Bagley, Desmond - The Enemy

by The Enemy

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE I saw Ogilvie at his home that night. His welcome was somewhat cool and unenthusiastic and he looked curiously at the big ledger I carried as he ushered me into his study. I dumped it on his desk and sat down. Ogilvie warmed his coat tails at the fire, and said, 'Did you really spend £31,000 on a toy train set?' I smiled. 'Yes, I did.' 'You're a damned lunatic,' he said. 'And if you think the department will reimburse you, then I'll get the quacks in and have you certified. No bloody model railway can be worth that much.' 'An American called Hartman thought it worth £30,000,' I observed. 'Because that's how much he bid. You haven't seen it. This is no toy you buy your kid for Christmas and assemble on the floor before the living room fire to watch the chuff-chuff go round in circles. This is big and complex.' 'I don't care how big and complex it is. Where the hell do you think I'm going to put it in the department budget? The accountants would have me certified. And what makes you think the department wants it?' 'Because it holds what we've been looking for all the time. It's a computer.' I tapped the ledger. 'And this is the programming for it. One of the programs. There are eleven more which I put in the office vaults.' I told him how Michaelis had unavailingly tried to sort out the schedules and how I'd made an intuitive jump based on the timetable in Ashton's hand. I said, 'It would be natural these days for a theoretician to use a computer, but Ashton knew we'd look into all his computer files and programs. So he built his own and disguised it.' 'It's the most improbable idea I've ever heard,' said Ogilvie. 'Michaelis is the train expert. What does he think?' 'He thinks I'm crazy.' 'He's not far wrong.' Ogilvie began to pace the room. 'I tell you what I think. If you're right then the thing is cheap at the price and the department will pay. If you're wrong then it costs you £31,000.' 'Plus bank charges.' I shrugged. 'I stuck out my neck, so I'll take the chance.' 'I'll get the computer experts on it tomorrow.' He wagged his head sadly. 'But where are we to put it? If I have it installed in the department offices it'll only accelerate my retirement. Should the Minister hear of it he'll think I've gone senile—well into second childhood.' 'It will need a big room,' I said. 'Best to rent a warehouse.' 'I'll authorize that. You can get on with it. Where is it now?' 'Still in the Ashtons' attic. Michaelis is locked in with it for the night.' 'Enthusiastically playing trains, I suppose.' Ogilvie shook his head in sheer wonderment at the things his staff got up to. He joined me at the desk and tapped the schedule. 'Now tell me what you think this is all about.' It took four days to dismantle the railway and reassemble it in a warehouse in South London. The computer boys thought my idea hilarious and to them the whole thing was a big giggle, but they went about the job competently enough. Ogilvie gave me Michaelis to assist. The department had never found the need for a model railway technician and Michaelis found himself suddenly elevated into the rank of expert, first class. He quite liked it. The chief computer man was a systems analyst called Harrington. He took the job more seriously than most of the others but even that was only half-serious. He installed a computer terminal in the warehouse and had it connected to a computer by post office land lines; not the big chap Nellie was hooked up to, but an ordinary commercial timesharing computer in the City. Then we were ready to go. About this time I got a letter from Penny. She wrote that Gillian was well and had just had the operation for the first of the skin grafts. She herself was not coming back immediately; Lumsden had suggested that she attend a seminar at Berkeley in California, so she wouldn't be back for a further week or ten days. I showed the letter to Michaelis and he said he'd had one from Gillian, written just before the operation. 'She seemed a bit blue.' 'Not to worry; probably just pre-operation nerves.' The itch at the back of my mind was still there, and so the buried connection was nothing to do with the railway. Little man Hunch was sitting up and rubbing his eyes but was still not yet awake. I badly needed to talk to Penny because I thought it was something she had said that had caused the itch. I was sorry she wasn't coming home for that reason among many. One morning at ten o'clock Harrington opened the LNER schedule. 'The first few pages are concerned with the placement of the engines and the rolling stock,' he said. 'Now, let's get this right if we can. This is silly enough as it is without us putting our own bugs into the system.' It took over an hour to get everything in the right place—checked and double checked. Harrington said, 'Page eleven to page twenty-three are concerned with the console settings.' He turned to me. 'If there's anything to your idea at all these ROMs will have to be analysed to a fare-thee-well.' 'What's a ROM?' 'A read-only module—this row of boxes plugged in here. Your man, Michaelis, calls them microprocessors. They are pre-programmed electronic chips—we'll have to analyse what they're programmed to do. All right; let's get on with the setting.' He began to call out numbers and an acolyte pressed buttons and turned knobs. When he had finished he started again from the beginning and another acolyte checked what the first had done. He caught three errors. 'See what I mean,' said Harrington. 'One bug is enough to make a program unworkable.' 'Are you ready to go now?' 'I think so—for the first stage.' He put his hand on the ledger. 'There are over two hundred pages here, so if this thing really is a computer and if this represents one program, then after a while everything should come to a stop and the console will have to be readjusted for the next part of the program. It's going to take a long time.' 'It will take even longer if we don't start,' I said tartly. Harrington grinned and leaned over to snap a single switch. Things began to happen. Trains whizzed about the system, twenty or thirty on the move at once. Some travelled faster than others, and once I thought there was going to be a collision as two trains headed simultaneously for a junction; but one slowed just enough to let the other through and then picked up speed again. Sidings and marshalling yards that had been empty began to fill up as engines pushed in rolling stock and then uncoupled to shoot off somewhere else. I watched one marshalling yard fill up and then begin to empty, the trains being broken up and reassembled into other patterns. Harrington grunted. 'This is no good; it's too damned busy. Too much happening at once. If this is a computer it isn't working sequentially like an ordinary digital job; it's working in parallel. It's going to be hell to analyse.' The system worked busily for nearly two hours. Trains shot back and forth, trucks were pushed here and there, abandoned temporarily and then picked up again in what seemed an arbitrary manner. To me it was bloody monotonous but Michaelis was enthralled and even Harrington appeared to be mildly interested. Then everything came to a dead stop. Harrington said, 'I'll want a video camera up there.' He pointed to the ceiling. 'I want to be able to focus on any marshalling yard and record it on tape. And I want it in colour because I have a feeling colour comes into this. And we can slow down a tape for study. Can you fix that?' 'You'll have it tomorrow morning,' I promised. 'But what do you think now?' 'It's an ingenious toy, but there may be something more to it,' he said, noncommittally. 'We have a long way to go yet.' I didn't spend all my time in the warehouse but went back three days later because Harrington wanted to see me. I found him at a desk flanked by a video recorder and a TV set. 'We may have something,' he said, and pointed to a collection of miniature rolling stock on the desk. 'There is a number characterization.' I didn't know what he meant by that, and said so. He smiled. 'I'm saying you were right. This railway is a computer. I think that any of this rolling stock which has red trim on it represents a digit.' He picked up a tank car which had ESSO lettered on the side in red. 'This one, for instance, I think represents a zero.' He put down the tank car and I counted the trucks; there were nine, but one had no red on it. 'Shouldn't there be ten?' 'Eight,' he said. 'This gadget is working in octal instead of decimal. That's no problem—many computers work in octal internally.' He picked up a small black truck. 'And I think this little chap is an octal point—the equivalent of a decimal point.' 'Well, I'm damned! Can I tell Ogilvie?' Harrington sighed. 'I'd rather you didn't—not yet. We haven't worked out to our satisfaction which number goes with which truck. Apart from that there is a total of sixty-three types of rolling stock; I r
ather think some of those represent letters of the alphabet to give the system alphanumeric capability. Identification may be difficult. It should be reasonably easy to work out the numbers; all that it takes is logic. But letters are different. I'll show you what I mean.' He switched on the video recorder and the TV set, then punched a button. An empty marshalling yard appeared on the screen, viewed from above. A train came into view and the engine stopped and uncoupled, then trundled off. Another train came in and the same thing happened; and yet again until the marshalling yard was nearly full. Harrington pressed a button and froze the picture. 'This marshalling yard is typical of a dozen in the system, all built to the same specification—to hold a maximum of eighty trucks. You'll notice there are no numbers in there—no red trucks.' With his pen he pointed out something else. 'And scattered at pretty regular intervals are these blue trucks.' 'Which are?' Harrington leaned back. 'If I were to talk in normal computer terms—which may be jargon to you—I'd say I was looking at an alphanumeric character string with a maximum capacity of eighty characters, and the blue trucks represent the spaces between words.' He jabbed his finger at the screen. 'That is saying something to us, but we don't know what.' I bent down and counted the blue trucks; there were thirteen. 'Thirteen words,' I said. 'Fourteen,' said Harrington. There's no blue truck at the end. Now, there are twelve marshalling yards like this, so the system has a capacity of holding at any one time about a hundred and sixty words in plain, straightforward English—about half a typed quarto sheet. I know it's not much, but it keeps changing all the time as the system runs; that's the equivalent of putting a new page in the typewriter and doing some more.' He smiled. 'I don't know who designed this contraption, but maybe it's a new way of writing a novel.' 'So all you have to do is to find out which truck equals which letter.' 'All!' said Harrington hollowly. He picked up a thick sheaf of colour photographs. 'We've been recording the strings as they form and I have a chap on the computer doing a statistical analysis. So far he's making heavy weather of it. But we'll get it, it's just another problem in cryptanalysis. Anyway, I just thought I'd let you know your harebrained idea turned out to be right, after all.' 'Thanks,' I said, glad not to be £31,000 out of pocket. Plus bank charges. Two days later Harrington rang me again. 'We've licked the numbers,' he said. 'And we're coming up with mathematical formulae now. But the alphabet is a dead loss. The statistical distribution of the letters is impossible fo r English, French, German, Spanish and Latin. That's as far as we've gone. It's a bit rum—there are too many letters.' I thought about that. 'Try Russian; there are thirty-two letters in the Russian alphabet.' And the man who had designed the railway was a Russian, although I didn't say that to Harrington. 'That's a thought. I'll ring you back.' Four hours later he rang again. 'It's Russian,' he said. 'But we'll need a linguist; we don't know enough about it here.' 'Now is the time to tell Ogilvie. We'll be down there in an hour.' So I told Ogilvie. He said incredulously, 'You mean that bloody model railway speaks Russian?' I grinned. 'Why not? It was built by a Russian.' 'You come up with the weirdest things,' he complained. 'I didn't,' I said soberly. 'Ashton did. Now you can make my bank manager happy by paying £35,000 into my account.' Ogilvie narrowed his eyes. 'It cost you only £31,000.' '"Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth the corn",' I quoted. 'It was a risky investment—I reckon I deserve a profit.' He nodded. 'Very well. But it's going to look damned funny in the books—for one model railway, paid to M. Jaggard, £35,000.' 'Why don't you call it by its real name? A computing system.' His brow cleared. 'That's it. Now let's take a look at this incredible thing.' We collected Larry Godwin as an interpreter and went to the warehouse. The first thing I noticed was that the system wasn't running and I asked Harrington why. 'No need,' he said cheerfully. 'Now we've got the character list sorted out we've duplicated the system in a computer—put it where it really belongs. We weren't running the entire program, you know; just small bits of it. To run through it all would have been impossible.' I stared at him. 'Why?' 'Well, not really impossible. But look.' He opened the LNER schedule and flipped through. 'Take these five pages here. They contain reiterative loops. I estimate that to run these five pages on the system would take six days, at twenty-four hours a day. To run through the whole program would take about a month and a half—and this is one of the smaller programs. To put all twelve of them through would take about two years.' He closed the schedule. 'I think the original programs were written on, and for, a real computer, and then transferred on to this system. But don't ask me why. Anyway, now we've put the system back into a computer we're geared to work at the speed of electrons and not on how fast a model railway engine can turn its wheels.' Ogilvie said, 'Which computer?' 'One in the City; a time-sharing system.' Ogilvie looked at me. 'Oh, we can't have that. I want everything you've put into that computer cleared out. We'll put it in our own computer.' I said quickly, 'I wouldn't do that. I don't trust it. It lost Benson.' Although Harrington could not know what we were talking about he caught the general drift. 'That's no problem.' He pointed to the railway. 'As a model railway that thing is very elaborate and complex, but as a computer it's relatively simple. There's nothing there that can't be duplicated in the Hewlett-Packard desktop job I have in my own office. But I'll need a printer to handle Russian characters and, perhaps, a modified keyboard.' Ogilvie said, 'That's a most satisfactory solution.' He walked over to the railway and looked at it. 'You're right; it is complex. Now show me how it works.' Harrington smiled. 'I thought you'd ask that. Can you read Russian?' Ogilvie indicated Larry. 'We've brought an interpreter.' 'I'm going to run through the program from the beginning; it's set up ready. I want you to keep an eye on that marshalling yard there. When it's full you can read it off because I've labelled each truck with the character it represents. I'll stop the system at the right time.' He switched on and the trains began to scurry about, and the marshalling yard, which was empty, began to fill up. Harrington stopped the system. 'There you are.' Ogilvie leaned forward and looked. 'All right, Godwin. What does it say?' Harrington handed Larry a small pair of opera glasses. 'You'll find these useful.' Larry took them and focused on the trains. His lips moved silently but he said nothing, and Ogilvie demanded impatiently, 'Well?' 'As near as I can make out it says something like this: "First approximation using toroidal Legendre function of the first kind."' 'Well, I'll be damned!' said Ogilvie. Later, back at the office, I said, 'So they're not going to use the railway.' 'And better not,' said Ogilvie. 'We can't wait two years to find out what this is all about.' "What will you do with it? According to Harrington it's a pretty simple-minded computer. Without the schedules—the programs—it's just an elaborate rich man's toy.' 'I don't know what to do with it,' said Ogilvie. 'I'll have to think about that.' 'Do me a favour,' I said. 'Give it to Michaelis. It was he who figured those schedules were fakes. It'll make his day.'