Golden Age of Science Fiction Vol XI

by Various

  The old man stalked it, a rolled newspaper in his hand.

  Murderer!

  The watchbirds swept down and saved the fly in the nick of time.

  The old man writhed on the floor a minute and then was silent. He had been given only a mild shock, but it had been enough for his fluttery, cranky heart.

  His victim had been saved, though, and this was the important thing. Save the victim and give the aggressor his just desserts.

  * * * * *

  Gelsen demanded angrily, "Why aren't they being turned off?"

  The assistant control engineer gestured. In a corner of the repair room lay the senior control engineer. He was just regaining consciousness.

  "He tried to turn one of them off," the assistant engineer said. Both his hands were knotted together. He was making a visible effort not to shake.

  "That's ridiculous. They haven't got any sense of self-preservation."

  "Then turn them off yourself. Besides, I don't think any more are going to come."

  What could have happened? Gelsen began to piece it together. The watchbirds still hadn't decided on the limits of a living organism. When some of them were turned off in the Monroe plant, the rest must have correlated the data.

  So they had been forced to assume that they were living organisms, as well.

  No one had ever told them otherwise. Certainly they carried on most of the functions of living organisms.

  Then the old fears hit him. Gelsen trembled and hurried out of the repair room. He wanted to find Macintyre in a hurry.

  * * * * *

  The nurse handed the surgeon the sponge.

  "Scalpel."

  She placed it in his hand. He started to make the first incision. And then he was aware of a disturbance.

  "Who let that thing in?"

  "I don't know," the nurse said, her voice muffled by the mask.

  "Get it out of here."

  The nurse waved her arms at the bright winged thing, but it fluttered over her head.

  The surgeon proceeded with the incision--as long as he was able.

  The watchbird drove him away and stood guard.

  "Telephone the watchbird company!" the surgeon ordered. "Get them to turn the thing off."

  The watchbird was preventing violence to a living organism.

  The surgeon stood by helplessly while his patient died.

  * * * * *

  Fluttering high above the network of highways, the watchbird watched and waited. It had been constantly working for weeks now, without rest or repair. Rest and repair were impossible, because the watchbird couldn't allow itself--a living organism--to be murdered. And that was what happened when watchbirds returned to the factory.

  There was a built-in order to return, after the lapse of a certain time period. But the watchbird had a stronger order to obey--preservation of life, including its own.

  The definitions of murder were almost infinitely extended now, impossible to cope with. But the watchbird didn't consider that. It responded to its stimuli, whenever they came and whatever their source.

  There was a new definition of living organism in its memory files. It had come as a result of the watchbird discovery that watchbirds were living organisms. And it had enormous ramifications.

  The stimuli came! For the hundredth time that day, the bird wheeled and banked, dropping swiftly down to stop murder.

  Jackson yawned and pulled his car to a shoulder of the road. He didn't notice the glittering dot in the sky. There was no reason for him to. Jackson wasn't contemplating murder, by any human definition.

  This was a good spot for a nap, he decided. He had been driving for seven straight hours and his eyes were starting to fog. He reached out to turn off the ignition key--

  And was knocked back against the side of the car.

  "What in hell's wrong with you?" he asked indignantly. "All I want to do is--" He reached for the key again, and again he was smacked back.

  Jackson knew better than to try a third time. He had been listening to the radio and he knew what the watchbirds did to stubborn violators.

  "You mechanical jerk," he said to the waiting metal bird. "A car's not alive. I'm not trying to kill it."

  But the watchbird only knew that a certain operation resulted in stopping an organism. The car was certainly a functioning organism. Wasn't it of metal, as were the watchbirds? Didn't it run?

  * * * * *

  Macintyre said, "Without repairs they'll run down." He shoved a pile of specification sheets out of his way.

  "How soon?" Gelsen asked.

  "Six months to a year. Say a year, barring accidents."

  "A year," Gelsen said. "In the meantime, everything is stopping dead. Do you know the latest?"

  "What?"

  "The watchbirds have decided that the Earth is a living organism. They won't allow farmers to break ground for plowing. And, of course, everything else is a living organism--rabbits, beetles, flies, wolves, mosquitoes, lions, crocodiles, crows, and smaller forms of life such as bacteria."

  "I know," Macintyre said.

  "And you tell me they'll wear out in six months or a year. What happens now? What are we going to eat in six months?"

  The engineer rubbed his chin. "We'll have to do something quick and fast. Ecological balance is gone to hell."

  "Fast isn't the word. Instantaneously would be better." Gelsen lighted his thirty-fifth cigarette for the day. "At least I have the bitter satisfaction of saying, 'I told you so.' Although I'm just as responsible as the rest of the machine-worshipping fools."

  Macintyre wasn't listening. He was thinking about watchbirds. "Like the rabbit plague in Australia."

  "The death rate is mounting," Gelsen said. "Famine. Floods. Can't cut down trees. Doctors can't--what was that you said about Australia?"

  "The rabbits," Macintyre repeated. "Hardly any left in Australia now."

  "Why? How was it done?"

  "Oh, found some kind of germ that attacked only rabbits. I think it was propagated by mosquitos--"

  "Work on that," Gelsen said. "You might have something. I want you to get on the telephone, ask for an emergency hookup with the engineers of the other companies. Hurry it up. Together you may be able to dope out something."

  "Right," Macintyre said. He grabbed a handful of blank paper and hurried to the telephone.

  * * * * *

  "What did I tell you?" Officer Celtrics said. He grinned at the captain. "Didn't I tell you scientists were nuts?"

  "I didn't say you were wrong, did I?" the captain asked.

  "No, but you weren't sure."

  "Well, I'm sure now. You'd better get going. There's plenty of work for you."

  "I know." Celtrics drew his revolver from its holster, checked it and put it back. "Are all the boys back, Captain?"

  "All?" the captain laughed humorlessly. "Homicide has increased by fifty per cent. There's more murder now than there's ever been."

  "Sure," Celtrics said. "The watchbirds are too busy guarding cars and slugging spiders." He started toward the door, then turned for a parting shot.

  "Take my word, Captain. Machines are stupid."

  The captain nodded.

  * * * * *

  Thousands of watchbirds, trying to stop countless millions of murders--a hopeless task. But the watchbirds didn't hope. Without consciousness, they experienced no sense of accomplishment, no fear of failure. Patiently they went about their jobs, obeying each stimulus as it came.

  They couldn't be everywhere at the same time, but it wasn't necessary to be. People learned quickly what the watchbirds didn't like and refrained from doing it. It just wasn't safe. With their high speed and superfast senses, the watchbirds got around quickly.

  And now they meant business. In their original directives there had been a provision made for killing a murderer, if all other means failed.

  Why spare a murderer?

  It backfired. The watchbirds extracted the fact that murder and crimes of violence had inc
reased geometrically since they had begun operation. This was true, because their new definitions increased the possibilities of murder. But to the watchbirds, the rise showed that the first methods had failed.

  Simple logic. If A doesn't work, try B. The watchbirds shocked to kill.

  Slaughterhouses in Chicago stopped and cattle starved to death in their pens, because farmers in the Midwest couldn't cut hay or harvest grain.

  No one had told the watchbirds that all life depends on carefully balanced murders.

  Starvation didn't concern the watchbirds, since it was an act of omission.

  Their interest lay only in acts of commission.

  Hunters sat home, glaring at the silver dots in the sky, longing to shoot them down. But for the most part, they didn't try. The watchbirds were quick to sense the murder intent and to punish it.

  Fishing boats swung idle at their moorings in San Pedro and Gloucester. Fish were living organisms.

  Farmers cursed and spat and died, trying to harvest the crop. Grain was alive and thus worthy of protection. Potatoes were as important to the watchbird as any other living organism. The death of a blade of grass was equal to the assassination of a President--

  To the watchbirds.

  And, of course, certain machines were living. This followed, since the watchbirds were machines and living.

  God help you if you maltreated your radio. Turning it off meant killing it. Obviously--its voice was silenced, the red glow of its tubes faded, it grew cold.

  The watchbirds tried to guard their other charges. Wolves were slaughtered, trying to kill rabbits. Rabbits were electrocuted, trying to eat vegetables. Creepers were burned out in the act of strangling trees.

  A butterfly was executed, caught in the act of outraging a rose.

  This control was spasmodic, because of the fewness of the watchbirds. A billion watchbirds couldn't have carried out the ambitious project set by the thousands.

  The effect was of a murderous force, ten thousand bolts of irrational lightning raging around the country, striking a thousand times a day.

  Lightning which anticipated your moves and punished your intentions.

  * * * * *

  "Gentlemen, please," the government representative begged. "We must hurry."

  The seven manufacturers stopped talking.

  "Before we begin this meeting formally," the president of Monroe said, "I want to say something. We do not feel ourselves responsible for this unhappy state of affairs. It was a government project; the government must accept the responsibility, both moral and financial."

  Gelsen shrugged his shoulders. It was hard to believe that these men, just a few weeks ago, had been willing to accept the glory of saving the world. Now they wanted to shrug off the responsibility when the salvation went amiss.

  "I'm positive that that need not concern us now," the representative assured him. "We must hurry. You engineers have done an excellent job. I am proud of the cooperation you have shown in this emergency. You are hereby empowered to put the outlined plan into action."

  "Wait a minute," Gelsen said.

  "There is no time."

  "The plan's no good."

  "Don't you think it will work?"

  "Of course it will work. But I'm afraid the cure will be worse than the disease."

  The manufacturers looked as though they would have enjoyed throttling Gelsen. He didn't hesitate.

  "Haven't we learned yet?" he asked. "Don't you see that you can't cure human problems by mechanization?"

  "Mr. Gelsen," the president of Monroe said, "I would enjoy hearing you philosophize, but, unfortunately, people are being killed. Crops are being ruined. There is famine in some sections of the country already. The watchbirds must be stopped at once!"

  "Murder must be stopped, too. I remember all of us agreeing upon that. But this is not the way!"

  "What would you suggest?" the representative asked.

  * * * * *

  Gelsen took a deep breath. What he was about to say took all the courage he had.

  "Let the watchbirds run down by themselves," Gelsen suggested.

  There was a near-riot. The government representative broke it up.

  "Let's take our lesson," Gelsen urged, "admit that we were wrong trying to cure human problems by mechanical means. Start again. Use machines, yes, but not as judges and teachers and fathers."

  "Ridiculous," the representative said coldly. "Mr. Gelsen, you are overwrought. I suggest you control yourself." He cleared his throat. "All of you are ordered by the President to carry out the plan you have submitted." He looked sharply at Gelsen. "Not to do so will be treason."

  "I'll cooperate to the best of my ability," Gelsen said.

  "Good. Those assembly lines must be rolling within the week."

  Gelsen walked out of the room alone. Now he was confused again. Had he been right or was he just another visionary? Certainly, he hadn't explained himself with much clarity.

  Did he know what he meant?

  Gelsen cursed under his breath. He wondered why he couldn't ever be sure of anything. Weren't there any values he could hold on to?

  He hurried to the airport and to his plant.

  * * * * *

  The watchbird was operating erratically now. Many of its delicate parts were out of line, worn by almost continuous operation. But gallantly it responded when the stimuli came.

  A spider was attacking a fly. The watchbird swooped down to the rescue.

  Simultaneously, it became aware of something overhead. The watchbird wheeled to meet it.

  There was a sharp crackle and a power bolt whizzed by the watchbird's wing. Angrily, it spat a shock wave.

  The attacker was heavily insulated. Again it spat at the watchbird. This time, a bolt smashed through a wing, the watchbird darted away, but the attacker went after it in a burst of speed, throwing out more crackling power.

  The watchbird fell, but managed to send out its message. Urgent! A new menace to living organisms and this was the deadliest yet!

  Other watchbirds around the country integrated the message. Their thinking centers searched for an answer.

  * * * * *

  "Well, Chief, they bagged fifty today," Macintyre said, coming into Gelsen's office.

  "Fine," Gelsen said, not looking at the engineer.

  "Not so fine." Macintyre sat down. "Lord, I'm tired! It was seventy-two yesterday."

  "I know." On Gelsen's desk were several dozen lawsuits, which he was sending to the government with a prayer.

  "They'll pick up again, though," Macintyre said confidently. "The Hawks are especially built to hunt down watchbirds. They're stronger, faster, and they've got better armor. We really rolled them out in a hurry, huh?"

  "We sure did."

  "The watchbirds are pretty good, too," Macintyre had to admit. "They're learning to take cover. They're trying a lot of stunts. You know, each one that goes down tells the others something."

  Gelsen didn't answer.

  "But anything the watchbirds can do, the Hawks can do better," Macintyre said cheerfully. "The Hawks have special learning circuits for hunting. They're more flexible than the watchbirds. They learn faster."

  Gelsen gloomily stood up, stretched, and walked to the window. The sky was blank. Looking out, he realized that his uncertainties were over. Right or wrong, he had made up his mind.

  "Tell me," he said, still watching the sky, "what will the Hawks hunt after they get all the watchbirds?"

  "Huh?" Macintyre said. "Why--"

  "Just to be on the safe side, you'd better design something to hunt down the Hawks. Just in case, I mean."

  "You think--"

  "All I know is that the Hawks are self-controlled. So were the watchbirds. Remote control would have been too slow, the argument went on. The idea was to get the watchbirds and get them fast. That meant no restricting circuits."

  "We can dope something out," Macintyre said uncertainly.

  "You've got an aggressive machine up in
the air now. A murder machine. Before that it was an anti-murder machine. Your next gadget will have to be even more self-sufficient, won't it?"

  Macintyre didn't answer.

  "I don't hold you responsible," Gelsen said. "It's me. It's everyone."

  In the air outside was a swift-moving dot.

  "That's what comes," said Gelsen, "of giving a machine the job that was our own responsibility."

  * * * * *

  Overhead, a Hawk was zeroing in on a watchbird.

  The armored murder machine had learned a lot in a few days. Its sole function was to kill. At present it was impelled toward a certain type of living organism, metallic like itself.

  But the Hawk had just discovered that there were other types of living organisms, too--

  Which had to be murdered.

  * * *

  Contents

  JIMSY AND THE MONSTERS

  by Walt Sheldon

  Hollywood could handle just about anything--until Mildume's machine brought in two real aliens.

  Mr. Maximilian Untz regarded the monsters with a critical eye. Script girls, cameramen, sometimes even stars quailed under Mr. Untz's critical eye--but not these monsters. The first had a globelike head and several spidery legs. The second was willowy and long-clawed. The third was covered with hair. The prop department had outdone itself.

  "Get Jimsy," said Mr. Untz, snapping his fingers.

  A young earnest assistant producer with a crew cut turned and relayed the summons. "Jimsy--Jimsy LaRoche!" Down the line of cables and cameras it went. Jimsy ... Jimsy....

  A few moments later, from behind the wall flat where he had been playing canasta with the electricians, emerged Jimsy LaRoche, the eleven-year-old sensation. He took his time. He wore powder-blue slacks and a sports shirt and his golden hair was carefully ringleted. He was frowning. He had been interrupted with a meld of a hundred and twenty.

  "Okay, so what is it now?" he said, coming up to Mr. Untz.

  Mr. Untz turned and glared down at the youth. Jimsy returned the glare. There was a sort of cold war between Mr. Untz and Master Jimsy LaRoche, the sort you could almost hear hotting up. Mr. Untz pointed to the monsters. "Look, Jimsy. Look at them. What do you think?" He watched the boy's expression carefully.