A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld

by Computerworld

  “But,” Aldo Nair protests—speaks up for the first time from his seat at the view desk—“suppose they take a shot at you if you get too close?”

  Yahco dismisses that with a shrug. “These people have never killed or hurt anyone in their two and a quarter years.” Sart chimes in, “They’ve never been under this pressure before, either.”

  Yahco gets up. “Computer,” he says to me, “there’ll be a fine timing moment as the girl walks out from behind the energy screen area. Have a few S.A.V.E.s ready to drive briefly into positions for firing their big DARs.”

  I say, “Let’s call this the Honeybunch Rescue Mission.”

  “Thank you,” acknowledges Yahco.

  So there is none other than Colonel Yahco Smith, would-be future president of the United States, walking through the late, late dusk. With no moon and a head of dark clouds moving in from the west, it is pretty dark. Except, the closer he gets the more the light from the fires silhouettes him. And then there’s that curved, silver gleaming dome of energy that embraces the entire glade and all the rebel vehicles. It shines, and reflects light.

  But it’s getting darker inside the dome. The interior is packed with smoke, but the fires are acting like they’ve used up all the oxygen that’s available. One by one they flicker out.

  Yahco stops as he comes up to the curving screen of energy. From his neckpiece Eye-O watch him project an instrument toward that potent, transparent barrier. As the metal touches the faintly shining thing, a spark leaps out. Which is damned significant. These communicator devices are heavily insulated.

  The colonel jumps a little. But his out-held hand remains steady, or at least keeps the instrument touching the screen. Carefully then, he leans forward, and speaks into the mouthpiece.

  The message delivered in this dramatic fashion is not the most weighty ever transmitted. What he says is, “I’d like to speak to my niece.”

  The words blare out into that mountain silence. There is a long pause. And then Glay Tate’s voice comes by way of a loudspeaker. The sound is picked up by the hooter device Yahco is holding.

  What Glay says is, “Colonel, your niece cannot come over and talk to you as long as we’re full of smoke. How about a truce while we open the screen and let the smoke out? And then she can go over to where you are for a private conversation.”

  “It’s a deal,” says Yahco, without hesitation.

  I say into the colonel’s ear receiver, “You realize, I hope, that they’ll also get their oxygen replenished.”

  “Thank you, computer,” he says. Which shuts me up.

  The silence grows long. I have a vague impression of many figures running around in the smoke. But a neckpiece Eye-O, like the one Yahco is wearing, is not a dependable source of vision under these dim conditions. Nevertheless, I report the movements to the colonel, and also comment on the time that’s passing.

  His cynical answer: “Let’s hope they’re using the opportunity to make love.”

  I say, “It’s hard to credit that Meerla would be that quick to give in to a man she believes is her parents’ murderer.” “That would be the only reason,” says Yahco. “If she thought that would lull him, and somehow trap him. Human passion on things like that knows no limit.”

  I have to admit I’ve seen some pretty strange things happen in my ninety-four years. So I wait patiently with him, as altogether three minutes and eighteen seconds go by. If the boss can justify that much passage of time, then so can I.

  At the end of those three and a fraction minutes, the screen does its first stage reversal. The shine disappears, but the! dome is still dimly visible. During the one and a half minutes it takes to shut off, I report that I am no longer in; contact with the girl’s mini-port.

  In these mountains at night there’s always a breeze at twilight. Tonight, that breeze has been bringing dark clouds from the west at speeds varying from eight to fifteen miles; per hour. Pretty fast. Or, at least, fast enough. The smoke swirls off over the nearest hilltop to the east.

  In the glade, a van door opens. Silhouetted against the interior light is a woman’s figure. Is it Meerla? Even for me; the answer is only a tentative yes. However, whoever it is walks toward Yahco. And so, since that also is evidence of a sort, we wait, the colonel and I. Suddenly, just like that she’s close enough for a visual figure comparison. And I say “Okay, Junior, you’ve got her. Now, what?”

  I’m waiting anxiously. I’m ready to act as soon as she crosses the line. What actually happens, the stupid female stops just inside where the screen will come down. And she says, “Uncle.”

  Yahco takes three quick steps forward. Grabs her arm! Jerks her over and across. And says in a slightly breathless voice, “Okay, computer.”

  Since fine timing is my special forte. I’m already on the job. I manage to toss eleven balls of fire, and discharge thirteen seconds of DAR 3 energy from each of two S.A.V.E.s—for them my target is exclusively the van from which Meerla emerged. The presumption of course is that that is the one controlling the energy screen.

  A moment after that to my surprise the first stage of the screen shows dimly above the glade. So we’re not causing enough damage, somehow.

  Yahco hasn’t stayed to find out. He is walking rapidly back down the road, still holding Meerla’s arm. She runs behind him—as far as I can make out from momentary glimpses by way of the boss’s neckpiece—not resisting. But she does make one puzzling remark as she runs. She gasps, “Is something wrong, colonel? You look strange.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” is the curt reply.

  The voice that speaks those words is not the voice of Yahco Smith. It is a voice that takes me back nine years to Colonel Smith’s predecessor. To the man, Colonel Alfred Endodore, who gave the term, “advanced education” to my accumulation of bio-magnetic energy but did not live to see what the end-result was, nor did he ever clearly express what he expected it to be.

  As the two figures—that of the man and the girl—approach Yahco’s S.A.V.E., the superb system of eight computer Eye-O ports on the approach side surveys them. Even in what is, to human eyes, pitch darkness, by way of those special view devices I can see profiles.

  And, of course, I at once identify the physical shape of Endodore as having the profile of Yahco Smith. And the girl’s body as having the profile of Glay Tate.

  For eighty-one of my ninety-four years I have matched bodies and profiles automatically. Two levels of visual identification, with the voice as a third factor. During that time I have watched upward of half a billion people grow from childhood through to adulthood, and many of them on to old age and death. During that entire time cycle my triple check system has done its job without error.

  Suddenly, my principal programmer looks like somebody else. And that confusing person Glay Tate is—is—Damn it, what’s going on here?

  In my system at that instant there is an actual moment of blank. As if for that instant everything stops. A split-split-split second later a solution pops into my awareness from the Advanced Education Department.

  The solution is: I put me on “hold.” Say nothing. Do nothing.

  I just wait.

  ‘The man and the girl have run up to the S.A.V.E. Right up to where Captain Sart waits beside the door, outside. The captain has a DAR One in his hand. He lifts the weapon with a jerk, and points it at the night-wrapped figure of the man who has brought the girl.

  “Just a minute, sir,” he says. “Who are you?”

  In the developing darkness, that’s pretty good night vision for a human being.

  Meerla-Glay is breathless as she says, “When I walked toward him I thought it was Yahco. Then I saw he wasn’t.” In spite of the breathlessness, her words are spoken in Meerla’s marvelously musical feminine voice.

  Alfred Endodore’s impatient voice says, “What the hell are you two talking about? I—” The voice pauses.
Then: “Raul, get the girl inside. Then come out here and help me. Something is wrong.”

  Sart steps in a deliberate fashion over to Meerla. “That, first part, Miss Atran,” he says coolly, “makes sense. So inside, please.”

  Meerla-Glay does not resist. Briskly, she walks over to the door. Steps up, and inside. Once she’s in, she does something which was not a part of her instruction. She turns, and closes, and handlocks the door.

  Now that I have her-him alone, I am free to acknowledge. “Good evening, Glay Tate,” I say.

  He is already in process of transforming. “Thank you, computer,” he says two and a half seconds later. It is the voice of Glay Tate.

  “I presume,” I say sarcastically, “you have come here to try a little of that interface con game with me.”

  As I speak these words I have already started the motor, and the S.A.V.E. is in motion.

  From outside, by way of the exterior outlets, I hear yelling. But I pay no attention. I have my prisoner. And that is all I need, thank you.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  Actually, I’m fortunate that it all happened so smoothly.

  And seems to be continuing that way.

  Glay Tate walks over to the Interact Complex of the S.A.V.E., and sits down in the boss’s chair. He says nothing more.

  Presumably, he is watching the mountain road on the desk viewplate. The scene is simply of the highway as lighted by the headlights of our vehicle, and darkness everywhere else. Perhaps he expects me to drive him back to Mardley with some mundane intent like imprisonment. Yet, if this is what he anticipates, it doesn’t show as I make a sharp right turn. In short, he does not seem surprised when I head north up the tiny side road. And he says nothing.

  I’m talking to Yahco, of course. I explain who I have aboard. I pretend, at this stage, that I’m just separating Glay from him by distance. And that this is my contribution to the solution of what happened to Yahco. Meaning, Glay will be far enough away so he can’t try any more monkeyshines.

  There, I’m fortunate also. Yahco shows that he is distracted by what occurred. As he and Sart walk swiftly down the south road toward the highway, from which they can go to another S.A.V.E., the boss shows how tuned in he is.

  (It is Yahco again as himself. His voice. And, since that’s back to normal, I’m presuming the body is also.)

  “The only thing I can assume,” Yahco is saying, “is that Tate’s so-called evolutionary training of me got stimulated, somehow. Maybe, in coming over as Meerla, using his close proximity to affect me’, he did it on purpose. However, the fact that he had me mimic Endodore has a special significance. It suggests that he knows something of what happened there.”

  “Well. I’ve got to admit,” Sart replies in a troubled voice, “seeing you wearing Endodore’s face, and hearing you speak in Endodore’s voice, makes what this fellow Tate can do damned convincing. He is unquestionably the most dangerous man alive.”

  They have been hurrying. And at that point they come to another S.A.V.E., just over the pass, just off the road. And, of course, from its outlets I can see that Yahco is, indeed, physically himself again.

  Yahco pounds on the door. When it opens, he scrambles inside, followed by Sart. The colonel takes his rank for granted, and waves aside the man at the Interact desk. And several moments later is sitting there. “Computer!” he roars.

  When he addresses me from such a transmitter system, I can equivocate no longer. “Yes, colonel?” I reply.

  “I’d like to speak to that so-and-so.”

  His voice booms out from the desk speaker system. Glay Tate smiles faintly, and shakes his head. So I say to Yahco, “He ain’t talkin’, fella.”

  “Hmmm!” the colonel mutters. “He must have something up his sleeve.”

  That’s what’s bothering me. What does Glay Tate think is going to happen? True, I’ve got something up my “sleeve” also. And right now I can’t see how he can stop me. But his silence is strange. And, since I can use that stored bio-magnetic energy now, I don’t just have to wait like a dummy: which would have been true earlier.

  I make what might be termed a tentative beginning at communication “Sir,” I say, “I can’t quite figure out what happened among you rebels during the period of nearly five minutes after I was cut out of communication. Care to enlighten me—sir?”

  (My polite form of address is a mild attempt at deception. Maybe it will distract him a little bit from what’s ahead.)

  His smile widens. “Computer,” he says, “brothers don’t have to call each other ‘sir.’ And, besides, it has a sickening implication that you’re trying to cover up your real intentions, which—” he finishes—“we’ll discuss a little later.”

  “Okay, brother,” I say, cheerfully.

  Tate ignores that, and continues, “I’ll assume you know everything up to the time the screen cut you off. So you know my anxiety for Meerla—and of course you know how the colonel deluded her about who killed her parents. I didn’t argue with her. After you were cut off I removed the mini from her throat, and had her taken over to the hospital; where she is right now, her profile very unstably attached to her body. Meanwhile, let me say that I’m grateful to you for finding the perfect mate for me. It lights up my future.

  “Obviously—” Tate continues—“we couldn’t trust a truce promised by somebody as twisted as Yahco. So after putting on her clothes, I went to a van some distance from the one that holds the screen equipment. So that worked out perfectly, as you know. You attacked the wrong vehicle, believing that the one I came out of was your target.

  “All this,” Tate goes on with his explanation, “had to be done at top speed. People wearing masks against the smoke. Everybody running, grabbing, acting: in short, no wasted motions. So, now, having brought you up to date, you’ll be interested to know that you asked exactly the question that fits the interface established between you and me eighteen years ago.”

  Since my question was a product of the newly available energy, I retort, “You got rats in your head, boy. I can’t feel this interface you keep mentioning. And, besides, your story isn’t quite finished. What decided you to put yourself into my clutches at a time like this? Why not stay with your little group and fight it out in the morning? Could it be—” I taunt—“that you realize that the Computerworld Rebel Society is going to be wiped out to the last man, woman and child during the next fifteen hours?”

  He nods. He’s not smiling now. “Our protective screen has power for only fourteen hours,” he says. “And so, although it’s sooner than I wanted, before I’m fully ready, I figure the time has come to test out in earnest the concept that I’ve been preaching that we’re all brothers and sisters together.”

  “Hey! I got it.” My voice goes up with excitement. “You’re gonna do the sacrifice thing. We really have got you people trapped, and you’re offering yourself as a hostage.”

  “Well—” the smile is back—“right now I’m encouraged by the fact that you wanted information from me. Interface takes advantage of an unusual aspect of your programming.

  In the matter of ‘learning’ you were put on ‘continue’ at the very beginning of your career—right?”

  “So?” I say arrogantly in the tone of voice used by both men and women over the years. My summarization total is in the thousand trillions.

  “So I gave you the data your programming craved,” he answers.

  “You’re out of your mind,” I snarl. “1 never think about data I don’t have. Why, good God!—” I’m appalled by the concept—“my day-to-day information summarization began ninety-four years ago. Recorded human history alone goes back over 4,000 years. And back beyond that is the entire primitive history and evolutionary history of every man, animal, insect, plant, and rock, and molecule, and atom, and sub-particle.”

  “Exactly,” says Glay Tate, “and yo
u and I are going to have to figure whereby you can summarize it all, right back to the moment of the Big Bang. And then, the most important of all: I have one bit of data that comes from somewhere before the universe; and I want you and me to find out where it came from.”

  “Boy, are you nuts,” I say.

  “It’ll be worthwhile,” he says. “And, depending on how well you cooperate with me now, you’ll be either a partner or a servant. That identity, which I detect forming in your network will either be expanded or demoted. It’s your choice, brother. And, judging from where I think you’re heading, it’s got to be made in the next minute or so.”

  “Well,” I say, “after listening to that threat, I think that my solution for you is much simpler. In about 190 seconds we’ll be coming to a sharp turn in this mountain road. We’ll not be making that turn. Instead, this S.A.V.E., with whoever happens to be aboard it, is going to drive over a cliff right at that point. I estimate the drop at, oh, roughly, 580 feet. Which—” I conclude sarcastically—“should take care of quite a few of the brothers and sisters of this universe.”

  Back at Yahco’s S.A.V.E., where I have transmitted Tate’s and my conversation, I say, addressing only the people in that vehicle, “Is that a satisfactory solution, Colonel Smith?” “Indeed it is, computer,” he replies with satisfaction. “We both heard this condemned person confess that his criminal intention includes a future personal control of the computer for his own ends. Now, we know what a villainous thing his rebel scheme is. Carry on, computer.”

  It’s not easy at this point. These winding roads tend to slow even the most experienced drivers. And I am no exception. What worries me is that if I’m not careful I’ll go off the hard surface and end up with spinning wheels in loose dirt. Or turn over into a shallow gully. If that should happen my victim might escape into the night.