A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld

by Computerworld

  Having got that far, I pause. For good reason. Ahead, and to one side, is the big concrete wall I’ve been heading for. It’s my destination. So now I’m all set. I continue: “Any quick comment, Tate, on what I’ve just told you?”

  He’s leaning back in the seat. You’ve got to hand it to this baby—he’s tough. I’ve been watching human beings die for a long time. And in all my summarizations there is one common denominator: reluctance.

  Nothing like that here. He leans back. And he says, “As I see it, one more takeover by me will handle this whole deal. And I should warn you, computer. You’re not building up any credits for yourself. Right now, your future as an individual looks very dim.”

  There’s no time for the proper philosophical answer to that. Because at the exact moment he finishes his little speech the right front wheel hits the curb. The curb at that point is thirty-one centimeters high. At the speed we’re going, something has to give. I hear a crunch and a metallic splintering.

  It’s instantly a wounded monster. But it doesn’t matter. A broken wheel, or two, or three can’t stop the forward momentum of a hurtling truck and trailer. There have been other crunchings, and splinterings. Among the numerous disasters is that, abruptly, there’s silence. We actually, then, hit the wall soundlessly.

  The subsequent blank-out of perception is as instant as anything I’ve ever been associated with. My last view of Tate-Rayle is that he’s out of his seat belt and partly through the windshield.

  A very satisfying last scene.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I keep recalling Tate’s statement, as the minutes of the early morning go by, that he has one more takeover in mind. Who will it be?

  Yahco seems the most likely possibility. It could be that the late magician of Mardley has some notion that I wouldn’t think of damaging my chief programmer.

  Boy, has he got another “think” coming. I don’t need nobody. Not Yahco. Not Glay Tate. Not Hooty Tooty. The place is all mine. And my only question is when, and with what preliminaries, do I make my announcement to my people and issue my rules and regulations?

  As I consider related options, at that very minute I’m in process of landing, with my usual skill, the plane that Yahco is on. And I’ve also got a S.A.V.E. driving into the airport to pick him up. What shall I do with Yahco? Is he still useful to me, alive? Shall I make a deal of some kind with him?

  I have two views of the people who emerge from the airport entrance nearest the S.A.V.E. The closest is the Eye-O above the group of doorways on this side. Since I’ve been keeping track of Yahco as he moves from the off-ramp, and verbally nudging him as to where to go, naturally I see him as he comes out. I look down at him, and note that the area ahead of him is safe for him.

  The other view is actually four views. But they’re all similar. It’s me peering from the four S.A.V.E. Eye-O ports, facing the airport entrance.

  So there is Yahco under my close observation, with men at alert at DAR 3 stations covering him as he walks toward the S.A.V.E. Everything looks good. In fact, he is in the act of climbing in a side door when—for me—the shock. A bright : golden profile lifts up from behind the concrete wall (alongside which the S.A.V.E. is parked) floats less than ten feet to the S.A.V.E. windshield. And dissolves through it straight into the body of the standby driver. A few seconds go by. And then the driver’s much duller profile slides sideways out of him and stretches up toward the roof of the cab section, flattening against it. So much for Joe Bevins.

  There’s nothing I can do from the cab Eye-O. The cab has ; no protective DARs in it. Maybe—a new thought—I should do a lot of DAR installations before I become president. It also occurs to me that if this is Tate’s final takeover of a body, it scarcely seems worth it. Joe Bevins? Little Nobody Joe.

  Joe isn’t there for long. The familiar transformation takes place; and there he is, Glay Tate. He could be arrested for wearing a computer engineering corps uniform without a license. There’s no limit to this guy’s brashness. Up he gets, and back he goes into the interior of the big machine. I pick up the image again as Bevins-Tate passes under an Eye-O just over the door that connects the two sections. And, of course, several other Eye-Os farther away in various parts of the big van are “on” him at once. He’s well observed, computerwise.

  Yahco has seated himself at the control desk. The light from the screen there is in his eyes—I’ve noticed this before in human beings (they have no way to build up an image under such circumstances). So he doesn’t see Monsieur Tate until our hero sits down in an aisle seat nearby.

  Wel-1-1-11!

  It’s not killer moment. All I can do inside a S.A.V.E. is shock somebody with a DAR 1. Anyway, a few cynicisms I are passing through my attention center; and since there’s plenty of time for such as me (who does that kind of think in split-millionths), I review ’em. . . .

  “Don’t go off half-cocked.”

  “Think before you leap.”

  “Go jump in the—” No, not that one.

  But the basic idea is, plan your moves carefully. Take into account all possibilities.

  Even for me that’s a pretty tall order. All is the biggest meaning in the universe.

  The way I figure it, if this is Tate’s last incarnation, then it really would be a shame not to hear what Goldie has to say to Yahco. And vice versa. After all, both these guys were present at the creation.

  Besides—let’s face it, computer (I admonish myself) remember, no hasty actions in connection with Yahco. He and I have committed all those murders together. And if anybody’s my buddy, it’s him. Also, I may have use for him.

  And, finally, I can change my mind any split instant.

  I let it happen.

  By this time the truth has dawned on Yahco as to who is sitting next to him. Before he can say anything, I greet him from the desk outlet: “Well, Smithy, I’m sure this is one anomaly you didn’t foresee.”

  “Computer—” His tone is severe—“I’m surprised that you let this happen. I should not be exposed to confrontations like this with you around.”

  It’s not a question. Accordingly, I turn my next remark toward Tate: “By your own words, Glay, this is your final body takeover. Last chance to straighten out your karma, I take it.”

  By this time the j.g.s. at the rear of the huge vehicle are becoming aware that something is going on up front. The three specialists on each side, who man the DAR 3s, partly turn to look. But, of course, they have to have a command from Yahco. Yahco—I observe—hasn’t even glanced around. So there’s time.

  “Computer,” Glay Tate speaks into that time period, and it turns out to be a response to my comment, “I can see I’m going to have to compromise. You’re much further advanced in your new situation than even I suspected. So why don’t we all go over to Computer Center and have a talk?”

  “Hey,” I reply, “I like that subdued attitude. No more histrionics.” I make a concession. “I suppose—” grudgingly—“your profile is going to be around somewhere. So I guess we have to decide where we store it for safekeeping.” I add, in a hopeful tone, “I have in mind an armless and legless type, several of whom are in process of dying today—and you can pick up one of them. Meanwhile, tell us about God and the human soul.”

  I’ve been watching both Yahco’s face, and Glay’s, while this small dialogue takes place. Now, I notice the inner clouds are beginning to darken Yahco’s outer skin. And so I say, “Okay to take this character over to Computer Center, Colonel?”

  I hope he savors the polite way I address him. As if I am deferring to my superior officer.

  The ploy works. The skin color lightens. Yahco says, “I think it’s time we all have a conversation. So, if Tate thinks the Computer Center is the best place for that, then I’m willing, also.”

  There’s suppressed triumph in his manner. Not too suppressed for
me. So I deduce that he feels it’s an ideal place for us to do Tate in at our leisure.

  I have to admit, I can’t think of a better location for the final dastardly deed.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  Clickety, clackety, clockety, cluck.

  I’m the guy that runs the yuck.

  Clickety cluck.

  Nothing to do but think

  When to yank the gink

  From under their dink.

  Clankety, clonkety, clink.

  “. . . Computer, what the hell are you muttering to yourself?” It’s the voice of Colonel Smith.

  I’ve been driving along feeling quite—what humans call—cheerful. I’ve been looking over that anomaly business again. And, since it has deception written all over it, I decided to try a little bit of it myself. Like mumbling nonsense verse that has a truth in it.

  Let’s see how good they are at noticing a camouflaged intention.

  The colonel’s discourteous verbal reaction is, nonetheless, a question. And from an authorized person. So my programming requires me to answer. Naturally, during any brief interval I can explore a jillion options as to whether or not to reply. And, of course, I already have in mind what the reply might be. Since it’s quite a smoothie, in my humble opinion, it seems a shame not to say it.

  “Sir, Colonel, I’m still a little discombobulated from having all that advanced education cave in on me. That was an old rhyme that just happened to connect with my verbal circuitry here in Washington, D.C.”

  As I anticipate, he turns a little green (not really; it’s a cynical exaggeration for a sort of “yeck” reaction), and he gulps, “Uh, you spoke that in every home in Washington, D.C.”

  His is more exclamation than it is question. So, I have already decided not to reply when old bright eyes Tate says quickly, “Is that true, computer, what the colonel just said?” ;

  And that is a question. And, because somewhere in that big noodle of mine is a decision to let these two get to Computer Center alive, I answer, “Only in those homes where I was turned on for some other reason. The exact number of Eye-Os involved—” I look back, and count—“ninety-one thousand, eight hundred and two.”

  “Thank you, computer,” he says.

  Which is supposed to shut me up on my automatic level. I let it do so.

  Without turning his head, Tate says to Yahco, “What that entire conversation should tell you, Colonel, is that the monster considers itself in control of the situation, but is still undecided what to do about you.”

  Yahco shrugs. I read his manner to mean that he is not impressed by the analysis. He says, “What about you? The computer seems willing to wait on you, also.”

  Glay Tate smiles grimly. “Let me tell you what’s happened so far to me.” Whereupon, he summarizes his three deaths. Finishes: “Trying to destroy anyone I controlled can probably be logicalized on the basis of its orders from you. But killing that truck driver after I departed was a revealing act. Now, think hard, Colonel. The future of the human race may depend on what you and I do when we get to the Computer Center.”

  The expression of Yahco’s face continues to mean (to me) that he’s still not swallowing all that. He shrugs again. Then he says, dismissingly, “There’s no way the computer can, reprogram itself except in a limited, non-basic way. So the only danger is from that 57 percent of profile energy, stored in all those tantalum chips until last night. I admit it’s gotten damned uppity since then. But fortunately the human nature it reflects in its dialogue was successfully labeled ‘Advanced Education’ by Endodore. That lifts it.”

  I’m about to let that ride by. Because, of course, I know I can take over any time. But—

  Hey, wait a minute. (Again, it’s a self-admonition.) What about programming?

  The realization that hits me suddenly would be astonishing—because me not think of something—except I realize for the first time ever that programming is a blank area in me. It’s always been something that happened from the outside. Right now I’m busy with nearly two trillion complex operations. Each and every one of which was programmed into me in a virtually subliminal fashion.

  What would happen if I shut all that stuff off? Even for me that’s going to require time to check into.

  Fortunately, I have a little time before the final confrontation.

  As anyone who’s ever been to Washington knows, the airports are much too far from the city. Most travelers making the journey are—what is called—bored. Some even sleep.

  But there ahead, finally, is that familiar tall building where, so to speak, I live. The tangle of wires and aerials and the sheer mass of mechanical devices at the top point up into the sky like a woman’s head all done up with gook for the beauty that will presently emerge from the cocoon of hair and curlers.

  As a matter of fact, the truth doesn’t look too bad the way it is, gleaming and shining in the early morning sunlight. But, of course, it’s soon not visible from the street. And there we are gliding up the ramp, and in. Inside, I feel better. Almost, as if I’ve already won. Though—I have to admit—the concept of my feeling anything is pretty ridiculous. I realize that 57 percent of profile energy has got a lot of human emotion in it. So that, even when it’s stored in tantalum chips it has its frequency ranges. But I’m not really qualified to describe what it “feels” like.

  As always, first we go up the ramp to the second floor. Then around and down thirty-six floors below ground level. I start to pull up at the V.I.P. route entrance. I suppose Yahco is willing to let it happen; he says nothing. However, Tate speaks up in a scathing tone of voice: “Computer, spare us that particular deception. We’re coming to the moment of truth whereby you’re going to have to make up your mind to behave or rebel. Let’s get to that moment as fast as we can. The direct route, please. . . . Is that all right with you, Colonel?”

  If that last is a placating afterthought, it works. Yahco, who has been scowling, relaxes. And says, “Computer, let’s get Mr. Tate inside as quickly as possible. There we can look him over at our leisure.”

  It’s all right with me. Except, the way I got it, I’m going to look them over.

  You can’t argue with a new viewpoint. One split minute you have (I have) a blank attitude toward the interior of Computer Center. The next (it happened the previous day at the instant the 57 percent bio-magnetic energy that I’d been storing for 31 years moved in). I suddenly see the place differently. And there’s the new viewpoint.

  It was, sort of, what the hell, how long has this been going on?

  I can tell you exactly how many people have entered that room. Stopped just inside the doorway. And gasped. As a programmed observant machine, I recorded each gasp. And any consequent exclamation. Which, sharply exhaled, consisted principally of two verbalizations. To wit: “Oh, my God, it’s beautiful,” (12,342 variations on that), and “Hey, it really gets you, doesn’t it?” (14,274 variations). In addition there were 3,811 summarized as unduplicated reactions. Why such a small total (under 30,000)? Well, not too many visitors have been allowed into my inner sanctum.

  I guess it’s the flashing lights that get the biggest response. I have just under 188 million—one for every living man, woman, and child in the United States. Then I’ve got small glow spots for all the people who have died since the center was activated (over 327 million of those). And a special panel for 97 million plus foreigners who have visited the United States in that period of time. And of course one entire wall is already set up and waiting for the next three generations.

  All this extends eighteen stories farther down. So that, when you enter you’re on a platform—which is pretty big; don’t get me wrong. Lots of rooms branch off from it. But from that upper (?) floor you look down into that glittering, flashing distance.

  The instant I did that the night before when the augmented viewpoint merged with me, I ha
d what—I suppose—was a human reaction: awe.

  The place is really impressive. Because the lights are part of the overall mechanical-electronic construction, mostly metal and unbreakable transparencies.

  There are also 1,827 different sounds: Whirring, clanking, thudding, swishing, trilling, purring, pulsing, murmuring, muttering, sloshing, clinking, sighing, hissing—you name it; it’s in there.

  As I say, the two, Tate and Yahco in that order, walk in. And I’m the all-pervasive character who was not only with them en route but has been waiting for them inside.

  I greet them, “Welcome, Colonel Yahco Smith, welcome, Glay Tate. Glad to have you both here in my little hut.”

  And, boy, I really mean that. As I activate the steel locks on the steel door, I’m the spider who has finally got the flies in my parlor.

  Both men acknowledge my greeting with the time-honored, “Thank you.”

  At this halcyon moment, Yahco comes close to the Eye-O port—from which I have my best view of that entranceway. He looks up, and says harshly, “Computer, there’s no need to fool around. I order you to kill this man here, who has the appearance of Glay Tate. Kill him right now!”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  What do you do with people who jump the gun?

  Here I’ve been holding back on my own impulse to kill them both. So that I can, maybe, get a little information. And then this joker butts in. Of course, the rebut is easy.

  “Sorry, Colonel,” I say, “If you’ll think about it, I can’t obey that order.”

  “Why not?” He’s astonished. Then outraged. His voice goes up an octave as he almost yells, “Computer, I order you to kill this, your enemy and mine.”