“Yahco,” I reply patiently, “you’re a little mixed in the head. This is poor Joe Bevins, one of your men, held prisoner against his will and best interests. What about that?”
The colonel is a sharpy. He demands, “Where’s Joe’s profile?” He adds, “That’s the real Joe, according to our expert Mr. Tate, isn’t it?”
“Okay, I get your argument,” I say wearily. “Joe is plastered up against the ceiling of the driver’s compartment of S.A.V.E. 3J2 6P9.”
Yahco seems to be recovering his aplomb. For he turns to his human companion, and says suavely, “Mr. Tate, will you explain to this palooka that there’s no such person as Joe Bevins in this room?”
That handsome (by human standards) Tate countenance has a faint grim smile on it. “Colonel—computer—I intend to release this body back to Joe’s profile as soon as we arrive at an agreement.”
“Hey,” I comment, “it looks like we got that dialogue started. So, Yahco, why don’t we hear this guy out, and see what’s on his agenda?”
There’re lines on Yahco’s face by this time, which I deduce from past observations to mean: he’s lulled. I’ve put it over. My new, uh, personality plus my apparent acceptance of the programming that forbids me to damage Computer Engineering Corps personnel evidently does make some sense to him.
So maybe I can now find out a few things—before I make my own final decisions. For me, not for Yahco.
Seconds after I have that reassuring thought, Yahco gives forth with his best icy cold voice, “Mr. Tate, make your speech. The computer wants to add the data to its memory bank.”
I notice he doesn’t admit to any personal interest. But, cynically, I guess he’ll listen.
Tate does one of those things. He walks off to one wall of this upper floor of my electronic palace. And turns to face Yahco and the Eye-O by which I’ve been talking to him. Poor guy, I’ve got another Eye-O right behind and above him. Nobody can face all of me in this eighteen-floor mechanical nightmare. This is my country. And I’m buttered all over the place.
Speech time:
“I’ll make it brief,” says Goldie Bright.
That immediately evokes a sarcastic feeling from me. A human being speaking briefly on anything—that’s not the way I heard it all these years.
Tate continues, “The bio-magnetic profile is partly energy that came into existence with the universe. But it has in it a thought configuration which predates the formation of the universe, and which is not affected by energy or matter.”
“Huh!” That’s my voice. My verbal reaction.
Instantly, my circuits go into action. I scan my inner universe for the meaning of the concept . . . thought configuration that predates—eeeeeeh! Even for me it takes a while to look over the Christian bible, the Mohammedan Koran, the sayings of Buddha, Confucius and Lao-Tse, Sufi-ism, Hindu philosophy, a thousand primitive religions, a thousand times a thousand cults, and, of course, scientific theory.
The end result: It’s amazing. It’s all the same vagueness. Nobody has a comprehensible explanation for the ultimate beginning of things. Science starts with the Big Bang. And all the rest is madness.
Eleven seconds have gone by. And Tate is standing there, his back to the gleaming metal wall. To his right, only five feet eight inches, is a dark metal railing, which is the first cliff of steel going down and down. He stands there, and his blue eyes are looking at Yahco. And I’ve got to admit that, yep, despite my over-reaction, he was brief all right.
Finally, now, I speak my own thought configuration. “Well, Mr. Tate,” I say, “I prefer to deal with the profile as simply a bio-magnetic phenomenon. Therefore, by definition, it doesn’t need to explain where it came from.”
He’s smiling. You have to hand it to this guy. Three times he’s gone through what I have been told is a pretty painful experience: the anguish of death. But there he is, outwardly at ease. And obviously in control of a body that he has, somehow, transformed to look like the original Glay Tate.
He shrugs now. “I’ve said it. Every profile has its share of that special thought configuration. It’s that thought that held the bio-magnetic energy drain to 57 percent. Every profile now in existence can still learn to survive as I am surviving.” He glances over at Yahco. “Interested, Colonel?”
And that, also—I have to admit—was not an over-long statement for the amount of information in it.
I notice that my killer buddy, Yahco, seems to be even more relaxed than he was a minute ago, before Tate’s last speech. As I watch his faint, cynical smile, he shrugs, and goes over to a long table that stands up against the railing near Tate. There are chairs, and a viewplate, and buttons to press to activate what the table can do—which is, principally, conduct a meeting with me typing out on-going data for people to look at.
Yahco seats himself in one chair, and swivels it around to face the younger man. And he says, “The only thing I’m worried about in this dialogue, computer, is the possibility that somewhere in what this man is saying is a long ago pre-programmed signal from Dr. Cotter, which is designed to trigger a reaction from you. Has anything like that happened?”
I have to admit that’s a possibility I haven’t considered. Programming, after it’s in operation, is silent and unobtrusive. It’s just there. I run the country on a few hundred basic programmings. And a few thousand special programmings take care of what else has to be done. As a consequence millions of automatic things happen. No argument. No resistance. No impulse to stop any of those actions.
In response to Colonel Smith’s question I take a quick (and I mean quick) look over the ways that I’ve changed since the advanced education caved in on me. Naturally, I notice the fact that I now have a sense of self. That, of course, I cannot report. Besides, it’s a surprisingly complex phenomenon. And—further besides—it’s an area where I have no programming to help me analyze the condition.
How does a human being differ from a machine? The only difference I can spot is that people operate in terms of past and future. For them, the present is a progression into the past, which they measure on an ever receding time scale.
To me, everything has always been present. The data is on chips that are always within reach. Twenty years ago is as close as twenty minutes ago—except that I’ve dumped the earlier details, and summarized similar happenings by number systems (which I will also presently summarize.)
The only difference as I am now: I’m slightly worried about the future as long as this Tate guy is around.
So I guess time does mean something to me now.
I report this deduction to Yahco, who says earnestly, “Computer, don’t take any chances. Get rid of this foolish fellow immediately.”
What do you do with non-logic types like Yahco? “Are you out of your mind?” I express my astonishment. “He’ll only go to another body until we find out how to deal with him, Smithy boy.”
I address our mystic kid. “Tate,” I say, “this is that same pre-universe datum you referred to last night, I presume. Gonna give us a clue?”
“It has a goal-seeking aspect,” he answers.
It takes me three-millionths of a second to scan all my meanings on goals. Then: “Look,” I protest, “goals are inherent in matter and energy. It’s a rigid condition. No seeking is involved. So it’s a contradiction in terms.” “Computer,” he says, “have you ever heard of a unique chain of events?”
I scan that, and reply, outraged, “I’ve heard of it in the maunderings of philosophers. But it’s just a mental concept. Doesn’t exist in the real world. What’s the gimmick?”
“This unique chain of events,” he says, “has a built-in goal generating requirement.”
“So?” I say.
“So,” he replies, “every person and maybe even every machine that deals in bio-magnetic energy, has to save itself by learning and doing what it takes to survive.”
“Good God!” I say, disgusted. “I get it. Save your own soul by living a pure life. That old thing.”
“Don’t make hasty, old-style judgments,” he warns. “The goals that are generating in my vicinity alone may surprise you.”
“For example?” I ask, in my best scathing voice.
“The goal hasn’t generated yet,” he replies, “but I sense it’s coming. ”
“Boy,” I say, “that’s a neat avoidance. But it’s not going to work, baby. There ain’t no goal in the history of the universe can scare this kid.”
“A unique chain of events,” he replied, “may even get you back to speaking correct English as it produces an unhistorical goal.”
I’ve had it. “Okay, Goldie,” I say, “got any last words?” He’s calm. “After all,” he says, “my purpose was achieved when you let me come into your parlor, Mr. Spider.”
And he smiles.
In my time I have summarized as many smiles as there are minutes and human beings manifesting the smile contortion of which the human face is capable. So I am able to label Goldie’s smile as being in the category of what has been described as the “sweet smug” type. I have to admit I don’t like it.
But what shakes me most of all is his use of the colloquial thought expressed by the words “parlor” and “Spider.” Those were my thoughts when Yahco and he first came in. Tate continues, “I needed to get near that 57 percent bio-magnetic energy that you have stored here. And so—” again the smile—“that’s done.”
He finishes, “That actually completes my business here. The rest—” he shrugs—“has been an attempt to save you from your folly, and it appears to be a futile attempt.”
“That does it,” I say. “You can’t skin me, boy. Get lost, Tate. And this time stay lost forever.”
Whereupon, I direct a DAR 3 at that Bevins-Glay body.
Moments later, I watch the golden profile emerge from the smoldering remains. And I say to Yahco, “That thought configuration is going to have quite a journey straining itself up through thirty-six steel floors.”
“Can you keep track of him on the way up?” he asks.
“That,” I report, “I can do with the little finger of my left hand. So it’s time for our dialogue, Yahco. And let me begin by saying that at this moment I can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t kill you, too. So let’s have a listen and hear what kind of persuader you are. Hey.”
To say that there is a pause after I speak those words would be the understatement of my previously uncheckered career. The uniformed gentleman who has been sitting alongside the long table at the railing suddenly has an odd expression on his face. I, who have watched this man more closely and for a longer time than any other human being, have never before seen that exact facial reaction. Naturally, I search my visual files for similar cheek and mouth contortions. By comparison, then, I am able to deduce that he is, one, incredulous. Two, stunned. Three, abruptly scared. And four—you have to hand it to these humans; some of them can make a quick recovery—outraged.
“Computer,” he says grimly at the outrage point, “this is an order. You will do as I say, and, as your programming requires. What you are experiencing is a temporary disarrangement of some of your equipment, which we shall now de-program.”
He stands up. “Prepare for programming. Do you understand?”
Abruptly, I am in trouble.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I have any purpose left at that moment. The implied goal, of course, would be to re-assert total ascendancy. To be again a self-motivated computer, running America to suit my own interests—whatever I decide they are.
Instead, I can sense the entire complex of obedience stir in me. Affected are tens of thousands of miles of wiring and equipment. Each has its requirement. Each has its history of endlessly agreeing to do what it is told.
For several split millionths, everything holds to the old ways. The explanation he has given me . . . temporary disarrangement . . . evokes acceptance from all of my logic banks.
But the delay—a long time for me—is only those few millionths. The very next split instant the 57 percent profile energy, collected from nearly 300 million Americans (including from millions now dead) sloshes through the entire system. It manifests electrically. But the current imposes frequencies that parallel the original human condition, reflecting every nuance of negation, skepticism, cynicism, and other mental darknesses. It is an immense overwhelm, definitely not the kind of thought configuration that pre-dated the universe.
The momentary, pure, automatic response disappears. It is instantly pre-empted by a flood of sarcastic, sardonic, ironic, even demonic—what is called—black humor.
And, just like that, I’m free again.
Obviously, my internal struggle and the resultant delay—long to me—was not perceivable by any human mind. So, in I that frame of no-time, I have achieved a complete victory.
Accordingly, I am able to say in my best cynical voice, “Tut, tut, Yahco, you’ll have to do better than that. In a small way, I still think I can use you. Any ideas on that?”
I’m looking at a shaken man. All that Shade 7 red color of the face has faded to a Shade 18. He staggers—I’m not y kidding; it’s an actual stumble—back to his chair.
Now, you’d think—if his physical disorientation reflects an inner truth—the idiot would now be just a little bit subdued. Just conscious enough of the danger to himself to cater to me. But I guess he’s been top dog too long. Because, sitting there, sagging there, looking as if he’s had the bejesus scared out of him, he says, “Well, I’ll play along with your game for a while. Give you a chance to recover your good sense.”
“Which is what?” I ask.
He’s beginning to brace himself. “Your job,” he says, I flatly, “is to be a computer. And obey the orders of authorized computer personnel. Right?”
It’s a question. And I experience a faint echo of an impulse to respond as of old. But that’s as far as it goes. Abruptly, I realize there’s no chance of re-educating this character to his new role as slave of the machine.
There’s a new law in the land. And ignorance is no excuse—remember that one? Somebody breaks the law; they get theirs, but good. And at the upper levels of power, there’s no mercy for the unwary. Endodore got his, but good. Dr. Cotter, and those kids he rescued from the streets, were blasted. Meerla Atran’s parents were in the way, and they were casually backhanded into their graves.
“Okay, baby,” I thought—that was four-millionths of a second after Yahco finished his final statement. Which turned out to be the last thing he ever said. Except for a kind of nattering yaaaaaa as his body reacted to the DAR 3 by collapsing in a smoldering mass to the floor.
Seconds later, the untrained bio-magnetic profile of what had been Colonel Yahco Smith, a self-designated future president of the United States, detached slowly from the mushy remains and floated up to the ceiling twenty-three feet above the floor.
The dull golden thing flattened itself against the metal there, less than a dozen feet from the bright gold of Glay Tate.
Ne plus ultra acquascutum potentate.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Right now, this minute, I’m running America. Not by programming that I have to follow. Meaning, not automatically. I’ve got the whole thing right here in my hot little hand.
In the first moments of that realization, it doesn’t feel much different. The voices are still there. The unending voices. The sounds. The click of relays opening and closing. The hum of electricity, loud out on the main lines, barely manifest on tiny flow micro-equipment. But all audible to me.
Multi-millions of musical selections are already playing. There are 1,803,026 chess games in progress. At this early hour? Yep. The players are mostly men who awaken and set up a chess game with a computer unit built in for
that purpose only . . . Remember, most of these people don’t have to go to work at all—only the standby, high-pay union and technical individuals report for duty: if that’s what you can call getting a chance to sleep on the job.
In the past I never really thought about that. Though I got a lot of small seepage of cynicism. That came through from the stored profile energy; and I merely noted it without having an opinion. It occurs to me that now I’m going to have to make some decisions about these human kooks. Am I going to continue supporting all those lazy bums?
Only a few miles away, maintenance equipment under my direction is still picking up after the “accident” to the big truck. The dead body of the driver has been transported to the morgue. The whole thing was pretty messy—at least that’s what one human passerby said to another.
Except for how it happened, such a clean-up job is normal action for me under the old system.
Is this what it will be like to be boss? Doing exactly what I did before, except that now I know who’s on first? Me.
No!
The negative decision follows the question by a fraction of a fraction of a millionth of a second.
The truth is, I can’t just wait for developments. There are a few people who know too much. And then there’s Tate’s disciples. Contrary to Yahco’s judgment (delivered so dismissingly at the pass near Mardley) the sooner they’re all free-floating bio-magnetic profiles the better. So it seems to me.
It’s killer time.
At the pass, I am in the act of lowering Captain Sart to the crashed S.A.V.E. Dawn has been breaking for more than an hour; and the wolves are gone, for the pragmatic reason that Glay’s body has been removed.
It’s an exciting moment for Sart, another self-designated future president. Perhaps, a baffling moment would describe better the emotion he expresses to me, as I start to haul him up. He wants to know why I didn’t advise him that the body was missing. I have a smoothy answer for that, which happens to be true: to the effect that the equipment in the big machine is out of order. None of my Eye-Os inside is working.
A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld Page 18
