A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld

by Computerworld

  “Look, gentlemen,” he went on anxiously, “you can stop this whole mugging madness with the computer’s help. And the only problem is that the computer has been getting this energy feedback, now, for thirteen years. And, of course, having no directive, it automatically programmed itself to store the energy somewhere—we may deduce that it manufactured tantalum chips for storage purposes. So, wherever those are located, it’s been accumulating them. As a consequence, it has for the first time ever in the history of machinery the basic stuff of human nature available. The first consequence we can see everywhere. Human beings have deteriorated morally. If there is an additional consequence that the computer can utilize human nature in its vast, technological network’ which spans this continent from Atlantic to Pacific—then what?”

  He paused. Then: “Gentlemen, we can’t wait. Something has to be done. Please act. Or let me act.”

  They were watching him silently, as he desperately spoke his information and thoughts. But if there was an acceptance of the urgency he still felt, it didn’t show in those frozen faces. For a long moment, the silence was intense. And then—

  “Kill them.” It was the harsh voice of Colonel Endodore. “All.”

  “Oh, my God, no!” Cotter heard his high-pitched voice. “No, no, no, not the boys!”

  “The kids, particularly,” said that flat, cold voice, “but this conniving so-and-so, also.”

  That was the last sound Cotter actually heard. There were bright flashes off there in the sudden darkness. And there was an anguished thought in him that seemed to hold for a measurable moment.

  . . . Dear Glay, he was thinking at the instant that the DAR 3 beam hit him, my dear little fellow over there in England, my last hope, please, please, do—please, have already done—what I told you, trained you, to do. And when you’re grown, when you feel ready, come back to the U.S., and carry out the plan—

  The blackness of body death came before that thought could ever have been spoken. But it was there in the condensed way that a mind can conceive an entire set of ideas. And it went with him into the eternal night. Or day.

  Of the living persons, who remained in that room, it was again Colonel Endodore who spoke first. He addressed his uniformed aides: “Take these—” his arm and hand and finger indicated the silent, twisted bodies on the floor—“to Computer Center.”

  It was roughly done. One big man actually tucked two boys’ bodies under one arm, and a third under the other. And walked out with them. The others, including Cotter, were taken one at a time.

  Within minutes Pierce and the colonel and the colonel’s aide were alone. The savage face of the commanding officer turned to confront the super-sophisticate. Grim, blue eyes stared into worldly blue.

  ‘Well, doctor,” said the officer, “I hope you agree that care of the Cotter one-man religious revival.”

  “What about the kid in England?”

  The other man sniffed contemptuously. “A ten-year-old boy on his own. I predict that if he grows up in the British he’ll join the Anglican church, and never know why the stuff appeals to him. After all—” he shrugged—“religion is a conditioned thing, as the late, lamented Dr. Chase never tired of pointing out. Wherever you’re born, that’s the religion you practice.”

  The sophisticated face frowned. “There’s a role of chemistry in it somewhere. After all. Chase himself was caught in a chemical need for small boys—a need that you and I don’t have. Our problem in the corps is a plethora of willing females, who instinctively see us as the future power center. Religion has a similar appeal for the mass mind.”

  A curt, savage laugh was Endodore’s reply to that. Followed by: “Then why are they out there on the street murdering and robbing and breaking every law in the books, when they should be at ease in—what is the phrase?—in Zion?” Abruptly, he sounded baffled. “The computer has made everybody rich and idle. And the stupid idiots can’t handle it. There they are out there, demanding more than they’re getting.”

  He was suddenly grimmer. “On that point, I’ll take up Cotter’s suggestion. We’ve let them play street anarchy long enough. Starting tomorrow our S.A.V.E. vehicles are going to be out there helping the computer, which will be correspondingly programmed. And the assigned task is to make the streets absolutely safe again. And maybe—” sly smile—“We’ll program the computer to regard that stored, uh, soul energy as a kind of advanced education in human nature not to be used until we say so.”

  “Hey,” said Pierce, “that’s the best idea I’ve heard recently.”

  If Endodore heard the praise, it didn’t show. He stood there, his almost black eyes narrowed, lips compressed. Everybody waited. And finally the forming thought emerged.

  “Dr. Pierce—” he spoke in his formal tone—“Cotter must have given specific instruction to the computer about, that boy in England. See if you can find out what the instruction was.”

  “Why not right now, sir? Now that we know the kid’s name.”

  Without waiting for permission, he walked over to the computer Eye-O port at the door. “Computer,” he commanded.

  “Yes, Dr. Pierce,” came the male voice acknowledgment.

  “What information do you have on Glay Tate, age ten years?”

  “Who?”

  The long, angular scientist turned toward the grim, angry officer. “There’ll be an insert chip somewhere, Colonel, blanking out the data on the boy. I’ll have a thorough search made of these premises to see if there are any clues left here by Cotter. Our job is either to find the chip, or get around the restriction some other way. You may count on everything possible being done.”

  He broke off: “Will you be asking congressional consent to clean up the streets, Colonel?” He hesitated. “What I’m saying, sir, is do you think Congress will permit such directed use of the computer?”

  The heavy, angry face broke into a savage smile. “Doctor,” said the colonel, “we apparently have to explain constantly that a computer is not an instrument of magic. It doesn’t know everything. Because, as we know, it actually stores minor details for a time only, and then dumps them, and merely retains an overall consideration. As an example, it may store moment by moment details of a certain event which is repeated constantly. Presently, it will dump the details. And when asked about it a year later, it will simply report that the event occurred 894,324 times. Within that limited frame, the computer does its duty without fear or favor, and will continue to do so as long as I am in charge of it.”

  Having uttered these words, all essentially unrelated to the question, Endodore turned. And seemed, then, surprised to see Lieutenant Yahco Smith standing beside him. There was sudden extra thunder on the colonel’s brow. “You still here?”

  “Awaiting your command, sir,” was the smooth reply. “Ready for action, anywhere.”

  “Hmmm—” The commanding officer seemed to be sizing up his stem-faced junior—“maybe I’ll put you in charge of the clean-up program.”

  “I’d like nothing better, sir,” said Lieutenant Yahco Smith, saluting smartly.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Such a memory scan requires only a few millionths of a second.

  And, while it is occurring, I am alert in 2090 A.D.

  So, naturally, when Yahco makes a sound with his lips, I hear it. I even see the facial movements. Then—the instruction:

  “Because of the emerging situation here in Mardley, it may be inadvisable for you to have the data about Glay Tate on that special chip available to you.”

  There is no question in his words. So I wait without comment.

  “Accordingly,” Yahco continues, “until further notice I want you not to respond to the Glay Tate profile in any way. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I revert to the situation that existed prior to your programming of that special chip? Or merely set up an L-83 circuit?”r />
  “Which is easier?”

  “The pre-programming condition, sir. After all, the chip contains only a very tiny bit of information.”

  “What about the possibility that Dr. Cotter has a circuit set up somewhere in your system in connection with Glay Tate, which can be triggered if Glay Tate knows, and speaks, the triggering sequel? Which system of neutralizing the chip would be better if such a preprogramming existed?”

  “Colonel,” I reply, “I have never been programmed to deal with such a problem as you are describing.”

  Pause. Then, in what has been called an unhappy tone: “I can see we have a lot of work to do when we get back to Washington. Right now, do what you said.”

  “Very well, sir,” I say, “the chip is neutralized.”

  At that point Aldo interjects in what I would call an uneasy tone of voice: “Is this wise, Colonel Smith? Tate is a person whom we should not lose track of even for a moment, from what you’ve told me of him.”

  Yahco’s voice is calm in his best smug fashion, as he says, “Aldo, way out here in Mardley whatever happens will be local. Right, computer?”

  “What is the question in relation to?” I ask.

  “Glay Tate.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  Silence. Then: “Well—” It is the colonel using his rueful tone—“at least Glay Tate will not be practicing an interface relationship with the computer—which is what I suddenly feared might happen.”

  His voice takes on his positive tone: “Aldo, the capture of those four unauthorized mothers is the best thing that could have happened. We’ll hold an immediate public trial.”

  “On what grounds?” Major Nair sounds surprised. He is still in my view, and his face is quite red (shade 14).

  Colonel Smith’s voice answers: “For the murder of Sergeant Inchey.”

  “But,” Aldo protests, “he’s not dead.”

  “Nobody knows that. Besides, we’ll kill him if we have to. Now, look—” I recognize the colonel’s persuasive tone of voice, as he speaks—“we’ve got to get rid of this gang of rebels. They and their leader are the greatest danger to our system that has come along in the history of a computerized America. They want to take us back to the primitive industrial conditions of the 20th century. It is our job to be decisive and end this threat totally forever.”

  ‘Well—” Aldo sounds partially convinced—“we’ll have the girls and their babies under restraint at our local headquarters. We can go there, and decide what to do next.”

  “Good idea,” says Yahco’s voice. “I think we’ve done what we can here. Computer, give me a summary of where everybody is.”

  One of those!

  Summaries are of several kinds. It’s easy to give a moment-to-moment detailed account. That way, every incident is of equal value. There is, however, a type of “summary” which implies—so I was told long ago, indeed—that some events are more important than other events. Which is a difficult concept for me to grasp. And, in fact, what I’m really required to do is select out a few happenings from many, and report on them. In this connection, a programmer—Joe Henson—in 2027 A.D. (that was before I came under the protection of the military) once suggested that in summarizing I deal only with experiences in relation to persons known to the individual asking for the summary. (As a result of seepage from the advanced education files, that was a cynical solution; but admittedly pragmatic.)

  The second principal type of summary is the one I use after dumping. I am programmed to dump unofficial conversations,! repetitive events (such as people eating, going out, driving to their jobs, or to other daily or frequent occurrences.) For such a summary I merely list under a heading how many such simpler type activities took place in a year, a month, a week, a day—whichever that class of programming requires. The details of the daily doings of individuals, if recorded, would long have over-energized all my storage facilities.

  Here in Mardley, Colonel Smith—I make one of my split-second surveys—has been involved with, or has learned the names of 29 persons.

  So I begin: “The S.A.V.E. (I give the number) which captured the four mothers and their babies, has reached Mardley’s Main Street. Five rebel vehicles visible from S.A.V.E. (number) are driving south along the same road by which a single truck departed 6 minutes and 34 seconds ago. Seven other rebel vans, including the Pren-Boddy and Doord-Loov vehicles, have formed a line in front of the nine rebel tents. And a S.A.V.E. (number) which attempts to penetrate the line is blocked by two maneuvering rebel vans. It should be noted that three of the rebel vans, including the Pren-Boddy vehicle, are larger in length and apparent weight than any of the Mardley-based S.A.V.E. machines—”

  The colonel’s voice interrupts my summary. He says, “Computer, have all recognizable rebel personnel, other than the captured women and their babies, successfully taken refuge inside rebel vans?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply.

  “Where,” he asks, “are the spectators?”

  My reply: “I have glimpses of them from eleven Eye-O ports streaming along the road back toward Mardley.”

  “Any sign of the boy, David Norton?” Yahco asks.

  “No sir.”

  “Hmmm. Okay. We can pick him up later. So, computer, go back on a ‘continue’ basis.”

  “Very well, colonel,” I acknowledge.

  I have that cynicism thought. Something about this conversation, or something that has happened in relation to Colonel Yahco Smith has had a re-educational effect on my systems. It is a subtle thing, difficult to describe to myself. What makes it difficult is that, even as the cynicism surges into my awareness, in the near and far distances of my wired and wireless networks those 1.8 trillion (plus or minus a few billion) other actions proceed. Minute by minute I conduct automatic conversations with millions of individuals. I answer phones. I give information. I provide music. Put on plays. Read aloud to children. Require acknowledgments from people who enter homes and offices. Identify profiles. Address individuals by name. And of course drive all those millions of vehicles and all that factory machinery.

  What makes all that difficult to differentiate is that what I do out there is automatic. It is entirely pre-programmed. All those whirling wheels, and clicking machines, and buzzing instruments, and the quadrillion interactions are conducted by me within an exact unchangeable frame.

  What I do in relation to Colonel Smith is also automatic at any given moment. The fact that he can change the automaticness from one minute to the next happens so automatically that the changeover simply takes place. And there I am in another automatic condition.

  Yet the cynicism has within it a carryover of memory. The Memory has to do with the fact that the change took place. If I’m asked about such changes before I dump the details, I immediately consult my files. And produce the desired exact second of the change and what it consisted of, and report to my questioner.

  For some reason, unknown to me, I have a lingering recollection of filing more data in the re-education section. And the consequent feedback of cynicism . . . lingers.

  Fortunately, at that moment Major Aldo Nair says, “I’ll go get the jeep.”

  “Good,” says Yahco. “Sart and I will walk over to the road and look like we’re a part of the straggle of people leaving.”

  As Aldo turns away, Colonel Smith calls after him, “It would be a good idea to do some hypno-pulsing on the people| who attended the fair.”

  Major Nair pauses, and faces about. “Hypno-pulsing?” he repeats, questioningly.

  “Oh!” Yahco is apologetic. “That’s the new equipment we had installed in two of your S.A.V.E.s last night. It’s secret, but out here would be a good place to run a test.”

  Aldo shakes his head. “You don’t know these western people. They won’t appreciate—”

  “That’s why it’s a good place for a test.”

 
; “Well—” doubtfully—“maybe you’re right. We’ll try it.” Once again he turns away, and continues toward a space between two tents. The colonel calls after him, “I’m beginning to have the feeling, major, if we solve this rebel problem here in the next day or so we’ll be able to use a man like you in Washington.”

  “Thank you, sir!” The major’s voice comes to me from the portable Eye-O attached to his lapel. I can no longer see him.

  As he disappears between the two tents, Captain Sart speaks for the first time: “That was well thought out, sir. The prospect of a promotion to Washington may erase from Aldo’s mind any mountain-west reluctance to act forcefully in this affair.”

  “My thought, exactly, Captain,” the colonel replies.

  More than a minute has now gone by since Yahco interrupted my summary of on-going events, whereby I was reporting on all 29 persons known to him in the Mardley area. True, he thereafter focused my attention on several key areas. But the termination of the “summary” request abruptly puts me back into the more generalized “continue.”

  “Continue” essentially requires me, first and foremost^ observe and report whatever threatens, or affects, Colonel Smith, Captain Sart, and computer corps people.

  This at once takes me, primarily, to the outlets of the four S.A.V.E.s which are still close to, or on, the fair grounds. Naturally, I scan whatever is visible or audible from all the computer maintenance people—which I would do anyway.

  The difference is that now I do the scanning in relation to the attack mission.

  And so, automatically, I find that one of my areas of special attention is the Eye-O attached to Meerla Atran’s skin at the throat level.

  My point of reference is about a meter from the floor. In front of me are several rows of bus type seats. And, directly in front of the Eye-O is a rear view of the head and shoulders of Stess Magnus. He is sitting in an aisle seat. Beyond him are other young people, both male and female humans. Several of the females have babies. Visible from Meerla’s Eye-O port are five females and three babies, and eight male heads and shoulders.