On stage, I am able—during a moment when one of the intervening heads and shoulders sways, to notice Glay do a turning motion with the hand that has the appearance of being inside Trubby’s head. A single twisting motion. And then he withdraws it.
The shimmering effect ceases. The golden balls sink back into their shadowy location inside Glay’s normal, physical body. And that’s what I see: his normal body.
He says, “There, how does that feel?”
Trubby is frowning. And then in a strong baritone he says, “Well, to tell you the truth, I can’t—”
He stops. Then he says, “For Pete’s sake.” Those words are spoken in the same deeper voice. Another few moments of silence. And then he puts out his hand. “Mr. Tate—” he continues in the new very male voice—“thank you.”
It has been a busy 46.03 seconds for me. Because at the exact instant that the Eye-O attached to the field glasses pre-empted the other unit, my ability to see bio-magnetic profiles turned on. At once, I automatically identify all 34 heads and shoulders between the colonel and the stage.
And, of course, it is the extended awareness of the computer connector equipment on the field glasses that enables me to see the special configuration of Glay Tate: the golden balls that he utilizes on stage to reach inside Trubby’s head are visible to me.
It’s the first time I’ve been able to identify profiles since coming to the human evaluation fair. A single small Eye-O can carry only a limited amount of current, and handle a finite number of events. Meaning a small finite number. Temporarily, the load was close to maximum because of several feedback aspects . . . my automatic attempts at this new, more involved level to notice, and record, details of the human condition.
And, of course—most important—I now have Glay Tate’s bio-magnetic profile on that special chip. (These days getting an extra chip is not easy. In this instance I had to dump the converted energy I had stored under the generalized label “advanced education” from 403 persons.)
By the time I have the heavier load rerouted, or buffered, Trubby Graham is leaving the platform. He goes out of the field glasses range off to one side. The individual members of •he audience whom I can see, are sitting down again. From all sides, visible to me and not visible, there is clapping.
On stage, another physical transformation begins . . . A more feminine Glay Tate. A pair of breasts, and a different shape of hips, the beginning of a woman’s face. The change-over does not go to completion. Whoever it is supposed to be says in pleasant soprano, “I get the name of Meerla—Meerla Atran. Is she here?”
Having said that, swiftly Glay shifts back to the familiar lean, male figure and face.
I am looking at the head and shoulders of Meerla Atran. In row 8. Directly in front of me. She is in the lower third of my view range, as she turns and looks . . . straight at me.
At once, there is a shift in the focus of the field glasses. My view range goes up, so that only the forehead and hair of Meerla are visible. Suddenly, that view increases. But it is she who is moving into focus by standing up. She comes all the way to her feet. She faces the stage. Raises an arm. And waves.
“Here!” she calls.
“Will you come up?” Glay’s voice is his own, as he makes the request.
Meerla edges out to the aisle, and walks to the stage. Glay helps her onto the platform, pulling her up by a hand that she holds out to him.
As soon as she is on stage, Glay backs away. Again, there is the partial shift to womanliness. He thereupon walks twice, back and forth in front of her, mimicking her posture, and her walk, and her arm movements.
The young woman stands very still watching him. Finally: “You’re really doing something,” she says. “It’s not just an illusion.”
In 3.8 seconds after she makes that comment, Glay is physically himself again. He says, “Meerla Atran, mimicking someone often makes them upset, sometimes even angry. Are you disturbed by the way I just mimicked you?”
Her first reply is the shrug shoulder movement. Then:; “What’s the purpose?” she asks.
“Mimicry is the first step in becoming somebody else.” Glay speaks in what is called an earnest tone. “When a child—a boy—acts like his father, we say, ‘oh, he takes after his dad.’ And he really does. But in the wrong way, without being aware. Without knowing how it happened. Without control. And such a long-term similarity gives us only a glimpse of what is involved in human evolutionary training.”
He stops. He has been half facing her, half facing the audience. Now, he gives her a direct look. His eyes narrow. His face has on it an expression of puzzlement.
The girl—she is scarcely more than that—seems to be intent on what he has been saying, for she comments: “What you do is a sort of occult thing, isn’t? Something about tuning into—into—” Her voice stops in mid-sentence. Her eyes widen. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
In my time I have been given explanations for every face and body stance that a human being can assume. So I would describe the muscle set on Glay Tate’s face, as it shows up close through the field glasses, as expressing inner concern. He is, as they say, “troubled.”
The words he speaks are uttered in a serious tone of voice. He says, “Meerla, there’s some very severe emotional interference inside you. I had the feeling earlier when I partially duplicated you. And I actually decided not to do a full body mimic of you because I didn’t wish to intrude on some inner secret, which I vaguely detected. But a roomful of people like this create a lot of energy. Inside this tent right now enough group energy is pouring through my body for me to be aware of a very sad situation. A person close to you has died? Am I right?”
Meerla acquires that troubled look. “Yes, yes. . . .” She mumbles the words. “My parents?”
“Both of them?” He sounds shocked.
“Yes, yes . . . I—” Her voice ceases. She sways, and starts to fall. And in fact Glay acts as if she is falling. He jumps forward and grabs her. Just in time. The configuration of golden balls inside her body-—the bio-magnetic profile—floats up, and away. The tent fabric seems to be no barrier. The golden balls shape moves through the tent ceiling. And disappears.
At that exact moment, Colonel Yahco Smith whispers fiercely, “Computer, notice everything!”
Everything? . . . Here we go again (cynical thought).
Automatically, I activate a mechanism by which every computer Eye-O port in America does a profile scan. Where is Meerla Atran’s profile? Report to Central. Report to “me” out here in Mardley.
The speed of such a search is always astonishing to human beings. In this instance, there is an actual time lapse of 18.7 seconds. The answer, after that period, comes from the robot watering can in the graveyard in Washington, D.C.
“The profile of Meerla Atran,” the computer Eye-O attached to that robot reports, “has just this instant fallen on the grave of her parents. It is beginning to sink into the ground. But wait! Something resembling a very attenuated version of a second profile has just arrived. This second profile is very thin. It is wrapping itself around her, and tugging at her . . . There they go, both of them—into the sky. They’re gone.”
Notice everything!
What happened on stage . . . Glay Tate shimmered. And did a body shift, becoming an exact duplicate of Meerla. His own configuration of golden balls extended out of his body toward the tent ceiling. And through the ceiling. But still attached to the Meerla duplicate standing on the stage, holding the sagging body of the real Meerla. The elongating effect narrows to thread thinness. A single golden thread reaches up through the ceiling of the tent.
And then, one-eighteenth of a second after I get the electronic equivalent of the meaning of “They’re gone!” . . . both profiles flash down into view. What had been a thread foreshortens, thickens. The configuration that is Meerla’s profile simply arrives. Both sets of golden balls
sink into the shadow state which is the visibility level of a profile when it is inside its proper body.
On stage, Glay is Glay again. Seen through the field glasses, his chest is expanding and contracting excessively it what is called heavy breathing. In fact, a moment later, he virtually exhales the words: “Hey! That was close!”
Meerla seems to be in control of herself again. She pulls away from Glay’s holding arms and hands, and stands up by herself. But she still looks, and sounds, “troubled,” as she says, “What—what happened?”
Glay has returned to normal breathing. For a human being, it is a fast recovery. He says (I’m noticing everything; comparing everything) gently: “What happened suggests that your nearness to someone who can do what I can, triggered ant permitted a basic wish. Suddenly, you wanted to be dead and in the grave with your dead father and mother.”
Suddenly, there are tears in Meerla’s eyes. “Why,” she half-sobs, “would somebody like you care about that?” Glay turns and faces me (and the audience). He is calm again. He points at himself. “Somebody like me!” He faces Meerla again. “And I had the impression you were planning to join the Computerworld Rebels!”.
“Yes, yes—” She is suddenly confused—“I would. I’d like to . . . I think I’d better sit down.”
Glay actually walks down the steps with her and leads her to her seat in the eighth row. As he returns, he glances off to one side. Then he gestures. “I get the name, David. And the feeling that it’s a boy. Is that you?”
David Norton, age 12, leaps to his feet. “That’s me!” he replies. And he runs onto the stage ahead of Glay.
As he does so, the field glasses shift away from the stage. Rapidly, they scan the audience. And what is visible of half-turned faces shows that people are relaxing. There is the sound of quiet, approving laughter. And I see, and record, grinning lips and cheeks.
Colonel Smith whispers to me, “Would you say, computer, that this small boy has aroused interest, and that he is liked by the people of this town?”
It is too general a question for me. But it is a question. I reply into the colonel’s ear receiver: “Sir, this is the only small boy in Mardley. The people in this tent are showing those physical reactions which, having seen comparable reactions in the past, I would describe as being exceptionally friendly.”
“Thank you, computer. Connect me with Major Aldo Nair and all of his men who are near an Eye-O port.” That takes a split instant. The colonel continues in a whisper: “I want a volunteer to kill the kid who’s on the stage. There’s a good bonus and promotion if it’s done while he’s on stage. I want it to look as if Tate did it.”
A tiny pause. And then a voice comes oven “Sergeant Inchey here. I volunteer. I’ll come up to the back of the tent with a DAR 3. I’ll be there in three quarters of a minute.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Inchey,” whispers Colonel Smith.
It is a busy 45 seconds—or rather, as it turns out, slightly more than a minute—for me. The colonel’s command to contact Aldo Nair and the nearby S.A.V.E. vehicles and other corps people, abruptly expands the awareness of the circuit “me” inside the tent.
There are seven S.A.V.E.s attached to the Mardley branch of Computer Maintenance Corps. Suddenly, I am inside all seven, looking at what is going on, and identifying profiles of the 42 personnel (six in each vehicle). And I am simultaneously outside, noticing and recording from the exterior computer Eye-O port on each S.A.V.E.
Thus, I notice, and record, that all seven vehicles are stationary below the lip of a hill. To their rear is the town of Mardley. One man in lieutenant’s uniform inside one of the S.A.V.E.s says, “Looks like we’ll be getting our marching orders any minute now. Our job is to drive into the fairgrounds and capture as many of the rebels as we can.”
I locate Sergeant Inchey by a local code system. The outward appearance of my initial contact is that something that spoke with the voice of Sergeant Inchey (whom I cannot see) is wearing a mobile computer Eye-O. The code designation of that Eye-O identifies the something as a part of an insignia attached to the lapel of the sergeant’s suit coat. (Through that Eye-O port the sergeant’s voice volunteered to execute David Norton.)
What is visible from Sergeant Inchey’s personal computer Eye-O is a portion of the computerworld rebel fair. To the left, a part of the audition tent is in view. To the right, parts of two rebel vans can be seen. Directly in front of where I am looking is the large green demonstration tent, which is where the execution will take place.
The mobile something goes forward to this tent. Just before it reaches the rear entrance, it turns aside, and takes up a position behind a bush next to the wall of the tent. A hand comes into view. It holds a tiny object close to the fabric. There is a faint hissing as a tiny bright flame bums a slit eight inches long. The hand with the energy cutter disappears downward. Two clicking sounds are, next, audible. And then, not one, but two hands come into my view. They hold a special DAR 3. The special aspect is that it is the kind that can be folded and transported in a breast pocket inside a man’s coat.
This weapon has been unfolded (the two clicking noises), and is now 17 inches long. The two hands that I can see insert one end of the DAR 3 into the eight-inch slit. The action forces the burned hole open. I have a fleeting slit-sized view of the interior of the tent. And then—
The mobile something moves closer to the wall. So, then, the wall is all I see. The Eye-O insignia becomes virtually motionless at a distance of two and a half inches from flat, rough, tent fabric.
On stage, while that minute plus was happening, I observe through the magnification of the field glasses the interview of young David Norton. To begin with, his head is tilted back and he looks up at a smiling Glay Tate. David’s eyeballs glisten with a bluish sheen as he says in his boyish treble, “Mister, don’t I know you from someplace?”
“Hey,” replies Glay, “that’s an interesting remark.”
He turns. Looks at me (the Eye-O in the field glasses) and the audience. He says, “Folks, what’s interesting about that remark is that kids are usually much better than grown-ups at learning to mimic in the total fashion available through human evolutionary training. More important, for many people, just seeing what I do—a good example was Meerla Atran—stirs up the bio-magnetic energy, which is normally trapped in a mass of conditioning and unrelated mental images. And that stimulation occurs faster on kids, also.”
He faces the boy again. “David,” he says, “we are all brothers and sister on the human evolutionary level, and that’s where you get the feeling you know me. My prediction is that with a little help from me you’re going to make some interesting discoveries about yourself here today. And I—” His voice pauses. Because even as he is speaking, David’s attention is distracted toward a large dog that, at that moment, comes to the foot of the stage steps. The animal, a brown (shade 8) mixed breed, puts its fore paws on the lower of the two steps.
At once, David’s body begins to shimmer. Swiftly, it takes on a dog shape. The transformation is so rapid that by the time Glay Tate grabs at the changing-shape-thing, what he grabs is 9/10ths brown, fuzzy-haired dog-duplicate.
But he grabs hard. And he holds the David-animal body firmly. As he continues grasping it, the dog changes back into boy. Into David Norton.
In my line of vision, 38 people have stood up in a manner known as jumping to their feet. And there is a sound. What I, by comparison, would call a collective moan. The sound comes from all over the tent. I count 241 moans, most of them from people I cannot see.
On stage, David says, “Hey, that was fun.”
Glay’s voice is higher pitched than has been normal for him, as he says, “No more of that, now, understand?”
David is excited. “Betcha it would sure be a great feeling be a wolf,” he replies, “or maybe a mountain lion.”
Glay shakes his finger at him. It is a gesture
human beings use to say no. The words that accompany the finger action are: “Only when I’m around—understand?”
David answers reluctantly, “Ah, gee . . . but okay.”
Glay Tate faces me and the audience. He says in a tone of voice that is what is known as serious, “Ladies and gentlemen, as you know from our group name—Computerworld Rebel Society—not everybody approves of what we are doing. During the past minute something has been happening that is quite complex. First, you people by being here with me,| responding to what I have been doing, have created a very considerable energy field inside and around this tent. Using that energy I am in a position to protect us all from a serious threat—”
As he says that, at that exact instant, there is the sound of an explosion behind the “me” in the field glasses. But at that exact moment the “me” that is pressed up against the fabric of the outside rear of the tent shuts off. Perception on that Eye-O ceases. (However, because everything I do is so super-f fast, there is a split instant before the cut-off when I detect 8 brilliant energy flash. It’s close up. It’s right there with that “me.” The source only a few centimeters distant.)
Glay Tate’s voice is continuing on stage (and of course I hear and see that from the viewpoint in the field glasses): “So let me tell you something I hope you will be happy with. All of you have been affected by that energy field I just mentioned and by my presence in it. The fact that people are affected in this way is our hope against those persons who with that timeless human tendency toward skullduggery see the computer as a way to personal power. I suggest that you all try a little mimicking when you get home. I think you’ll be amazed at how good you are. But, in view of that explosion we just heard, I urge that you do go home. All of you. There’s going to be a raid on this fair, is my guess. It’s the first raid ever on us out here in the west. So things are really hotting up.”
A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld Page 6
