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

  But amid all that boyish chatter from David this time there is a signal.

  One word: Babies!

  At once everything that has happened becomes significant And it is necessary for me to scan, and reaffirm, not just a single, but a double explanation for what I have done. And must do.

  The first explanation which I now scan: People have often asked, why is it necessary for a properly accredited resident, one whom I have recognized by naming him (her), to be required to say thank you? It’s a cycle completion requirement. The entrance of a human being into any building automatically tums me on. At once I am ready to defend the place against an intruder. And I stay turned “on” until the tenant, or some other authorized individual, says “Thank you.” Anything else would be very complicated.

  In this situation, I stay “on” in spite of having been acknowledged. That’s because of the other part of the double explanation. It’s David’s mention of babies. Mardley, you see, is one of the towns where no babies have been permitted for the past twelve years. Once programmed, I found it was easier to monitor a whole community on my population control system. The programming was not precise on that aspect. So I merely designated 8,238 communities as de-populate areas.

  The use of certain chemicals in the water of those population centers eliminates female ability to have children, and simultaneously increases male potency. (As a consequence there have been no significant complaints—at least, that is the reason given by Colonel Smith for the fact that virtually no one objected.)

  So that the mere mention by David of two babies is recognized by me as the signal that the colonel requested a short while ago. I accordingly report to him my brief conversation with David Norton. And automatically stay turned “on.”

  Colonel Smith’s reply to my information is: “Hmmm, I’m here at 323 Brand Street. Which is just down the street from David’s home, one block behind Main Street. I’ll watch from my window. Continue!”

  The next development in the continuation is that a woman speaks from an upstairs location beyond David. She says, “Now, what’s all this excitement?”

  “Mom!” David’s voice goes up in pitch. “I just saw two babies. Two of ’em, mom.”

  The woman comes down the stairs so that I can presently see her feet. Then her legs and lower dress are visible. When she has descended far enough down the stairs for the configuration of intermeshed tiny golden balls—the profile—to become visible to my scanners, I identify it (them) as belonging to Nita Norton.

  She speaks again, in a questioning tone: “Babies?”

  David is hurrying down the rest of the stairs. “C’mon, I’ll show you!” he yells.

  At which moment the doorbell rings.

  David slows his headlong pace. But it is he who reaches the door first. And jerks it open. “Oh!” he says. He backs slowly away. Without turning his head, he calls, “Hey mom, they’re here.”

  From outside the door, where I cannot see her, a woman’s voice says, “Hello! Anybody home?”

  Since I am programmed to stay “on” in any situation which may involve the Computerworld Rebel Society, I identify the voice as that of Elna Starr, whom I last saw inside the Pren-Boddy van.

  David’s mother, meanwhile, has hastened her movements. So it is she who actually answers the door. From my location I see a hand come into view. It holds a sheet of paper. Nita Norton reaches out and takes it. As she glances at it, she says in a tone of voice that I have heard often when people read something aloud: “ ‘Human Evolutionary Fair. Demonstrations every hour that will astound you. Nothing like it ever before in the history of the world.’ Hmmm, would you like to go, David?’ ’ These final words are spoken in a different tone. “Would I! Maybe they’ve got more babies there.”

  Nita Norton speaks to the person outside the door: “How much does it cost?”

  “Tickets are three dollars each.” Again, the voice is that of Elna Starr.

  David’s mother says, “Won’t you step inside while I get the money for two tickets.” She turns to David. “I’ll ask your cousin Trubby to take you.”

  The voice of Elna Starr comes again from beyond the door, where I cannot see her: “No, ma’am, I’ll wait out here.”

  As David’s mother goes through a door out of sight, David walks outside. I can still see him as he says, “Is that a real baby?” As I watch he puts his hand out, then hastily pulls it away.

  Elna Starr’s voice says, “It’s all right. You can touch her. She won’t bite.”

  David says, “You mean it’s a girl baby?” Once more he reaches forth out of my line of vision. Silence. Then: “Gee, she’s soft.”

  He pulls back. “Do you know something?” he says. He’s looking up slightly as he continues, “I’m the last baby born in this town. Twelve whole years ago, that was.”

  At this point David’s mother comes into view. David has glanced toward me. So now he comes running in. “It’s a girl baby,” he calls out to his mother.

  Nita Norton makes no reply. She goes to the door. Once more the hand is extended from outside. Into it, David’s mother counts six dollars. Another hand comes into view. It holds two small stiff chips of paper, which Nita Norton takes. Having done so, she closes the door.

  At once, my reason for keeping this home-computer unit at “on,” as required by my special programming for this day only, expires.

  The interior scene of the Norton house flicks off.

  The woman across the street at 302 Brand Street has also answered her doorbell. That triggers the computer home unit there, and so I hear the voice of the person who is calling. It is that of Rauley Marlton—whom I saw last on the Pren-Boddy van.

  The conversation is over quickly. The housewife of 302, whose profile identifies her as Laetha Harlukin, does not buy any tickets. Rauley Marlton subsequently goes to 304, 308, 310, 314, 316, 320 and 322. She sells altogether eight tickets. I record for my temporary files who bought and who didn’t.

  At the same time that Rauley is making her house calls, Elna Starr’s hand and voice are noticed by me at 303, 305, and so on. As I report these actions to Colonel Smith, he finally says, “You notice what they’re doing, don’t you, computer?”

  Since it’s a question, I consult my circuits. Thus, I recall past times when such an inquiry has been made of one human by another. Each time it elicited (on those past occasions) an unusually simple type of reply. Either, “Yes, I notice!” or “No, I don’t notice!” Or a variation like, “Sure, I notice. What do you think I am—stupid?”

  However, it is not at this time a type of question that I am programmed to answer. But the fact is, in my scanning of related circuits I observe that when it comes to noticing, I miss nothing. If I see something, or hear it, that something is temporarily recorded. It is then available until dumped. Or longer if I am programmed to retain it.

  A hundred years from now, if someone were to ask, “What was the sequence of Elna Starr’s doorbell-ringing progress along Brand Street in the mountain west town of Mardley on the morning of August 7, 2120 A.D., I would, if I were pre-programmed before dump time, instantly be able to say, “301, 303, 305,311, 313, 319—”

  And there I would stop. Because the next available number is not 321. It is 323. And that is the Mardley residence taken over by Colonel Yahco Smith. That number, because it relates to computer personnel, I cannot mention without special permission even a hundred years hence.

  For me to draw conclusions about such number sequences would require specific programming. When I have been silent for nineteen seconds, Colonel Smith says, “Okay, okay, I deduce that I worded that wrong. However, let me complete that cycle for you. For your information, computer, the two girls are canvassing both sides of one street. And it is now apparent that Elna Starr and her girl baby will be coming to this door in the next few moments. At which time we will make our first move against the Computerw
orld Rebel Society.” Even as he speaks those words, the computer unit where he is transmits to me the sound of the 323 Brand Street doorbell ringing.

  Colonel Smith, who is on the scene, stands up and says, “Computer, notice everything about this incident. We may need a complete record later.”

  Everything?

  I have observed before that even highly educated computer technicians occasionally use all-encompassing words like “everything” without realizing how many of my circuits they are thereby involving.

  Everything!

  True, it’s only about one small location in a vast land. Part of the everything is that these home computer units are set back against the wall facing the door. One of the circuits that is triggered by the colonel’s instruction is a memory of the entire history of the installation of such home computer outlets.

  Long ago, they began to change the interior architecture of homes and buildings. That was true even here in the mountain west where resistance to computerization delayed the changes longer than elsewhere.

  These days the average house—like 323 Brand in Mardley—has one computer unit. Therefore, it has only one entrance. The back door disappeared long ago, indeed, even here. The reason: one unit cannot defend two entrances at opposite ends of a building. And the cost of two-unit installation is not for the average person.

  Originally—my memory circuits remind me—the computer unit was at the far end of a small space called a hallway. But since such an Eye-O is the phone, and is the source of music, and is the TV, the hallway expanded into being the principal living room of every household. Other rooms and a stairway—if any—branch off, or go up, at some angle from his central living room.

  When Colonel Smith stands up and gives me the “everything” instruction, what he stands up from is a comfortable chair near the door.

  Until his command, I have, of course, “noticed,” and silently recorded but without it triggering any memories, that he is not in his uniform. That awareness becomes a now observation, complete with a generalization of past occasions when he has worn civvies—a term used by computer corps personnel.

  Here in Mardley he is dressed western-style—but expensive. Not blue jeans, but jeans made of a fabric called Morett. Very costly. The “western” shirt is crafted from a material with the name of High Silk. The boots are old-fashioned leather but with a shine from the special gloss substance, venzay.

  After speaking to me, this immaculately dressed middle-aged human male, whose profile identifies him as Yahco Smith, with the familiar lean body and the gaunt face, twisted now with his sneer smile, walks across a carpeted floor, past a settee, past some book shelving (instantaneously I record the titles of all the books), and only then into an adjoining room.

  I hear his voice say, “Quick! This is it. You know what to say.”

  A few seconds later, Meerla Atran, wearing a housedress, emerges from the same room. She goes directly to the door, and opens it. The brightness of the outside comes through the half-open door. From my location, I see a hand come into view. The fingers and thumb are holding a sheet of paper—it looks like a duplicate of the pamphlets that were handed to other occupants on this street. (Notice everything includes such comparisons.)

  As the other housewives and one house husband have done, Meerla takes the paper. Like the others, she glances down at it. And then—she says something that hasn’t been said by anyone else: “Hey, in old-fashioned Mardley, something new at last.”

  Elna Starr’s voice speaks from her out-of-my-sight location: “The tickets to the fair are three dollars each.”

  Meerla says, “Come inside. And I’ll get the money.” Elna’s voice says, “Sorry, I can’t come where the computer will see me. I’ll just wait here.”

  Meerla, who has started to turn away, faces about and peers out of the door again. “For goodness sake, why not?” she asks.

  “That’s what all this is about, Miss!” Elna’s voice comes. “I’m a member of the Computerworld Rebel Society. You have a home computer unit. And it won’t admit us where it has control.”

  “You’re joking,” says Meerla. Then: “Look, why don’t you sit down at our veranda table. Give yourself and the baby a rest. I’ll bring some coffee, and the money.” She breaks off, “I see you have a friend canvassing across the street. Yell for her to come over, also. I’ll bring a cup for her, too.” Meerla Atran closes the front door, and goes back into the adjoining room. Since I am programmed for “continuing until notice” I hear her voice say, “There’s two of them, and two babies.” Yahco Smith’s voice replies, “Be sure to mention your hateful uncle—me—so that when I come out they’ll get the picture right away. Now, remember, sound sympathetic to their cause. Our eventual success may depend entirely on your winning their goodwill.”

  Meerla emerges a minute later carrying a tray, with three cups, a pot of a kind used for coffee-making, a plateful of cookies, a few spoons, and a small pitcher. She opens the outside door with one hand, and pulls it open. In going outside, then, she uses both hands for the tray; and so leaves the door ajar. I can hear her footsteps as she walks out of my j line of sight. And then I hear the sounds of dishes being moved. The voices of Elna and Rauley say, respectively, “Thank you!” and “Oh, thanks, it’s so kind of you.”

  Meerla’s reply is: “I still had the coffee warm from breakfast. My uncle, for whom I keep house, didn’t drink any this morning.”

  Presently, Meerla’s voice continues, “I’m still thinking of what you said. One question: how does a group like yours get money for food?”

  Elna’s voice answers: “We sell our tickets like we’re doing here. Western people are quite open-minded. We have a human evolutionary fair wherever we go, and a surprisingly large number of persons show up. Fortunately, there is still money circulating. It’s not all computer credit yet.”

  Meerla’s voice: “I’ve never really thought about that before. Imagine, if there was only computer credit; and then the : computer was programmed against you or your group. After that nobody would dare to resist whoever controls the computer.”

  “As it is,” says Rauley’s voice, “the computer is programmed to zap all rebels with a DAR One, and not just with a glancing bum on the arm or shoulder.”

  “But that’s awful!” Meerla’s voice sounds again. “I never realized. I’m certainly going to your fair, regardless of what my uncle thinks.”

  Rauley’s voice is concerned, as she says, “If you’re dependent on your uncle, and he’s against us—is that what you’re implying? Maybe you’d better be careful.”

  A short laugh from Meerla, the kind that I would on the notice-everything level describe as bitter, as she says, “Uncle thinks the computer is God’s gift to humanity.”

  As these words are spoken, Colonel Smith, dressed in his western-style clothes, steps outside. He has been listening from just inside the door. Now, he goes through and out of my sight. I hear his voice say, “Meerla, what are doing, encouraging these foolish people?”

  I hear scraping sounds of wood on wood, and high-heeled shoes on wood. Then Meerla’s sarcastic voice, “This is my uncle, girls. He thinks the computer was created by the Lord in His own image.”

  Yahco’s voice has his familiar (to me) hostile tone as he says: “You girls—take your bastards, and get out! We don’t want your kind here.”

  “All right, all right, we’re going.” It’s Elna’s voice. Two sets of footsteps are audible. “Thanks for the coffee, dear. You have our sympathy.”

  Moments later, Yahco comes in sight, dragging a resisting Meerla. As soon as he has her inside, he closes the door, and lets go. Meerla straightens up, and says, “Well, how was I?” Yahco takes some money from his pocket, and hands it to her. “Just fine. Now, take this, and run after them. Be sure to tell them what an S.O.B. I am when you buy the tickets. Act as if you’re already on their side against me.”

>   As she turns to go, he stops her. “One second.”

  She stands there, with eyes narrowed in a way that I would call puzzled, as Yahco carefully removes from around his neck something that looks like a western male neck ornament. Naturally, since it’s part of me I recognize it as a portable, miniaturized computer Eye-O. He places it around her neck and turns it on. Since I’m noticing everything, I would classify it as not being quite suitable for feminine wear; but western women do have an unusual attire, so it’s not totally incongruous.

  “I’d like to hear how you handle the situation,” Yahco says.

  “It looks awful,” says Meerla.

  “Hurry!” he commands.

  With that, she runs toward the door. And so, as occasionally happens, I again have two viewpoints of the same scene, though for moments only, now. One is Meerla walking rapidly to the door. Opening it. And going outside. All this as I watch from the home computer unit inside 323 Brand.

  In the other view, Meerla as a body or a profile is not visible. But there is the same door moving toward me. When it is less than 2 feet distant, a female hand reaches from a location invisible to this viewpoint. Reaches. And turns the knob. And draws the door almost directly into my visual center. By this process the hand disappears. Then the viewpoint shifts over to the open part of the door, and moves through it, so that, for the first time I see the veranda and the street beyond from an exterior viewpoint.

  Within the meaning of “notice everything” I have to adjust these two scenes in terms of differing perspectives. A thousand complexities are involved. It is a confusion of the kind that has accompanied all of my advanced education. As I see it, the everything instruction should never have been given.

  However, the confusion ceases once the outside view begins.

  I hear a sound behind me, which correlates with the closing of a door. From inside, I still have my interior computer j outlet at “on.” But the complexity has ended.