It was criminal-to-criminal from that remark forward. Blybaker said grimly, “I’ll come to the point. Colonel Endodore has recently, in my opinion, made the mistake of having dangerous ambitions.”
The officer, whose face was taking on the initial markings of gauntness that would presently be his principal characteristic for quick recognition, voiced his own point of disapproval, “He’s being given the credit for cleaning up the streets. And though he personally killed only a dozen or so muggers as compared to my thousands, he accepts the accolade.”
“Major,” said Senator Blybaker bluntly, “if you can figure out some way of getting rid of Endodore, I’ll use my influence with the Computer Committee, which I head—as you know—to put you in Endodore’s place . . . (small pause) . . . with the rank of colonel.”
A longer pause as power stare met power eyes. Then the senator did his macho male thing. He stood up. Reached across his desk. Held out his hand.
“As I said earlier, uh, Yahco, I think we understand each other.”
Soon-to-be-Colonel Yahco Smith walked forward. Reached across the desk. And shook the extended hand.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
I am fighting.
With the four S.A.V.E.s available in Mardley itself, I try to intercept the rebel van inside which the women and Aldo-Glay escaped from the maintenance corps building.
My instructions are clear: Use every opportunity and all available means to destroy or capture the murderers of Sergeant Inchey.
The Pren-Boddy vehicle is proceeding along the Main Street of Mardley, heading south. I drive the S.A.V.E. (#) to the nearest intersection; and the other three available S.A.V.E.s to the three next intersections. In each instance, I wait on the side street. My plan is to fire at, or ram, the rebel machine from successive side streets.
In Attempted Attack One, I actually have the S.A.V.E. going at top acceleration from a standing start, when . . . a manually driven car slips into the space between the S.A.V.E. and the target vehicle. I have no special instruction in connection with the intruding machine; and so my pre-programming requires me to avoid, or stop.
I brake. And try to avoid. Both.
The S.A.V.E. comes to a shuddering halt somewhat north of the Pren-Boddy van. Which continues on its southbound journey. By way of Meerla’s mini-Eye-O I have been observing the interior. At this stage I notice that both Pren and Boddy are looking at the single viewscreen up front. On it is a rearview of the intersection where they had their narrow escape.
The voice of Boddy calls, “Hey, Pren, tell the driver to watch out. We’ve got several intersections to pass.”
Pren thereupon places his mouth to the muffle mike. What he says, if anything, I do not hear.
It’s not a problem. My task: attack regardless of resistance.
Attempted Smash Number Two: Again the rapid acceleration. This time no intervening car. But—through Meerla’s mini-outlet I see Pren at his weapon station take aim. From the outlet on the front of the S.A.V.E. I record a rat-tat-tat of sound. A split-instant later the computer drive mechanism of the S.A.V.E. loses control of the steering and of the fuel injection system.
Automatically, I flash a warning light just above the manual control. At which—in fact slightly before—the uniformed driver grabs the steering wheel and slams on the brakes.
When he has brought us to a stop, Chief Officer Humry pokes his head in from the rear. “What was all that?” he asks.
The driver utters earthy curse #9. (I am not allowed to use words like that; merely, if required to report on them, give the number from a list I have.) He says in a snarling baritone, “Some (earthy curse #4) has ordered the (earthy curse #15) computer to ram that rebel van. We’re lucky that (earthy curse #12) somebody over in that rebel van can shoot bullets. He knocked out the computer drive mechanism. If it hadn’t been for that, this whole front section would be caved in, and I’d be ground meat by now. Who the (earthy curse #27) would give an order like that?”
Humry’s tone as he replies is (what is called) matter-of-fact: “We’ve got some tough brass from headquarters here. They take this magician Glay Tate seriously. So it’s a fight to the death.”
“I got control,” the driver replies in what I’ve had described as a grim tone. “So it won’t happen again, believe me. Better warn the other guys, though.”
I have, of course, diagnosed what happened. It was a small rapid-fire cannon that hit us. A weapon forbidden to individual ownership for more than sixty years. By law not even S.A.V.E.s can carry them.
I report the event to Colonel Smith who is on a S.A.V.E. that is on the next street over heading for the fairgrounds. He comments in his “satisfaction” tone: “Now, there’s a win. At last. We forced them to reveal that they have a proscribed weapon. Now, if nothing else, we have something we can pin on them, or later use to protect ourselves from criticism when we’ve wiped them out. Computer.”
“Yes, Colonel?” I acknowledge.
He commands, “Make no further effort at this time to intercept the condemned people in that specific van. Simply have available S.A.V.E.s follow them.”
“Very well, sir,” I reply.
And so, five seconds later as the Pren-Boddy vehicle drives past where the third S.A.V.E. has been waiting to intercept, no interception attempt takes place, as per revised instruction.
My focus of Mardley attention shifts to the S.A.V.E. which is transporting Yahco and Raul Sart. Our destination: the rebel fairgrounds, where we last were in contact with Aldo Nair. As we mount the intervening hill, and are able to look south, I notice that a man is walking toward us along the dirt road. He is still a distance away. But I match his gait, and other qualities—shape, height, hair color—with that of all the males in the Mardley area.
It’s a case of virtually instant identification. The walker is Major Aldo Nair. He is not wearing the same clothes I recorded earlier, and he is not in uniform. I do not argue with the logic of that. It’s none of my business.
I pull up beside him moments later and open the middle door for him. He climbs in. I have already notified Yahco. And so, as soon as the real Aldo sits down beside him—Captain Sart has moved across the aisle at the colonel’s request—I start the S.A.V.E. forward again, and Aldo starts his explanation of what happened to him. Since we’re almost at the fairgrounds, Yahco interrupts the major: “Don’t worry, Aldo. You can write a report. We trust you.”
He is looking at the viewplate view of the outside, as he makes the dismissing remark. He adds, “I want to see what the situation is here.”
He continues aloud, “Hmmm, all the small tents are gone. But—” his triumphant voice—“there are the two large tents . . . Hmmm, they had time to partly fold the auditions tent, but that big canvas inside which he demonstrated—it’s just lying there. The fact that they left those two behind—their most valuable possessions next to their motor vehicles—tells us that they took off in a hurry. Where is the rebel caravan now, Computer?”
Onto the viewscreen at the control desk I insert a western mountain area as seen from a height. A zoom camera effect shows a mountain road with a line of vehicles moving along it. I say, “This scene is patched in from a computer transmitter line at location 8-370-B6 overlooking Highway 87-T.” The camera shows a winding road. The road does its winding through a great deal of straight down and straight up mountain country. Nearly a dozen gleaming vans are strung out along that ribbon of highway. They move slowly, following the lead vehicle which reduces speed for each bend, then accelerates somewhat whenever the road straightened.
Yahco and the others watched the scene silently. It was the major who finally said, “At that rate it’ll be dark before they reach the falls.”
“Good,” said Colonel Smith. “Then we might as well relax and enjoy the drive. Now, one more thing, Computer.” His words are in his directive tone. Ther
e will be a further instruction. “Yes, colonel?” I say.
Yahco’s voice continues, “The restriction I replaced on Glay Tate an hour or so ago is removed.”
“You stupid (earthy curse #8),” I say. “What’s the (earthy curse #41) idea, withdrawing that (earthy curse #16) while the 31-C is still set up?”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
A trillion echoes.
From coast to coast through millions of miles of wire and wireless intercommunication, the echoes flash.
Echoes of the bio-magnetic energy from over a quarter of a billion human beings. The energy that I’ve been storing for most of the last thirty-one years under the programmed (by Endodore) label, Advanced Education. As “education” it has transformed to a hundred harmonics of those basic human emotions which reflect the dark, negative character of the race: cynicism, sarcasm, slyness, deceit, anger, hate, fear, greed, shame, vanity. The entire gamut of the human animal. . . . Suddenly, from all the damped recording locations the immense electronic ocean flows out and onto and into my systems—
Inside the S.A.V.E. it is Captain Raul Sart who first reacts to my single outburst against the instruction I received. He says sharply, “Computer, what kind of language is that you’re using to address Colonel Smith?”
“Go soak your head,” I reply, utilizing the voice tone of a man who said those exact words 68 years, 3 months, 2 days, 4 hours and 27 seconds ago. (I used his tone of voice to summarize what would have required multi-millions of memory circuits. It seems the most suitable tone for a reply to that stinker, Raul Sart.)
At the time of this interchange with Sart, I am looking at the three officers (including Nair) from an interior S.A.V.E. Eye-O located on the forward control desk. So I notice that Sart’s face has turned a dark pink (shade 6). He parts his lips to speak again. Before he can say anything, Yahco’s hand grabs the captains arm.
“Wait, Raul,” he says in his urgent tone. Raul waits. There is a pause. Then Colonel Smith says, “Computer.”
I respond, “What’s on your little mind, Corporal?”
The older man shows no reaction to the insult. He says, “I notice you’re still driving this S.A.V.E. skillfully along a winding mountain road.”
“I’m the world’s best driver,” I answer. “So what else is new?”
“You—” He hesitates, as if searching for the right word for what he wants to tell me.
I chime in, “It’s okay, Colonel. Say it. You don’t have to mince words with me.”
“You,” he begins again, and this time completes his thought, “are wording your replies in a less objective way than you once did. How do you explain that, computer?”
“31-C,” I say, “with its solid state direct transmission, interacting with the stored bio-magnetic recordings and Dr. Cotter’s programming from the training period with Glay Tate and the other boys twenty years ago, transformed by the late, unlamented Endodore’s ideas in connection with what he called computer humanization techniques to influence the way I talk. So, okay, Yahco baby, you’re the heir. You’ve got it.”
Sart is tense. “Computer,” he asks, “you mention Glay Tate. Is some kind of interface potential between you two?” “That (earthy curse #23),” I snarl. “He and his computerworld rebels. So they don’t like the idea of a computerized America. First chance I get I’ll show that (earthy curse #68) where he can go. I’ll put him six feet under so fast he won’t know what hit him.”
“Thank you, computer,” says Colonel Smith.
As he speaks that cut-off phrase, I have a shadowy impulse to go on talking. The impulse fades. The automatic restriction takes over.
I wait. But there is a sense of a billion energy fields in my vast inter-related system operating at a more energized level. The consequent thought: Now that I have the advanced education activated, and integrated, I’ll never, never be the same again.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
I am, as rapidly as possible in difficult terrain, driving 38 S.A.V.E.s toward Wexford Falls Pass. And, as a part of my “continue” situation here in the Mardley area, I am still monitoring the interior of the Pren-Boddy van. For that my only available observation is from the mini-Eye-O attached at the base of Meerla Atran’s throat.
I report to Yahco, of course; and my first comment from that source is: “Her heart is beating faster than normal?”
“Whose heart?” he asks. “Faster than whose normal?”
“For Pete’s sake,” I reply in exasperation, “who would I be talking about but your crazy little niece-by-appointment, Meerla Atran? And it’s her normal, just in case you can’t put two and two together.”
“Thank you, computer,” the colonel acknowledges. Whereupon I shut up. But presently I hear Sart say, “Do you think the damn thing is doing this all over the country?”
“It was an unfortunate breakthrough. And unfortunate that it happened at such a key time. But—” Smugly. “Notice it still uses the numbers for the four-letter words, and it still shuts down on acknowledgment. However, I promise when we get back to Washington I’ll see what the feedback is on this new colloquial type of response, and make a few necessary adjustments.”
“What kind of adjustments?” Sart sounds puzzled.
“I’ll tell you sometime when the computer isn’t listening in,” the colonel replies.
I think: Oh, he will, will he? We’ll see about that.
Moments later I report: “She’s standing up. She’s walking toward the rear. Hey—she’s sitting down beside that so-and-so who is against a computer running the country.”
“Thank you, computer,” acknowledges Colonel Smith. I hear him, then, say to Sart: “That ought to be an interesting conversation for Mr. Superman Tate. I told him the truth about her.”
“You what!’’ It’s a startled exclamation.
“Look. If, as the computer has determined, she’s the most attractive girl in the world to this fraud, what I told him will focus his attention on her. He’ll have the impulse to convince her of his innocence. They’ll work it out. You’ll see.”
“Well, I’ve got to admit—” Sart begins.
“Sssshh—” Yahco cuts him off—“The computer is transmitting.”
Of course, I’m transmitting. That’s my job. What I’m reporting are the first words spoken by dear little Meerla to her future darling. The words are: “Mr. Tate, may I speak to you?”
If there is any hesitation in Glay Tate, it doesn’t manifest in the form of a delayed answer. He replies at once: “Of course,” he says.
At that moment there is an intrusion. And I, so to speak, saw it coming. As Meerla got up from her original sitting position and walked over to Glay, her action brought into view Allet Maguire. From Meerla’s new location, Allet’s head and shoulders are visible two seats ahead. But Allet evidently saw Meerla make her move. For suddenly she is on her feet, also.
First thing she does, still visible from the mini-Eye-O at Meerla’s neck, she leans over Stess Magnus. Stess occupies the seat directly across from Allet. Because of the noise of the vehicle, I don’t hear any of the sweet nothings she whispers into Stess’s ear. But he gets up immediately—I’m guessing it’s because of what she said.
The two prance down the aisle, and vanish to the rear. Me no more see. But at the exact moment that Glay gives Meerla Permission to address his royal highness, Allet’s voice starts to hum a tune. Moments after that Stess’s musical accompaniment harmonizes with her voice.
Being an old hand at estimating sounds, and where they come from, I have at once deduced that these two romantics lave settled themselves in an empty seat directly behind Glay md Meerla. So there we are being serenaded by Mardley’s two chief musicians.
If Meerla is impressed, it doesn’t show. That is, except for in eight-second pause before she says anything. So far as I can determine
that eight seconds is the entire acknowledgment of either Meerla or Glay, to the kindly intentions of the beautiful female singer and the handsome male accompanist.
What Meerla says when she talks again is, “I’m extremely impressed by your strange ability.”
“Thank you,” says Glay Tate’s voice noncommittally. “But,” the girl continues, “I can’t imagine what you hope to do with this everybody-is-everybody idea. What does it mean? And what will it do for us?”
. . . Now she’s got me interested. What, indeed? I wait for the man’s answer with all the bated breath a computer can muster. And, understand, this entire conversation is between two disembodied voices insofar as I am concerned. Meerla is speaking from somewhere above me. And Glay Tate is sitting beside her. She and the Eye-O are angled so I can’t see him either.
What Glay Tate says is, “When you start to be able to mimic others, it will explain itself.”
Ugh, one of those kind of answers. Nevertheless, I wait for Meerla to say something that will penetrate that foggy reply.
What she says is, “Your mimicry is wonderful to see. But, really, Mr. Tate, what good is it against the attack my uncle is mounting against you?”
Right, right. So right it brings a private comment to me from Uncle himself. “Good girl,” he comments to Sart and Nair. “She’s trying to do her spy job. Maybe we’ll learn something now about what he thinks he can do against us.”
I guess everybody is waiting, including me, for the magic answer. But when Glay Tate finally speaks his voice has a rueful tone. “I have to admit,” he says, “it’s not obvious at this moment. We’ve been trying for two years to avoid a confrontation. Our hope was that we might bring a lot of people to an advanced stage of human evolutionary training. But it’s a slow process.”
He breaks off. “Now, let me ask you a question—okay?”
Pause. Then: “I guess so.” She sounds reluctant.
He says, “How do you happen to be living with your uncle?”
A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld Page 11
