A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld

by Computerworld

  “Thank you, computer,” he says.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  The memory scan has, naturally, been automatically triggered.

  It takes me back to 2068 A.D. as from several Eye-Os I watch Cotter lay his report down on the gleaming brown surface in front of him. I notice that, for the first time since entering the room, he allows himself eye contact with the three men who already sit at the long table.

  That was not a good moment. Because the deterioration showed. Not just in nine years of aging. Growing older had left gruel on his own sadly ugly face. What was awful was the way they were looking at him. Dr. Pierce had changed in that almost-decade into a man with a visibly vile, sneering expression. Dr. Chase, medium-sized, late middle age, and smooth-faced, was openly interested these days in small evil boys, and his perpetually greasy smile reflected his preoccupation. And as for Colonel Endodore, the commander of the Computer Maintenance Corps had over the years become progressively more savage in his appearance and in his way of talking to people.

  It was the colonel who spoke first. “Dr. Pierce,” he said curtly, “since you persuaded me to attend this meeting, I expect you to do the dishonors.”

  Dishonors. That was the officer’s type of humor these days. But the word fitted the occasion. There was not going to be any truth in this room except what was in the report; so it seemed to Cotter.

  Pierce, sitting across from where he stood, was making the throat noise of sputum being dredged up. He spat it on the floor. Turned and said:

  “Sir, I doubt if anything I could say will more quickly establish the, uh, facts of this situation than, uh, seeing Cotter in that get-up and hearing Cotter tell us what he’s been up to.” His eyes turned toward the pudgy man. Total contempt came with that look, as he continued, “Uh, Cotter, tell Dr. Chase and Colonel Endodore and me how you’ve been wasting your time for nine years and got paid for it.”

  Standing there, Cotter tended to reject that his “get-up” was significantly against him. After that first day, he had taken the time to design a virtually invisible protective barrier. Mostly, the material was cunningly woven into the cloth of shirts and suits that he wore. For his face and hands he used almost invisible paste-ons. The most noticeable feature was the pair of over-sized glasses he wore. And yet it was a fact that scientists working in laboratories had long worn similar devices for eye protection.

  Nevertheless, he was aware that he reflected more light than the average. His clothes shone with sudden glints an< gleams. And the glasses were definitely over-sized.

  During the introduction he had remained physically unmoving and emotionally unmoved. Meaning, at no time did he| shrink from the insult. And when he spoke his voice showed no stress.

  He said, “It’s just possible, gentlemen, that I’m the only person who has done any work here in the past few years. In a world where the computer does all machine labor, there are only union men with standby jobs. And the only work done by scientists is figuring out how to take credit for the computer’! inventions. Similarly except for the people in the mountain! west country, everyone else is paid for work that the computer is doing. They don’t even have to stand by. The pay depends on the amount of goods and services the computer turns out; but it’s actually welfare.”

  He straightened. “So,” he continued, “let me get to my point. My subject is my nine-year study of the effects of the bio-magnetic energy upon the human race in the United State? of America. As a programmer, I knew how to ask the computer to help—if you wonder how I did my work. I was able to by-pass the restriction put upon the computer by our colleague, Dr. Pierce; which restriction he has never lifted, and which was affirmed by both Dr. Chase and you, Colonel.

  “Gentlemen—” he paused for dramatic effect—“during this nine-year period, each time the computer turns on its bio-magnetic observing mechanism there is a return flow triggered in the human profile being observed. This counterflow, I have determined by numerous tests, drains moral energy from the golden ball configuration which may or may not be the human soul. As a result of this moral drain we have become a nation of murders, criminals, muggers, rapists, prostitutes, immoral, lustful, lazy, uncreative, lecherous.

  “In spite of this already fantastically awful deterioration,” he went on earnestly, “the golden color of the average human profile is still more than half as bright as it was nine years ago when the bio-magnetic equipment was installed in the computer system across the country. What will happen to us when the process of reverse flow has reduced the gold sheen to a mere glint is not obvious at this time. Nor is it obvious how long it will take. There may well be a balancing point. But my belief is that one of these days people will be at a level of spiritual degradation that has never been seen on this planet; and we’ve seen some pretty degraded types. . . .”

  He tapped the paper lying on the table top in front of him. “The evidence is here. I brought a copy for each of you.”

  Without waiting for their permission, he took the top folder. Reached slantwise across the table. And half-threw, half-shoved it at Colonel Endodore. Quickly, then, he did the same with the next two folders. First, to Dr. Chase, and then to Dr. Pierce.

  None of his three table companions moved. Not a single arm and hand extended outward to pick up the copy of the report.

  Seeing their disinterest, Cotter thought grayly, “At least I’ve said in summary what I wanted to tell them . . . The words could not be unheard. Each meaning had entered the hearing centers for which it was intended.”

  He had to admit, standing there, that it didn’t seem much of a win.

  The silence grew ridiculously long. It was one of those tableaus. Everybody holding still, apparently waiting for the other man to speak. And of course live human beings are good for only a few seconds of motionlessness. But, finally—

  It was Dr. Chase who shifted in his chair. Leaned forward. And said in an oily voice which—Cotter had noted before—fitted those anecdotes he had told, for years now, about the best method of approaching small boys and offering gifts in return for special favors.

  “Each generation,” said Chase, “sees mankind’s doom. Dr. Cotter, as I understand his purposes from Dr. Pierce, had made himself a spokesman for a very old idea: the concept of morality as it was understood by the most benighted people in our history; our religious ancestors. That poor, non-existent invention of the non-scientific mind, the human soul, has found itself another champion. Much as I despise the fact that, a scientist would lend himself to such a cause, I have to admire the brevity of what could have been a long-drawn-out! boring lecture.”

  “Hear, hear!” said Pierce. And clapped his hands. He did his sneering mouth twist smile. “Cotter,” he continued, “God has a lot to answer for. Death is an outrage for which there can never be forgiveness for whoever set up the system. The aging process is ridiculous, degrading everybody. Similarly, I could list dozens of processes here on earth that are so amateurishly contrived that they are positively disgusting! The universe maker needs to have his head examined. He should be tried for high crimes, and penalized accordingly.”

  He paused as if to catch his breath. Cotter took advantage of the pause to address Dr. Chase. “Sir,” he said, “I heard that you were mugged three times this past year.”

  The smooth face twitched. The plump shoulder shrugged. “I know what the stereotype of the mugger is these days,” said Chase. “He expects you to have a minimum of $500 in, your billfold. If it’s less, he kills you, or damages you. If you have the required minimum—and I always did—he takes the money, kicks you in the shins, and runs.”

  “Three times,” said Cotter softly, “that happened?”

  “Yes.” The tone of the answer was dismissing.

  “How are your shins holding up?” the pudgy man asked.

  “I wear pads,” was the reply. The plump face was suddenly impatient. “Co
tter, listen. What we have here is an adjustment phase for the American people. They’re adjusting to the very serious problem of not having to work at all. And: so, because everything is suddenly easy, they resent the individual whose share of the goodies is greater than their own. You see disaster in this. I just see the endlessness and foreverness of human nature.”

  “Did you report the muggings to the police?”

  “Of course not.” Irritably. “Why waste my time, or theirs, or the mugger’s?”

  There was more to it than that, of course. Reporting might have required an explanation of what he was doing on the streets during mugging hours. The first time, no problem. But the second and third would appear remarkably stupid to anyone who did not realize that Chase was probably scouring the night avenues for youthful victims of his own criminal needs.

  Cotter drew a deep breath. “Your account,” he said, “gives me my first hope that I shall emerge from this meeting alive. If you can’t be bothered reporting a robbery I’m going to guess it’s too much of a nuisance to dispose of me. Or is there a minimum sum I should have on my person?”

  The oily smile broadened. Chase said in that sickening voice, “What we have in those remarks is the prophet of doom foreseeing his own end. It’s a traditional prediction of the breed.”

  At the end of the table to the right, the colonel was standing up. “I think we’ve heard enough. What astonishes me,” he continued, “is that an expert like Cotter does not, in this instance, appear to have taken into account the restrictions by which a computer operates. There is a limit of information or energy which even our marvelous and wonderful machine can assimilate. When that limit is reached the process of moral-energy drain which he has described so dramatically, if it is actually happening, will cease automatically. However, I tend to favor Dr. Pierce’s explanation for the way people are behaving. The human race in America is again disgracing itself. This time, apparently, it’s proving the old saw that idle hands and idle minds, if left to their own devices, get into mischief.”

  He reached down, and picked up the report. “I’d better make sure this doesn’t fall into the wrong hands,” he said. Whereupon he turned and headed for the conference room door.

  Wait!” said Cotter urgently. But nobody was waiting. The other two men were also on their feet; and Chase did not even pick up his copy of the report as he walked away.

  Cotter called after them, “My recommendation is that the computer be divested of all its bio-magnetic hookups. If that were done immediately we might still—”

  He was talking to not just one but three disappearing backs. At the penultimate moment, just before Chase—the last of the three—exited, Cotter called out, “You will find my resignation on your desk, Doctor.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  In the tent the view part of Colonel Yahco Smith’s ornamental necklace has switched on.

  Since the device attached to the base of Meerla Atran’s throat has not been included in my limited instruction, I have already disconnected that.

  So that the view, when it comes on, is at the colonel’s chest level. And I have no other sources of information on the scene thus revealed. No other sound. And no other sight perception to help me correlate what I can see.

  What I see is the interior of a large tent. At the far end is a small, well-lighted stage with a back-up wall. In the middle of that wall is a door with drapes covering the entrance.

  Inside the tent, on the ground, are 27 rows of benches. They extend from the west tent wall to the east tent wall, except for an aisle. The aisle is directly in front of where the colonel’s computer outlet has entered at the rear of the tent. And it divides the benches at the middle.

  Nearly two-thirds of the benches are filled. And more People keep appearing at either edge of my view range. They walk past, and each takes an unoccupied seat. As this is happening, I notice—and record—the presence of Trubby Graham and young David Norton. They sit in the front row, east side. I see Meerla Atran in the 8th row, east side from the front. Allet McGuire, Stess Magnus, and Auli Rhell sit together just west of the aisle in row 12.

  As I make these observations, the aisle has been moving under me. Seventeen seconds later, the colonel sits down on the aisle seat west. He is in row 16.

  A man’s hand comes into view, eight and a half inches from me. The watch face on the wrist turns toward me. I notice, and record, that it shows 19 seconds before 2 o’clock.

  At 15 seconds to 2, the tent lights dim, and simultaneously a spotlight focuses on the door at the back of the stage.

  The man’s hand and arm go down out of my sight at 11 seconds to 2. At which instant, of course, I cease to notice and record the passage of time in this situation, there being no instructions about time, as such. However, I notice and record that there is a tiny delay. Abruptly, then, the curtains covering the stage door part. And—

  Trubby Graham walks through the opening to the front of the stage.

  All over the tent interior people exhale air. They do so virtually simultaneously, but of course that is no problem for my system of counting by repeated viewing. Such rapidity o! air exhalation has in the past been described to me by the word “gasp.” Of the 372 people who make up the audience, 173 gasp. Seven people stand up. Eleven persons make a sound known as a nervous titter.

  And just about every head turns, and points eyes and nose toward where Trubby Graham is sitting with young David Norton.

  That Trubby Graham struggles to his feet. A wordless sound is emitted from his throat.

  On stage, the Trubby Graham there is changing. It is the kind of transformation that Pren did after he first mimicked the body shapes of Allet, Trubby, Stess, and Meerla. Presumably, the change now is from Trubby back to whomever this person really is.

  The transformation completes. And I observe a man whose appearance suggests an age of late 20s or early 30s. He is lean of build, taller than Trubby by 12 centimeters. His face has an expression on it that compares to the meaning of the word “determined.” I have never seen him before.

  By way of the limited perception of the Eye-O through which I observe him, I am of course recording his physiognomy. And I have in my rapid fashion completed what is available when, from above the Eye-O, the colonel’s voice speaks to me in a low tone: “Computer, so far as I can determine at this time, the individual human being on stage is Glay Tate. I want you to record everything about him during the time you have him on view today. But—take note!—record all information on a separate chip. Do not cross file. Do not associate with other persons named Glay. Keep him separate. Understand?”

  “Very well, colonel,” I reply into his ear receiver.

  “Thank you, computer. Continue.” He speaks in the same low voice as before.

  By the time these final instructions are spoken, the man on stage, identified for me as Glay Tate, is saying in a clearly audible voice, “Trubby Graham, will you come up here, please?”

  The plump young man stumbles forward. He trips on the second of the two steps that lead up to the platform, but manages not to fall. Then he is on stage facing Glay Tate. He stands, breathing heavily, and says in a mixture of that high-pitched tenor tone and gasping voice: “Say, how’d you do that? You are sure some magician. I could’ve sworn you were me. And how’d you know my name?”

  Glay Tate looks at him, then faces toward me—or the audience. And in a tone of voice that fits my memory of what is called friendly, says, “Trubby, human evaluation training can teach you how to do what I just did. Right now, and here, for the benefit of all those people out there, many of whom know you, tell them, and me, do you have any problem that you can reveal?”

  “A problem?” says Trubby. He sounds surprised by the question.

  “Yes—” Glay Tate is serious now—“something that bothers you?”

  “Well—” Pause; then: “My dad is
one of those old-time individualists. No computer stuff for him. He’s got his own truck. An’ he wants me to go into business with him. But, heck, if I could make a living from my poetry and other writing, well—I dunno.”

  Glay Tate turns, and again I can see his eyes pointing toward me. He says in his friendly tone: “Folks, he calls that a problem!”

  Trubby’s reply to that, spoken in his high-pitched tenor voice, is, “Well, it bothers me.”

  Glay turns and faces him. “Trubby,” he says, “let me tell you a real problem that you have. When I was your double a minute ago, I looked inside that duplicate head. And I saw a small area of tiny, round, dark things that should be bright gold. And since your father kept you away from the computer, it can be.”

  After those words are spoken, Trubby stays where he is on I the stage. Very still. And then he says, “Yeah!” It is not a meaningful comment to me; so I merely record it.

  Glay speaks again: “Trubby, will you let me reach inside your head and turn those golden lights on?”

  Trubby’s lower jaw separates from his upper jaw. And when he speaks, the two jaws somehow stay separate. In that fashion, he says, “How you going to change me? How you going to reach inside my head?”

  A few inches from me, the field glasses come up. They move past the computer Eye-O attached to the chest ornament, and out of its range of vision. There is a click as the unit on the binoculars turns on. As per my instructions I instantly shut off the chest viewpoint.

  The field glasses, I discover, are pointed at Glay Tate. They bring him and Trubby into close focus just as Glay’s body becomes unrecognizable as Glay. There is a shimmering effect. And then he becomes a mass of golden balls. Whereupon, an arm-like portion of these gleaming yellow balls merges, or melds, into Trubby’s head.

  The lower portions of the field glasses show, also, the heads and shoulders of 34 human beings who occupy benches between row 16 and the stage. Nineteen of these heads and shoulders rear up, some of them partly blocking my direct view. Thirty-one of them, along with 228 other persons whom I cannot see—they’re off to the right or left—make sounds. They either gasp or make small, wordless voicings: grunts, groans, ahs and ohs.