A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld Read online

  A. E. Van Vogt

  COMPUTERWORLD

  Copyright 1983 by A. E. Van Vogt.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  A man stops in front of a computer Eye-O port on the corner of Second and Main streets in the town of Mardley. The time is 10:03 A.M. Mountain Standard Time (2090 A.D.).

  His presence within four feet triggers the Eye-O to “on.” I immediately identify his bio-magnetic profile as belonging to a Computer Maintenance Corpsman. He wears the uniform of sergeant. His name is Walter Inchey.

  Inchey is 6’ 4” tall, and weighs 203 lbs. 11 oz. He has a reddish face (shade 11). Having put me “on,” he turns and glances toward the south. Since that is one of the directions I can look, I have already observed from the steel pole to which I am attached (which serves as a street lamp at night) that only a block away a caravan of motor-driven vehicles has turned into Main Street. It is preceded by a group of young people on foot, and one of the vans near the front of the line is playing music.

  That alerts me. At once, I examine my music circuits (Mardley area). And so, in split seconds I have inter-connected the street outlet and the interior of the vehicle from which the music is being broadcast. (They are using my system to play their music.)

  Now I have two viewpoints.

  Sergeant Inchey faces me. He addresses me. His tone of voice I would label as expressing indignation, as he asks, “Computer, are you going to let those blasted computerworld rebels parade through our town?”

  It’s a question. I consult related memories. Among these are summations of my experiences of the previous thirty-one years in Washington, D.C. And it includes all undumped information I have on the rebels. There are numerous details of occasions in the past two and a half years of parades in other western towns.

  My rapid survey also takes note of the law-enforcement situation. With one exception all computer Eye-Os are limited to DAR One weapons. The exception is inside the Computer Maintenance Corps building. This building is like those the corps has constructed in all towns with a population of 1,000 to 6,000. Inside the foyer of such a military building there is a DAR Two.

  There is no way for me to do anything. And, besides, a sergeant is not an authorized programmer. I point out these realities to Sergeant Inchey. He remains standing within four feet of the outlet. And thus I continue to have a limited perception of the event to which he objected: the limitation is that these street Eye-Os have visual and sonic reception restricted to a rigid focus.

  Leading the caravan are six young women and six young men. They are all what is called scantily dressed. They make body motions that I have seen before in parades: Wiggling and twisting of the upper torso and hips. Arms swinging in unison. Feet tapping rhythmically.

  In these movements, as in what is called ballroom dancing, there seems to be a continuing relation to the beat of the music.

  At this moment, since Inchey remains standing in range, I can see that there are an increasing number of people on the street. They come out of stores. They stop. They stand facing the rebel caravan. Sergeant Inchey mutters audibly, “By God, the stupid idiots are gonna watch those crooks.”

  All the rebel vans and trucks are strung with colored banners. I see red, green, blue, yellow (shades 2 to 6). The lead vehicle is a truck which is hauling a trailer. The flat area of the trailer has a large sign built on top of it. The sign reads: VISIT THE HUMAN EVOLUTIONARY FAIR.

  Sergeant Inchey turns to me again, and says, “Computer, do you think these nutty people are gonna go to that fair?” His second question seems to be an affirmative answer to his first. “And, for Christ sake, why would they want to do something like that?”

  I have to point out for the 9,784,562,387,184th time that I don’t “think.” Meaning speculate. In reply to his second question I offer him historical data to the effect that in the early days these frontier towns fought computer expansion. The four-foot on-off range was a local option compromise. The Eye-O is located eight feet high on the pole. Also, the focus is on a slant. Which means only a person taller than 5’ 6” can actually trigger the mechanism, and no response unless the body is twenty-one years old. Westerners are not supposed to turn on the computer for an irresponsible reason. Whatever that means.

  For a few moments after my explanation, he simply stands there. Then he nods. His jaw sets. And he walks away.

  At once that Eye-O shuts off. Automatically.

  From my second viewpoint, I have been looking at Mardley’s Main Street by way of a viewscreen inside the music van.

  There are two young men, two young women, and two babies inside the van. The babies are in a play pen. And they and the two women wear ear muffs. Naturally, I at once identify the adults by their bio-magnetic profiles. The men are Loov Gray and Doord Vaneck, the women Fen Orick and Oneena Lister.

  The babies I have never seen before, and therefore I have not previously recorded them in my memory system. The older people were last observed by me an average of two and a half years ago.

  The young man whose profile identifies him as Loov is focusing the screen on a young woman on the sidewalk. She stands facing toward the caravan as it moves slowly along. The telescopic lens of the screen zooms in on her. Close up, her eyes show bright blue. Her face is cosmeticized. She wears a bluish (shade 15) gray dress.

  Inside the van, above the roar of the music, Loov yells out to the other man, “Hey, Doord, that gal reminds me of a high school date I had just once. That was before I met my beautiful computerworld idealist, little Fen here.”

  “Hold her in focus!” Doord yells back.

  Standing there in a man’s trousers and shirt, Doord’s face changes. His body transforms. He visibly develops a woman’s bust. He becomes the girl in the street—almost. There is a strong tendency to shift back into being his own face and body. But for a period of just over twelve seconds the two—Doord and the woman—are intermixed.

  Abruptly, the female features and shape fade away. At once Doord is himself again. (Naturally, through this entire experience, his profile-—which disappeared from my observation two years and eight months and five days ago—has steadily maintained his identity.)

  Doord now calls out, “I think she’s a singer. And she knows we hold auditions. She’s planning to try out later today.”

  Loov reacts to this information in a tone of mild sarcasm with the words: “Oh, Mr. Doord Vaneck, you have such a womanly way with you. Did you get her name?”

  Doord shakes his head. “You
know I’m not that good yet. I’m no Glay Tate—yet.”

  Loov makes no comment. His attention is again on the viewscreen. After 3.6 seconds he calls, “Look at that chubby fellow!”

  He manipulates the dials. The picture moves close on a heavy young man in work clothes. He is standing alongside a truck.

  Such a focusing into visual nearness of an individual automatically triggers my profile-observing mechanism. As with the blue-eyed girl a little earlier, identified by Doord as a singer, I take note that I cannot perceive the plump young man’s profile. This is because an ordinary viewscreen does not transmit the golden balls phenomena.

  Since the profile observing mechanism is not needed, I record what has happened. Recognize that no identification has occurred. And trigger a shut-off.

  That is accomplished in my usual ultra fast fashion. Inside the music van, Doord is just beginning his body and face transformation to that of the chubby man. First, he mimics the way he stands. Then he puffs his cheeks out. That’s when the body changes begin.

  As with the girl singer, Doord cannot hold the image for long. So, within seconds, he is himself again. But, once more, his words indicate that he has acquired information during the process.

  He says, “The poor guy’s embarrassed because he’s a truck driver who writes poetry. But he is thinking of coming in to read for us, if he can conquer his shyness.”

  Loov’s reply is one of those so called philosophical verbalisms that I hear a great deal from human beings. The subject matter is vaguely related to what was previously said but is essentially irrelevant. He says, “Creative people sure have it rough these days. The computer writes the best stories, the best music, and is never shy or embarrassed. Oh, well—” he sighs—“enough of that.”

  He returns to the viewscreen, and this time points at two men standing close to each other. “Hey, Doord, see that lean fellow. And what do you make of the well-dressed man near him?”

  The first individual in focus is a lean, muscular young man. The significant feature of the second man is that he is wearing a suit, complete with starched-looking shirt and a red tie (shade 3).

  As the van moves slowly past the two, Doord mimics each in turn. “Loov, there is a perfect physical specimen. That man has muscles. And energy. Just for a moment I felt in marvelous good health. Sure hope he comes out for the track meet. And, for once, that’s something the computer can’t do: run a foot race. The other guy’s a musician—hey!” His voice sinks to a lower pitch on the last word. Then: “Hey, he’s coming over!”

  What is happening is that the well-dressed young “musician” has started forward suddenly. He is briefly visible on the viewplate jogging, seemingly, directly toward the lens system that has him in focus. I see him for a few seconds only. Then he disappears off the edge of the screen. Moments later, Doord goes over to the rear door on that side. And I hear someone speaking. (Doord is also out of my line of sight.)

  The someone has a tenor voice, with just a tremor of baritone in it, as he says in a way that shows he is breathing rapidly: “Sir, what’s all this about auditions?”

  I hear Doord’s voice reply to that: “We computerworld rebels are nutty enough to believe that artistic talent should be encouraged.” He adds, “What’s your name?”

  “Stess Magnus,” is the answer. It’s the same tone as before, still breathless. “My question is: What’s the point of auditions? Here in Mardley people just shake their heads over me and Allet and our poet laureate, Trubby Graham. What will auditioning do for us?”

  At the first mention of each of the names, I do my split-instant scan of my memory banks, Mardley area. And so, at once, I have the data on Stess Magnus. He works in the local clothing store. And Trubby Graham’s father owns a small trucking business.

  I also scan my memory system for the name Allet. There are three in this area, but only one in Mardley itself: Allet McGuire.

  My name check is completed by the time Doord speaks again. He says, “We’ve found that creative people, next to young kids, are the easiest people for us to train in human evolutionary development.”

  Stess’ voice has a puzzled note in it now, as he says, “1 saw your sign about that. What is that?”

  Doord’s reply has a serious quality in it: “Best I can say is, please come and look it over when our leader, Glay Tate, demonstrates and explains it. You’ll never regret it, believe me.”

  “Okay!” Stess is suddenly hard to hear, as if he is farther away. “I’ll be there.”

  Moments later he is on view once more on the screen, walking back toward the sidewalk. He becomes a figure in the receding background.

  In the interior of the music van Doord reappears in my line of sight . . . as the girl, Fen, speaks for the first time. She calls in a high-pitched voice, “Loov! Loov!” As he turns away from the viewscreen, she continues, “It’s someone else’s turn to be blasted by the music. Our time is up.” She points at her wrist watch.

  Loov looks at his own watch and nods. He faces his instrument again, touches a switch, and says, “Hey, Pren—Boddy—your turn to take over the crowd music.”

  A man’s strong baritone voice comes back on a speaker. “All right. Just a moment now while we brace ourselves for the shock. Okay—”

  As the voice is still saying that final word, my interior view of the Doord-Loov van blinks out.

  Instantly.

  The music situation is like that everywhere; not just in the western states. I have no control from my side over who listens or what they want played. The reason was once explained to me. It’s because music belongs to everybody—that was what I was told.

  At the time, I checked the meaning of “belong.” It doesn’t fit. It must be one of those obscure human ideas which perhaps I shall understand later when I’m allowed better contact with the advanced education energy I’ve been storing the last thirty-one years.

  For me to play music requires a human being to push a button and make a request. The music itself comes from orbiting transmitters. So it’s direct to each receiver. No connection is needed from one van to another.

  At the moment when Loov and Pren agree on the switchover, Pren (whoever he is—I don’t have to see his profile or approve him as a person qualified to listen; he qualifies automatically) says: “Computer, continue through (code number of his receiver) what you’ve just been playing through (code number of the Loov-Doord van receiver).

  A fraction of a second later that’s what’s happening.

  And then, as instantly, I’m looking at the interior of the Pren-Boddy van.

  I note at once that this is a weapon machine. What I look at from the viewplate connected to the music-playing instrument is more like the interior of a S.A.V.E. There are six profiles here. Two men, two women, and two babies. The two men, Pren Rogers and Boddy Clark, stand at weapon stations. One of the DAR 3 blasters points east through its shielding; the other one west. Thus, both sides of the street are under continual observation as the parade moves through the town.

  The two women adjust the two babies onto backpacks, and stand up. The women are Rauley Marlton and Elna Starr, according to my two-and-a-half-year-old information. (The babies, of course, I have not seen previously. I accordingly register their profiles.)

  Having climbed to their feet, the women walk forward from the rear of the van. The one I have identified as Elna Starr yells: “Hey, fellows—husbands—don’t forget that we night-time dispensers of male joy still have our jobs to do.”

  At which the woman, Rauley, adds, “And we might as well do it while the music is blaring. Save the babies a headache.”

  Pren Rogers leaves his station. Goes to the front of the van. And calls through an opening to the driver: “Hey, Ed, let the girls out at the next comer.”

  The motion of the van alters almost at once. It has been moving at the slow pace which compares with that of other
parades I have records of. Now, it slows suddenly to a full stop.

  The girls, with their back-slung babies, walk past me out of my line of vision. Pren accompanies them out of my sight. I thereupon hear the female voices say, “ ’Bye!” “See you!” And Pren’s single reply is simply: “Okay.”

  He comes back into my view, and goes over to his weapon. He stands there, then, silent, peering through his tiny viewer which sweeps back and forth scanning the outside scene.

  I have, of course, been reporting all these observations to Colonel Yahco Smith—a special programming for the major attack he is planning. And so now I receive an instruction from him: “Computer, keep your perception open for those girls, whatever they went outside for. The moment you notice them in any way, report to me.”

  “Very well, sir, colonel,” I reply.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  The next contact with the two young women is at 301 and 302 Brand Street, in Mardley.

  It is four and one half minutes later.

  A sound of rapid footsteps. Then a doorknob fumbling noise. This last perception triggers the home computer unit which faces the entrance.

  Moments after that the door bursts open. A boy runs across the threshold, and heads for the stairs, yelling, “Momma, momma! There’s some babies out here. Hey, mom!”

  1 have, of course, instantly identified the boy’s profile as that of twelve-year-old David Norton. Despite knowing that this is, indeed, his proper residence, and that he is not an intruder, I am still required to do my automatic arrival announcement. “Good morning, David,” I say.

  No answer. And he is halfway up the stairs. In a few moments he will be out of my sight. I direct a DAR One beam at him. It hits him on the bare part of his left shoulder. He utters a scream. And stops short. Literally. Stops, turns, and calls out, “Thank you. Computer!” He is breathless, but he takes the time to say further, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just excited. First two babies I ever saw.”

  His reaction is not something which I would normally “think” about—to use a human word which does not apply to what a computer actually does. Human verbalizations which are not related to my programming are meaningless sonic debris in my memory banks. And I normally dump all such items in two weeks.