The God Machine

by Martin Caidin

  As for myself, I worked day and night to improve the acoustic cybernetics link so that I could carry out my own tests in the vocalized sense. Because of its ability to remember every previous lesson, 79 had "learned to talk" through its incredibly swift translations of sounds into binary digits that were again translated within the memory portions of its neural blocks. For months skilled programmers had carried on "conversations" with the computer, specifically to enlarge upon the capacity of the cybernetics system to communicate in this fashion. As far as the computer itself might be concerned, this was, of course, a clumsy and tedious process of communications. But for us slowpoke humans it worked out fine.

  I had hundreds of experiments I wanted to push through as swiftly as I could, and most of the time they had to be handled personally. Programming tapes was a waste of time, with dozens of technicians underfoot. I preferred to assign the taping and carry out my own experiments in acoustic communications, literally voice-to-voice.

  After several months, as long as I exercised care—and practice made this a secondary skill—I was able to maintain two-way voice communications to a degree I would not have thought possible. The sound of that deep, rich voice, modulated to remove the stiffness of the artificial larynx, always commanded a sense of thrill. This was the human, emotional reaction on my part, and I knew it. But I couldn't prevent myself every now and then from shaking my head, and I also found myself eager to resume the experiments. Every hour spent with the computer on a "person-to-person" basis I found that much more fascinating. It was a test of my own ability as well; the cybernetics brain and I had to meet somewhere along the line. It couldn't be a matter of my expecting the computer to fulfill the entirety of speech, and I could never have learned to speak "computerese."

  As could have been predicted, we did meet upon common ground. Stiff and awkward, and sometimes chaotically confusing our conversations might be; nevertheless, I could seat myself in the comfortable control chair of my laboratory and enjoy what I was doing.

  After months of these tests had gone by, and I slipped as naturally into "computerese" as I might have a foreign language, the cybernetics brain began to assume—at least I felt this to be so—a distinct and recognizable personality. A psychologist would have argued that had I ever encountered a talking rock under the same conditions of extended time, I would have imbued the rock with the same sense of personality.

  Men do this with machines all the time. Just listen to a pilot who swears his fighter will respond more eagerly, more smoothly, to his own hands than to those of any other man that flies the machine. . . .

  Kim suffered misgivings about my growing sense of association with the computer. She felt the sense of identification was exceeding a normal relationship, that my rapport was more self-imposed psychologically than it was an actual exchange. I waved off her murmured discomfort; if such identification could be realized, I was heartily for it. I sought it out with a secret, fervent desire that it could really be so.

  I know this is hardly the accepted scientific approach, and I did not dare to discuss my own feelings with Dr. Vollmer or even that most trustworthy of souls, Tom Smythe. Scientist and materialist I might be, but I was also sufficiently aware of my own emotions to realize I was treading in waters for the most part entirely alien to me.

  Any misgivings of my own I hurled aside with a passage from a book, a brief selection of words that always enabled me to bring light to where it was darkest in my lack of understanding of what went on within the timelessness of the cybernetics brain. Science is never that pure, that certain; it is not always the best way.

  Arthur Koestler said it better than any man. A copy of his book The Act of Creation was always within reach of my hand. In that book Koestler declares: "Max Planck stated that the pioneer scientist must have a vivid intuitive imagination; Faraday was ignorant of mathematics; Von Helmholtz admitted that intuition is superior to mathematical analysis; and Edison benefited from his shocking ignorance of science."

  Amen.

  I was aware of inadequacies, but I also had a tremendous ally. The intelligence we called 79.

  19

  SECRET

  . . . had the effect anticipated. From that moment on there has been affirmed a manifold increase in emotional urgency on the part of Steven Rand A193, to conclude the programming experiments and to attain a new meeting ground for further communications with the cybernetics system. We hesitate to hazard the risk of extrapolation where so many unknowns must be considered, but from the progress to date and the immediate results since the planned incident, it would appear that optimism may be guardedly entertained.

  As was explained in the memorandum preceding, we waited until the most propitious moment to dislodge Rand from the secure position into which events had placed him. His growing concern with details of his personal life involving the females Kim Renée Michele and Barbara Johnson clearly lessened the degree of emphasis upon the cybernetics effort. This, too, was anticipated as an inevitable product of the long preparations program in computer programming, in that an element of stasis due to repetitive efforts would direct his attentions elsewhere.

  It was the considered opinion of our field force—a unanimous opinion, it must be emphasized—that a shock effect of the desired nature would be created through a sudden and unexpected division of his personal-professional relationships with a single figure, i.e., Dr. Selig Albracht, for whom Steven Rand has held the highest respect. The division of this relationship we felt should be carried out under conditions of maximum emotional-social exposure in order to strengthen the break and to require Rand, psychologically, to stand by his convictions. This was indeed accomplished. Dr.

  Albracht performed as might have been expected from one of the most capable psychologists in the field.

  It is regrettable that until some undetermined moment in the future he must continue the cessation of his close friendship with a man he admires more than any other, Dr. Howard Vollmer; however, Dr.

  Albracht accepts the necessity for these conditions. He is in agreement that we may well have triggered Steven Rand at precisely the right moment to bring him into a deepening emotional relationship with Project 79. Albracht feels, as do the members of this field force, that the intensification of what Rand has achieved may well bring on an unprecedented breakthrough in the bio-cybernetics aspects of this program.

  We remain convinced that Steven Rand is unaware of the role played specifically by Dr. Albracht.

  Rand's association with psychological controls or direction remains concentrated upon Thomas A.

  Smythe; that is the effect desired.

  We have maintained extraordinary monitoring of all human and cybernetics activity related to the working association of Steven Rand with Project 79. Rand is convinced, without undue self-pressure, that he "knows" the computer better than any man. He has achieved a sense of association—what would commonly be considered rapport—that may yet achieve the gestalt level that would constitute complete success for this phase of the project.

  What excites this field force, individually and collectively, more than any other aspect of what is now taking place is that there is now appearing a sense of identification on the part of the cybernetics systems for the man. We cannot overemphasize this realization. Monitoring of electrical output, energy requirements, systems activation, neural blocks energized, and so forth, clearly are distinguishable in the case of Steven Rand insofar as his contacts with the computer are concerned. If electronic-neural recognition as such truly is possible, then we are witness to its first awakening in the relationship of Rand and Project 79.

  It is difficult, exceedingly so, to pinpoint the specifics through which we have arrived at and sustain the foregoing conclusion. We remain aware at all times of the unknowns involved. Yet there is not one among us who will refute the evidence accumulating that an affinity exists in the Rand-79 relationship.

  Mountsier of Monitoring believes he will soon be able to confirm a distinct
level of higher efficiency as regards the cybernetics organism when it is programmed for direct/immediate response with Steven Rand than is noticed with any other human subject/programmer.

  At this time we must refrain from specific suggestions for programming as regards Steven Rand. It is a matter of treading warily and reemphasizing the critical need for absolute monitoring. In addition, Rand is functioning under an intense psychological pressure that we feel must be sustained to continue the results now becoming evident.

  In respect to ...

  20

  it started out to be a beautiful weekend. For several days the snow had come down thickly, draping its dazzling white blanket over the hills and the mountains. As luck would have it, the skies cleared about noon on Friday. That meant the plows would open the main highways by evening, and by the following morning we'd be able to make it to a ski lodge eighty miles from Colorado Springs.

  Kim and I never got there. Skiing is supposed to be a dangerous sport. Getting there—driving to the lodge—was far more dangerous. I drove carefully, what with narrow lanes caused by the high snowbanks to each side of the road, and especially the patches of ice where the average driver just didn't expect them. The sun melted snow on one side of the highway. The water drained to the other side, still in shadow, and froze. The worst places were just beneath the hills and along the turns.

  I handled the Corvette with all the skill I had, just taking it easy, and we both wore seat belts. But no matter what you do, it doesn't help when the other guy is an idiot.

  I came around a turn, braking easily and keeping my foot lightly on the gas pedal to hold traction, when another car came ripping through the turn at us. He—the other driver—hit his brakes suddenly.

  Right on a patch of ice. And that was it. Two tons of metal skidded wildly out of control. I had just enough time to throw myself to the side, hauling desperately at the wheel.

  Kim screamed, I think. There really wasn't time to tell. I felt the first sickening lurch as the other car slammed into my front left fender; a lurch, and simultaneously the crumpling sound of metal. Then everything fell apart around me. A white-hot poker stabbed my leg, a blur flashed before my eyes as the other car tore past, ripping out the left side of the Corvette. Then it was only pain and an empty feeling in my stomach as we left the road and began a slow tumble through the air. The horizon tilted crazily and the sun blasted into my eyes and I remember shouting, "Down! Get down!" to Kim. I forgot the pain, and thought only of her, and then we came back to earth, sideways, and we hit.

  The snow saved us. We smashed into a high bank that gave way, absorbing the punch of deceleration. The last thing I knew, a white battering ram exploded through the open window to my left and once again I felt that twisting hot pain all through my leg, and then—nothing. Just nothing.

  I woke up in a hospital bed. The first thing I saw were trembling lips and tears staining Kim's cheeks and some blurred faces beyond. The room ended its seesaw trembling and settled down to normalcy, and as my head cleared the faces of a doctor and Tom Smythe came into focus. So did the pain. I glanced away from Kim and saw a huge mass of plaster and some straps, and I made some silly noises about recognizing my leg slung awkwardly in traction.

  "Jesus." That's all I said for a moment. Because emotions were swirling around inside my skull. My heart leaped at the open concern displayed by Kim—and my leg ... well, the white-hot poker was still there.

  I looked again at Kim, and noticed the dark bruise on the side of her face.

  "Hey! What happened—I mean, are you all right, hon?" I reached out for her hand, and the poker stabbed deeply into my leg. I groaned as stars danced before my eyes.

  "He'll be all right," I heard. Tom Smythe had a satisfied look on his face.

  I gasped for air. "What the hell are you so smug about?" I said, trying to sound angry. I think it must have been more of a whimper than the retort I intended.

  Tom grinned down at me. "Accident must have done you some good," he murmured. "Think of it,"

  he said to the doctor. "He's just coming out of it, and the first thing he wants to know is how she feels."

  He gestured to Kim. "Almost makes me believe the patient is slightly human."

  I growled something at him. It's hard to talk, and who the devil wants to, when Kim is kissing me lightly on the lips. I had another look at the angry bruise on her cheek. "It's nothing," she whispered.

  They told me what happened. The pieces I didn't know, I mean. Hitting the snowbank on the way back down saved us. My leg was already broken—in fact, it had two breaks—before we ever started to tumble through the air.

  "You're a lucky man, Mr. Rand," the doctor said. I looked down at the cast suspended in midair, and concluded immediately that the doctor was an idiot. "Two breaks," he went on, ignoring the white-hot poker someone had left inside the leg. "Very clean, too." He pursed his lips and glanced at some X rays lying on the bed. "Very clean, indeed. Almost classical, I would say. It could have been much worse."

  "Thanks a heap," I mumbled through teeth I was gritting to keep from howling with the pain.

  "You'll be up and around in no time," the doctor went on in the same nonchalant fashion. "No time at all."

  "How the hell long is that?" I shouted at him. Or tried to shout. Halfway through the sentence, my words trailed off in a groan. I must have turned as white as the sheets beneath me.

  "Just take it easy," he said, ignoring my demand for just how long was no time at all.

  "Sure, sure, just take it easy. It's all roses and lollipops and . . ."

  My voice trailed off as a needle slipped into my arm. Whatever it was they were using in that hospital, it didn't waste a moment. Things got fuzzy again, and the voices became just static in the background, and I didn't care because Kim was close to me and that's all I remembered before I went under again. If you're going to go, there's nothing like your last thoughts being about the girl you love who suddenly isn't hiding that she's also in love with you.

  They told me later I went out with a smile on my face.

  Three weeks later, Tom Smythe arranged for me to be returned to my apartment. Tom did it up royally . . . beautiful nurse in the ambulance that drove me from the hospital. Knowing Tom as I did, I was certain that more than met the eye—either in the nurse or in his move—was involved. I didn't know how; I just knew it. It turned out I was right.

  At first, however, things were beautiful. A hospital bed and special facilities had been crammed into my apartment. The nurse would stay full time. In the second bedroom, sad to say. Even sadder was the realization that she could handle herself with all the skill of a karate instructor. But then, a full cast and traction a good part of the time does dim one's ardor.

  Tom's intention was for me to get back to work. "It's your leg that's broken, not your skull," he reminded me after I'd been implanted back into the apartment.

  "Something else feels like it's broken," I leered, watching Christine, my nurse, as she bent over to fix the bed.

  "Never mind," he retorted, sticking with his original subject. He demonstrated the closed TV

  circuits, the communications links, and the other facilities through which I could pick up what I'd missed with the Project during my enforced stay in the hospital. "You can get back to work right from here," he added brightly, waving an expansive arm to indicate all the electronic goodies. "We'll have your meals sent up so that—"

  I managed an astonished look on my face. "You mean Christine doesn't cook?" I stared at her starched white blouse, and winced.

  She didn't miss a thing. "That and some other things aren't on the agenda, Mr. Rand." She smiled.

  "Color me frustrated," I grumbled.

  "As I said, we'll have your meals sent up," Smythe went on without a pause. "Dessert, too."

  "That's just ginger-peachy," I snarled at him.

  "And Kim will be working with you here a good part of the time."

  I sat straight up in bed. Or tried to, a
nyway. A wave of pain washed over me as I collapsed back onto the pillows.

  "Idiot," Christine remonstrated, at my side immediately. She studied me professionally for a moment, concluded that I would live, and remarked, "You're not just frustrated, Mr. Rand— you're helpless."

  "Don't remind me," I groaned.

  But, all things considered, the world was a lot brighter than when I'd been carted off unconscious to the hospital. Despite his appreciation for classical fractures, the doctor was right; I was damned lucky.

  Two breaks, both clean. Mending would be no problem just so long as I behaved myself. And if I did that —took it easy with the leg—in two weeks I'd be able to get into a wheelchair and move around a bit. The doctor had promised, soon afterward, a lighter cast and crutches. And that meant getting back into the full swing of things.

  In the meantime, Kim could bring me up to date on what had happened during my enforced absence from the Project. She could do a hell of a lot more, I smirked to myself. We'd send Christine off to the movies or wherever it was well-stacked nurses wanted to go when they had some free time. I didn't care. Being alone with Kim was—well, I wasn't completely helpless. After all, there are some things that a guy can . . .

  It didn't matter. Ten minutes after Kim showed up that evening, I knew something was wrong.

  Terribly wrong. The first opportunity I had for a careful look at Kim's face told me that much. She couldn't hide the strain that was there. For a little while it remained hidden beneath her smile, her pleasure at my being out of the hospital. But then whatever it was that gnawed at her showed. And it frightened me.

  It happened several days after I went to the hospital with my broken leg. The accident, I mean.