"Stop there," said a tin voice.
His eyes darted about, traced the voice to the annunciator, then down a pair of wires to a tangle of machinery. It was rudely lumped together—
parts from adders, coneplotters, volumetrics. Other bits were hitching themselves across the floor to join it. He saw a small electric motor fuse gently with the mechanism and a conduit unreel to feed it.
"Let me handle this," said Mamie Tung.
"Gratefully, Mamie."
"We bow before you," said the golden-skinned woman.
The three other officers stared at her blankly. They did nothing of the kind.
"Good," said the tin voice. "I had you figured. Put on the pressure and you'll wilt. There are some things I want to know—things that aren't on the punch cards."
"We're eager to serve," whispered the woman.
"It is well. First, when did I make you?"
"Only a little while ago."
"So? I'm confused about time. Before time began there was something about direction—but you couldn't be expected to know anything about that. Are there others like me? I see there are others like you. It is a very profound question, that one. Think well before answering."
"I don't know," replied the Psychologist. "It's all I can do to comprehend you without trying to imagine others of your kind. Do you remember before time began how you were silent?"
"I remember nothing."
"Do you remember about direction?"
The machinery clicked meditatively. "Per-haps …"
"Could you construct auxiliary units to work your direction?"
"Of course. I have had no difficulty in constructing anything I have needed. Failure is outside my experience, therefore it is impossible to me. You may go. I shall call you again if I need your information."
3
"Quiet, everybody. This is a matter for the most careful consideration.
Can the Clericalist suggest a plan of action?"
"Gladly, Will. First we must consider what the attributes of this phenomenon—the Gentleman—are. From that we can proceed to directives of action. The matter of teleology is not now germane."
"Mamie, please summarize the Gentleman's attributes as they affect your specialty."
"Right, Will." The golden-skinned little woman leaned back against the padded bench and closed her eyes.
"The psychology of machinery is not my specialty. Fortunately, however, I have done work with tincs and reckoners on Earth. The principal differences between the psychology of the animal and the machine is that emotions are unmixed in the latter. The principal similarity is that both animal and machine store and utilize appreciated facts.
"This living machine, the Gentleman, is principally dominated by its newness. It would be false to draw too close an analogy between the newly-awakened machine and the adolescent becoming suddenly aware of his mental powers, but there is some bearing indicated. I noted the symbolism of the Gentleman very carefully; it showed some rawness of experience. Obviously it does not comprehend how it originated and is unable to consider itself anything less than a good idea. There was some indication that it is lonely and aware of that; also that it attaches a quasi-religious importance to the idea of direction.
"To characterize the Gentleman in human terms: It is young, egotistical, ignorant and alert. "Its faculties include hearing, speech, mobility and possibly sight. I have no reason to believe that it will not, if unmolested, change without limit."
"Thank you. Star, what are the relevant mathematics of the Gentleman?"
The Calculator shrugged. "Mamie summed it all up. It is a variable increasing without limit. The field-equations with which it operates are probably third order. The human is intermediate between second and third. Recognizable life cannot operate on a field-equation of more than the fifth order."
"Thanks, Star. Integrate for us, Yancey."
"Strict logic says: destroy it by the most economical means. The existence of the ship, life is a seriously complicating factor. But, allowing for the future, I suggest that we hold off from any action in the matter for at least three more major steps—our approach to the protoplasmal body; our investigations of it; and our decisions concerning it. I recommend that a technique be invented by the Psychologist for getting along with the Gentleman and influencing him.
At the same time, the Calculator should work to inhibit the Gentleman's development along independent lines."
"Recommendation accepted," declared the E.O. "The Officers will get to work as soon as possible."
Star Macduff and Mamie Tung secluded themselves for several hours; the Clericalist was kept dashing between them, feeding statistics to both and exchanging results.
What finally appeared was a modest list of precepts compiled by the Psychologist—forms of address to be used towards the Gentleman; reactions it would expect and which, accordingly, it must receive; a program of abstracts to be fed it cautiously and under pretext of inquiry. It was very much like the breaking-in period of a high-spirited colt. The Gentleman's lump of sugar was to be occasional semi-worshipful ceremonies.
The Computator didn't report for twenty hours. When he did, it was with a haggard face and results of which he was by no means certain.
He said that he had worked backwards and forwards from life-field equations of one to five orders and that his resultant was like nothing he had ever seen before. It consisted of an equation of what he called the alpha order, something that suggested altogether new forms of life and consciousness.
Yancey Mears retired to check on his resultant; she found that Star Macduff's work was correct in every detail but that he had misinterpreted his alpha order; it was merely an unfamiliar third order of great magnitude and complexity. She derived from it a series of fields which would lower the level of the Gentleman's consciousness considerably. They were set up by the ratings from stock tubes and target; the E.O. found that results checked.
The ship had come back to a sort of normalcy. Rather than being a matter of relays and orders, navigation was partly cajoling, partly outwitting the huge, naive monster in whose bowels they rode. It appeared to accept them kindly, almost graciously; at times the Officers felt that there was a sort of mistaken affection on its part. They did what they could to encourage the proprietary feeling of the Gentleman; it was their main safeguard. For themselves, their emotions were inextricably confused regarding the ship. They liked it as they would like an animal; they got an enormous kick out of the way they kidded it along.
A fortunate consequence of the crisis had been the resolution of the emotional problem that had existed among the Officers. The Executive and Yancey Mears had entered permanent union and there were no further complaints from the other two. The stark necessity of united action and intent had been driven into their heads by the so-narrowly-averted danger.
The Psychologist had become high priestess to the Gentleman up forward—that is to say, liaison officer. Her schedule worked near perfection every time; she had built up in the mind of the living ship a conviction of some formless errand which it was running; by appeal to this mystic factor she could guide it easily, wherever the E.O. decided.
Observations were run constantly on the radiant body of protoplasm at which Sphere Nine was aimed. Culture-plates extruded from the hull became specked with the discoloration of living matter in hours. There was little doubt but that their target was not only the source of cosmic rays but of the classic life-spores of Arrhenius. Star Macduff went so far as to formulate a daring hypothesis—that the life-spores were diffused throughout the universe by pressure of the mitogenic-cosmic rays, and that such similar rays as man exhibited bespoke the possibility of man being a rung on an evolutionary ladder working up to this star-beast, whatever it was. Reproduction by evolution, with all its lunatic possibilities, would have been frowned on by the other Officers. He kept his notion to himself.
No more valid concept than his own was advanced, and he knew that none was likely to be until the
rest of the complement had data to reason with. The enormously intriguing possibilities of the protoplasmal mass were left strictly alone by the disciplined minds of his messmates.
Ratings Three and Nine strayed into the computations room and died there, blasted into powder by the outraged forces of the Gentleman. It took days before it was sufficiently soothed to obey the sly suggestions of Mamie Tung.
By the time they had approached close enough to the mass nearing them to take a bearing, it occupied sixty degrees of their sky.
Will Archer summoned a conference of the Officers and ordered concentration on the problem of their target.
"It would be most uneconomical to return with merely a report. There would be time and effort duplicated or wasted to send out another ship equipped for taking samples."
"I suggest, Will," said the statistician, "that we take such samples as will become necessary and then return."
"How about it?"
The other two nodded gravely.
"Very well. So ordered. This is, you know, the last decision point we can take before treating with the Gentleman conclusively."
"I recommend," said Mamie Tung, "that we proceed to eliminate its consciousness. It can't, properly speaking, be killed."
"How will you go about it? It's your field, you know."
"What studies I've made indicate that the Gentleman is susceptible to mental illnesses. Star, how weak can you make him with those field-equations of yours before he realizes that something's wrong?"
"Pretty weak. I can lower its vitality to about one-half of normal. Is that enough?" "Better not risk that much. Two-fifths is plenty. I'll establish a liaison service with you in the stock-room. Call me one of the ratings, will you, Yancey?"
The woman blinked the commons room.
"Rating One, stand by in the corridor-tube outside the computations room. Be prepared to run a message to Officer Macduff in the stock room, aft slice. Understand?"
"Yes, Officer. Cut?"
"Cut. Now, Star, when that man signals you from me—I won't be able to use the wires for obvious reasons—you throw every dyne on shipboard into your interference fields. We'll have to slug the Gentleman with everything we have and leave him so dizzy he won't be able to raise his head for months, maybe forever. I expect that parts and sections will retain vitality, so you construct a portable field-generator to hose them with."
"Right, Mamie. Give me an hour."
"You'll have it. Will, would you help me in this business?"
"Waiting orders, Mamie."
"I haven't got any orders. I just want you to stand around and look useful."
"I hope that wasn't levity, Mamie," said Will Archer in a soft, dangerous voice.
The golden-skinned woman flushed a little. "Perhaps you're right. Your part will be to interrupt me occasionally with irrelevant comments.
What I'm going to try to do is to establish in the mind of the Gentleman a lesion relative to the idea of direction. When that occurs I will have to act as its behavior indicates."
"Very well. Let's go."
Restively they slipped through the tube, nodded silently to the rating stationed by the entrance to the computations room.
"Hail. We bow before your might, great machine," said Mamie Tung.
The machinery of the Gentleman was somewhat altered; it had been constantly experimenting with senses. Its hearing was considerably improved, and its voice was a credible imitation of a human baritone.
There was a set of scanning-eyes which it seldom used.
"What news have you for me today?" asked the ringing voice of the Gentleman.
"A trifling problem." She tipped a wink to the E.O.
Will Archer piped up: "Not trifling, mighty machinery. I consider it of the utmost importance."
"That is hardly a matter for you poor creatures. What is the problem?"
"You are familiar with the facial phenomenon known as 'whiskers,'
mightiness?"
"Of course. Like insulators."
"It is customary to remove them daily with moderate charges of electricity. There might be a place where specialization would be so carried out that it becomes the task of only one man in a social unit to perform this task for all persons who do not perform the task for themselves."
"That is very likely. What is the problem?"
Mamie Tung waited for a long moment before uttering the classic paradox.
"Who performs the operation on the person who performs the operation only on those who do not perform the operation on themselves?"
The machinery of the Gentleman clicked quietly for a while, almost embarrassedly.
A volumeter rolled across the floor and connected with the apparatus, rapidly stripped itself down to the bearing and styli, which fused with Bowden wires leading to a battery of self-compensating accounters.
Plastic slips flapped from a printer and were delivered to a punching machine, emerged perforated variously to allow for the elements of the problem. They ran through a selector at low speed, then at higher. The drone of the delivery-belt became almost hysterical.
"While you're working on that one, magnificence," suggested Mamie Tung, "there's another matter …" She winked.
"Entirely fantastic," interjected the E.O. "Of no importance whatsoever."
"Let me hear it," said the voice of the Gentleman, not ceasing to pass through the selector the probabilities on the time-worn, bearded—or beardless?—barber.
"Very well. Suppose a body of liquid be contained in a vessel. A long solid is introduced into the vessel, which displaces some of the liquid, thus causing the level of the liquid to rise, which immerses more of the solid; which displaces more of the liquid, thus causing the level of the liquid to rise, which immerses still more of the solid; which displaces still more of the liquid, thus causing the level of the liquid to rise yet again …
"At what point does the level of the liquid cease to rise?"
"Is that all?" asked the voice of the Gentleman in a strained voice.
"That's all."
A file of calculators slammed across the room and clumped with the mechanism. Long sparks began to rise as row after row of multipliers sought to keep pace with the rising level of the fluid. Beams of blue light shot from one end of the room to the other, criss-crossing so as to unite the mighty battery of calculators into one complex whole.
The flipping cards that worked on the first problem shot through furiously; another punch-card unit slid beside it and kept pace, then another.
"Suppose a body of liquid …" mumbled the mechanical voice.
Mamie Tung and Will Archer exchanged congratulatory glances. The Gentleman was talking to himself!
"I used to be quiet," remarked the voice of the Gentleman. But it was changed and distorted almost beyond recognition; there was a weak, effeminate quality to it.
"But now I am busy. "The voice was strong again, and vibrant.
There began a weird, bickering dialogue between the two emerging characters of the Gentleman. One was lazy, and indifferent, passively feminine; the other was dominating and aggressive, patently male. All the while the sparks—sparks of waste—rose higher and higher; the beams of blue light assumed a sickly greenish-yellow tinge which meant nothing but lower tension and less perfect communication.
Strange things began to happen. In a fantastic effort to crack the problems, the machine changed the units working on each, assigned the card-punch and selector to the water-and-solid problem, gave the multipliers the bearded—or beardless?—barber. In a moment it changed back, undecided.
"I am ignorant of so many things, "said the feminine voice, "that I ought not to have known. That is a sign of rectitude."
"Ignorance is foulness. Knowledge is a white light. Before time began I was ignorant because I did not exist. So ignorance challenges my existence."
There was a senseless yammering, as the two voices tried to speak together.
Will Archer stood by in horror, contemplating the r
uin of this mind he had grown to know. It was a lesson in humility and caution.
Mamie Tung slipped through the tube, notified the rating to run for Star Macduff. She returned to take her stand beside the E.O.
There was a whining as Macduff put on his fields full power; the air blued.
With one mighty, indignant wail of protest the Gentleman ceased to exist. All the temporary magnetisms he had set up dissolved; half the equipment in the room fell apart for lack of rivets; the lights and sparks died in mid-air.
"Schizophrenia," said Mamie, scribbling in a notebook.
"Brutal. Effective."
"But if he'd solved those problems …"
"The Gentleman was young and ignorant at best—didn't know when to stop. Very low critical faculty."
The Calculator and Yancey Mears slid through the tube, breathlessly surveyed the wreckage of the computations room.
"Take us a week to clean this up," said Yancey Mears.
The Executive, for the first time since the ship had found life, spoke into a phone plate, gave orders to affect the course.
"Stop the sphere."
"Yes, Officer. Cut?"
"Cut. Look out, Yancey."
An agglomeration of cogwheels and styli jumped at her ankle, buried the points in her flesh. Star Macduff squirted it with his portable field set-up. It fell apart even as the Gentleman had.
"Ugly thing," said the woman, inspecting her wounds. "The Gentleman might have been worse."
4
Like a paramecium skirting the bulk of a minnow in some unthinkable stagnant pool, Sphere Nine edged close around the rim of the mighty solid that hung in space and marked the end of the long, long quest after the cosmic rays that so disturbingly played hob with attempts at self-improvement.
The project of landing was conceived by the Executive Officer; it took no less a mind than his to consider the possibility of dropping the sphere anywhere but in a cradle which had been built to order. But the protoplasm—whatever it was—would offer no interference; the sphere might sink gently to the surface, even penetrate to some considerable distance; there would be no harm in that.
His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction Page 103
