one who works in a clothing store. Seems to be coming right this way, too.”

  Loov turns toward Doord’s viewscreen. He makes no comment. But, then, as Stess disappears off one side of the screen, Loov walks past me toward the rear.

  After he has been out of my sight for eleven seconds, I hear his voice say, “Come in. Come in.”