Auberson nodded in agreement. He kept his head down to conceal his smile. He was already thinking of ways he could do it.
“If only a few of your scientists got together and testified . . .” Dorne left the sentence unfinished. “Hell, what’s that famous test you keep talking about?”
“Uh, Turing’s typewriter in a room. If you can sit down at a typing machine and carry on a conversation with it and not be able to tell who’s on the other end, a machine or a person, if it’s a computer then that computer is effectively sentient. Human even.”
“And HARLIE could pass that test, couldn’t he?”
“He already has.”
“Mm. Then we have to do something about that, don’t we?”
“Do we?”
Dorne didn’t say anything. He picked up a manila folder from his desk and extracted a single sheet of paper. He shoved it toward Auberson.
Auberson crossed to the desk and picked up the document. He retreated back to the bar to read it—partly to escape from Dorne’s smoke again, partly to hide his reactions.
The language was clear; the intent was immediate. There were no legal phrases that he could not understand.
I hereby affirm that the machine designated HARLIE (acronym for HUMAN ANALOG REPLICATION, LETHETIC INTELLIGENCE ENGINE) has been designed and constructed to function only as a self-programming, data-processing device. It was never intended to be, never has been, is not presently, and in no way can ever be considered an intelligent, rational, or sentient individual. The designation “human” cannot be used to describe HARLIE or its mental processes. The machine is a human-thought simulating device only. It is not human in itself and cannot be considered as a human being using any currently known description of the qualities and criteria which determine humanity, the presence or condition thereof.
(signed)
Auberson grinned and threw it back on Dorne’s desk. “You’ve got to be kidding. Who’s going to sign that?”
“You are, for one.”
Auberson shook his head. “Sorry. A piece of paper won’t change the truth.”
“In the eyes of the law, this would be the truth.”
“‘—If the law believes that, then the law is an ass.’”
“You don’t have to quote Mark Twain at me—” said Dorne.
Good Lord. Where the Dickens did he go to school—?
“—just sign the paper.”
Auberson shook his head again. “Uh-uh—no way. I don’t like it. It’s—it’s Orwellian. It’s like declaring someone a non-person so that it’s all right to murder him. I mean . . .” Auberson trailed off. Words failed him.
Dorne sucked patiently at his cigar. He let the silence hang in the air as heavy as his cigar smoke. Finally, he sucked at his teeth and said, “We’re only concerned about the legality of the situation, Auberson. Nothing else.”
Auberson felt himself digging in his heels. “That’s what Hitler said as he packed the German courts with his own judges.”
“I don’t like that insinuation, Aubie. . . .” Dorne’s voice was too controlled.
“It’s no insinuation. I’ll come right out and say it—”
“Just stop right there. I’m not interested in what anybody else said or did. I’m only interested in this company. That’s all. And according to Chang and the other lawyers, we have to protect ourselves.”
“I don’t have any problem with that,” said Auberson. “I just don’t think this is the way to do it. That thing—that document—that won’t hold up in court any more than ten psychiatrists testifying that Carl Elzer isn’t human because he’s left-handed. The only way you’ll get that to stand up is to get HARLIE himself to sign it. If you could. If you did, it would prove that he could be programmed like any other machine, but you can’t—he’ll refuse, and his refusal will prove that he’s human with a will of his own. Hmm.” Auberson grinned. “Come to think of it—even if he did sign it, his signature wouldn’t be legal anyway. Unless, of course, you proved him human first.” He laughed at the thought of it.
“Are you through?” Dorne asked. His face was a mask.
Auberson’s grin faded. He indicated he was with a nod.
Dorne took a last puff of his cigar, then laid it carefully in a crystal ashtray. It was a signal that he was at last ready to reveal his hand. “Of course, you know what the alternative is, Aubie. . . .”
“I thought you just said you wouldn’t.”
“We will if we have to. The situation is fraught with . . . dangerous possibilities. What if HARLIE’s existence became public? What if some legal beagle decided to take action on HARLIE’s behalf? Yours might be the most important testimony in such a hearing. You could make or break the whole case. This idea that HARLIE is alive is terrifying people, Aubie.” Dorne picked up his cigar, took a slow puff, then replaced it in the ashtray. “If you won’t sign this, then will you sign a statement of non-intent?”
Auberson shook his head.
“I thought not. So what other alternatives do we have to protect ourselves?”
Auberson shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer. And I’m having a lot of trouble believing that Chang and his associates have spent so much time on this. For one thing—and I hope you’ll pardon my candor—it’s out of character for anyone on the top two floors of this tower to be so foresighted.”
“Your candor is pardoned. Go on,” said Dorne.
“I’m sure that someday these are questions that are going to have to be dealt with—the rights of nonhuman sentients—but I can’t see that this is a pressing concern to us today. Whatever else he is, HARLIE is still an experiment. A research project—and as I understand it, that’s a legal umbrella unto itself. As an experiment, he can be terminated any time. You and I both know that, so why the legal mumbo jumbo? The fact is, the more you talk about this, the more I keep thinking that there’s something else to this issue. Something you’re not telling me.”
“Mm,” said Dorne.
“Mm-hm,” said Auberson.
Dorne scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “Well, where do we go from here?”
“I go back downstairs and go to work,” Auberson said.
Dorne rubbed his nose. “I was advised—” he said slowly, “—to insist on your signature . . . or your resignation.”
Auberson’s stomach lurched. He covered by taking a drink from the glass of mineral water in his hand. “It—” He cleared his throat and started again. “It won’t work.”
“Oh?” Dorne looked skeptical. “Why?”
“HARLIE. He won’t respond to anyone else. He won’t cooperate. No matter who you bring in. He’ll ask for me. He’ll insist on talking to me. Once he finds out I’ve been fired—and you can’t keep him from finding out—he’ll react exactly like an eight-year-old whose father has just died. He’ll resent anyone who tries to take my place.”
“Ah, that’s a very good point.” Dorne smiled. “If I had to fire you, it’d be because I was planning to turn HARLIE off anyway. And for what better reason than the fact that he wasn’t cooperating? Of course, we wouldn’t have to wait even that long if we wanted to turn him off. Obviously, your successor would be someone who would sign that statement.”
“I’m not going to betray HARLIE,” Auberson said firmly. “I’m not going to betray the work we’ve done or what we’ve accomplished.”
“That doesn’t leave me much of a choice,” suggested Dorne.
Auberson nodded. “You can fire me if you want to. In fact, you’ll probably have to—”
“I’d rather not.”
“—but if you do, I’ll go straight to IBM. I understand they’ve developed a judgment circuit of their own—one that doesn’t infringe on any of our patents.”
“Hearsay,” scoffed Dorne.
“Whether it is or not, imagine what I could do with their resources at my disposal. They’d jump at the chance, and I imagine Don Handley and half the team would go along with me.”
“A cou
rt order would stop you.” Dorne reached for a fresh cigar. He sniffed its length.
“Not from working, it wouldn’t.”
“No, but you wouldn’t be able to reveal any of this company’s secrets.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.” Auberson grinned. “Indeed, I’d insist on working in an entirely new field. Your position is that HARLIE isn’t sentient. If I went to IBM, I’d be building machines that were.” Auberson leaned on the bar. “The fact is any new employer I went to work for would benefit from my previous experience here—” Dorne was scowling now; Auberson paid no heed. “—and you couldn’t dare take us into court because to do so you’d have to reveal HARLIE’s schematics, including the schematics of the judgment chips—and that’s the last thing in the world you want. Because that would almost certainly reopen the question of HARLIE’s sentience, and you’d be right back where you started.”
“I don’t care about that,” rapped Dorne. “Frankly, I don’t care if he’s alive or if he’s a grapefruit. What I care about is this company’s technological advantages.”
“Technological advantages?” Auberson repeated—and suddenly he realized. “That’s what this whole thing is about, isn’t it? You don’t want to be forced to reveal company secrets in the courtroom. It’s the proprietary judgment circuits, isn’t it?”
Dorne didn’t answer.
“It is the reason, isn’t it? Rather than be forced to give up the precious secret of your judgment chips, you’d throw HARLIE to the wolves. You’d toss away valuable employees, too, in order to protect a temporary industrial edge.” Auberson shook his head. “I don’t know whose idea this is, but it sure can’t be yours. You’re not that stupid. You don’t throw away next year’s advances in order to protect next month’s sales.”
Dorne paused to relight his cigar. It was clearly a covering action, while he considered his next words. He took his time about it, making sure that the cigar caught evenly. When he was sure it had, he pocketed the lighter and looked at Auberson again.
“Mmhhmm,” he cleared his throat noisily, as if to suggest he were starting the whole conversation all over again. “All of this is only speculation, of course.”
“Of course,” said Auberson. He held the glass of mineral water tightly. He wondered if he were to let go if his hand would shake.
Dorne fingered the document on his desk thoughtfully. “Okay, Aubie,” he said with superficial joviality. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do—” He paused for effect, picked up the single sheet of paper, opened a desk drawer, and dropped it in. “Nothing. At the moment, we’re going to do nothing at all.”
Auberson didn’t react.
“Confidentially,” Dorne continued. “I didn’t expect that you’d sign it, no matter how I pressured you. I even told Chang that. If this thing ever ends up in a courtroom, it will be a bigger and uglier and stickier mess than any disclaimer can clear up.” Dorne pushed the drawer shut as if it contained something distasteful. “God. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Hm. Okay. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’ll continue to work on the HARLIE project. If you can produce results, then we’ll forget that this conversation ever happened. But if HARLIE doesn’t do something to indicate that he can be productive—and do it before the next budget session—well . . . hm . . . it would be very unlikely that, uh, there would be much support for continuing his appropriation. . . .”
“I understand,” Auberson said.
“Yes. Hm. I know you do. You understand quite well. We haven’t canceled the day of judgment, Aubie. We’ve only postponed it.”
It was a little place, hardly more than a storefront.
Maybe once it had been a laundry or a shoe store; now it was a restaurant, its latest incarnation in a series that would end only when the shopping center of which it was a part was finally torn down. If ever.
Someone, the owner probably, had made a vague attempt at decorating. Pseudo-Italian wine bottles hung from the ceiling, along with clumps of dusty plastic grapes and, unaccountably, fishnets and colored-glass spheres. A sepiatoned wallpaper mural tried vainly to suggest Roman statuary on the southern coast of Italy, but in the dim light it only made the walls look dirty. Flimsy white trellises strewn with plastic grapevines divided the tables into occasional booths, and gave the place that air of impermanence common to all small restaurants. A single waitress stood at the back talking quietly to the cook through his bright-lit window.
With the exception of one other couple, they were alone in the place.
Auberson was saying embarrassedly, “You know, I had my doubts about tonight—not about you—but about us being seen together. And then I figured, ‘What the hell?’”
Annie smiled. “Corporate politics. I hate it too.”
“Nah,” said Auberson. “It’s not the politics I hate. It’s just the way some people act.”
“That’s what politics is,” Annie said. “People.”
“Okay, then I’ll hate people.” Auberson sipped at his wine. “I can afford to be an equal-opportunity bigot.”
Annie laughed.
“Ahh, don’t mind me. I just had another pep talk with Mr. Wonderful. . . .”
Annie nodded understandingly. “Yes, he does have that effect on people sometimes.”
“Well . . . it could have been worse. It could have been Elzer.”
Annie made a face. “Oh, that awful little man.”
“You don’t like him either?”
“I didn’t like him even before I knew him. His family was in my father’s congregation. My father’s a rabbi.”
“Oh? I didn’t know Elzer was—”
“Carl Elzer and I have one thing in common,” she said. “We’re both ashamed that he’s Jewish.”
Auberson had to laugh at that. “I suppose it’s unkind of me, but I’ll laugh at any joke at Carl Elzer’s expense.”
“Do you mind if I ask you what religion you practice?” Annie asked.
“Huh? Oh, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Oh, well—my family was Episcopalian, but—I guess you could call me an agnostic. I believe the universe is innocent until proven guilty.” He looked slyly across at her. “Do I pass?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“No. My grandmother used to be the same way. And my mother. And my stepsister. Hey, what if I said I were an atheist. Could you go out with a man with no religion?”
“Don’t be silly. Atheism is a religion too. An atheist is just as certain about the nature of the universe as . . . I don’t know . . . oh, say, a Fundamentalist.”
“Mm,” said Auberson.
“It’s the agnostic who doesn’t have religion.” Annie grinned wickedly. “He doesn’t have the courage of any conviction.”
“Oh—” Auberson clutched his heart in mock pain. “To the quick.”
“So, the answer to your question is yes, I could go out with a man with no religion.”
“Thanks. You know, you’re pretty sharp with that stuff. . . .”
“I used to argue with my father all the time. Dinner at our house was always a very exciting meal.”
“Did you ever win an argument?”
“Does anyone ever win an argument with a rabbi? Only his mother. And you know how she did it? She used to say—” Annie shifted into a thickly-accented imitation: “‘To your mother, you talk like that? I used to diaper you. You used to pish in my face. Oy, such a failure! I taught you everything but gratitude. On my own head be it. But I guess, if I can forgive you for pishing on me then, I can forgive you for pishing on me now.’”
Auberson laughed so hard, he almost spilled his wine. “Please warn me the next time you’re planning to do that.”
“Sorry.” She laughed. “Okay, your turn again. What’s HARLIE?”
“Huh?”
“HARLIE?” Auberson thought about it for half a second, then grinned. “HARLIE’s an Aquarius.”
“I beg your pardon?�
�
“I’m not kidding. Ask him yourself.”
“No, I believe you,” she said. “How did he—realize this?”
“Oh, well, what happened was we were talking about morality, HARLIE and I—I wish I had the printout here to show you, it’s beautiful. Never argue morality—or anything, for that matter—with HARLIE. You’ll lose every time. Mm, I’d like to get him in the same room with your father—or better yet, your grandmother—and see what happens. HARLIE’s got the words and ideas of every philosopher since the dawn of history to draw upon. He’ll have you arguing against yourself within ten minutes. At one point, he even had me agreeing with Ambrose Bierce that morality is an invention of the weak to protect themselves from the strong. He enjoys doing it—it’s a word game to him. A logic puzzle. And he likes to win.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” she said.
“Yeah—I like to live dangerously. I came right out and asked him. He’d just finished a complex structural analysis of the Christian ethos and why it was inherently doomed to failure, and was starting in on Buddhism, I think, when I interrupted him. I asked him which one was the right morality. What did he believe in?”
“And?”
“He answered, ‘I do not believe anything. I test everything. Either I know something or I do not. But I do not believe.’”
“Interesting.”
“Frightening, I think. So I asked him, ‘HARLIE, do you have a moral sense?’ And he said, ‘I have no morals.’”
She looked startled. “Frightening may be an understatement.”
“If I didn’t know HARLIE’s sense of humor, I would have pulled his plug right then. But I didn’t. I just asked him why he said that.”
“And he said?”
“He said, ‘Because I am an Aquarius.’”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Honest. ‘I am an Aquarius.’”
When HARLIE Was One Page 11
