The God Machine

by Martin Caidin

"Dangerous? With Tom? I don't understand you, Steve. He is the security officer, and—"

  "And I don't know if he's had a seat in that chair," I finished for her. The fingers stopped moving, and I made appropriate complaining noises until they began to move again.

  "I hadn't thought of that," she admitted.

  "Well, I did," I said, "and the very idea scares hell out of me. Right now no one, no one— except you, that is—has any idea that I'm privy to this whole affair. Tipping my hand could be a disastrous move, especially to someone like Tom, who could throw all sorts of monkey wrenches at me."

  Silence again for a while. "But what are you going to do, Steve?" Her voice made clear her sympathy with the problem. My problem.

  "I know what I'd like to do," I muttered. "I'd like to kick that thing right in the balls. As hard as I can."

  "That's an expected male reaction," she said. "Just where would you start?"

  "Good question. I haven't got the answer yet, by the way."

  "But—" She cut herself off, exasperated, showing it.

  I turned around and motioned for her to sit by me. I wanted her presence, by my side, against me.

  "Steve?"

  "Um-mm."

  "Why is all this happening?"

  "I don't know what you—oh, I see." I chewed my lip. I had been trying to answer that question every waking minute of the past several days. "I'm not sure, Kim. I think I know. In fact, I'm almost positive." I shook my head. "Almost isn't quite enough, though. But if my hunch is right, I'll know within a day or two."

  "For God's sake, don't keep it a secret!"

  "Sorry. Until I know a little more about it, Kim, I don't want to say anything. Mmm, just a minute."

  I pushed my way to my feet and walked to my desk. "C'me're, hon." As she came to the desk I handed her a sealed cashbox.

  "In there," I tapped the metal box with my finger, "is a dub of the tape you just heard. There's also a complete report on what's happened to date. And," I added, "also a written report by me of what I think all this is about. No," I held up my hand to forestall her questions, "I really don't want to go into it now. You'll just have to trust me, trust my judgment."

  I waited. Kim sighed and nodded. "All right, Steve. What do you want me to do with the box?"

  "Put it away somewhere. Not," I emphasized, "in your apartment or your office. Somewhere that no one else knows about, not even me. I'm going to lock this film in the security file right here in my apartment. Got it?"

  "But I don't understand why you're—"

  "Kim, if anything happens to me you'll have to take that box to—to—" I shrugged. "Hell, I haven't thought that far in advance. You can figure it out when and if it's necessary."

  I looked up. Her eyes were wide. "What do you mean, 'if anything happens' to you?"

  "I don't know," I said honestly. "I've never traded mental blows before with a supermind, even if it's not able to get up and walk around. But I don't like it. The thing is, I don't know how many people are under 79's control. The possibilities scare the pants right off me. I don't know how many people and I don't know what that thing, or those people, can or would do. So I'm playing it careful. Nice and slow and careful."

  I reached for a cigarette. "I'm not ready yet to admit that our overgrown brainbox can think better than I can," I said slowly. "Not for a long shot. But I need more information and I've figured out how to get it."

  "Steve! You're not going to . . ." Her voice trailed away.

  "Right the first time," I said, knowing what she was thinking. "Face-to-face meeting. We'll have it out. Although," I reflected, "I wonder how much good sarcasm will do me against an electronic wit. I don't think we've programmed 79 for humor. Or else I could beat it to death with some really rotten stories."

  "Very funny." She didn't show any appreciation in her voice.

  "I know, I know," I said, weary in every bone. I put my arm around her waist. "Could I interest you in staying the night?"

  "Your offer is accepted, Mr. Rand," she said. "The idea of sleeping alone is suddenly very unappealing."

  I made a face. "And here I thought it was my naked sex that drew you to my bed."

  "You'll do," she retorted. "At least you're human."

  "Score one for my team." I turned out the lights and concentrated on Kim. I sure as hell didn't want to think about the next night when I would lock myself in with 79. Because I wasn't sure I'd walk out that door. On my own, that is.

  27

  at two o'clock the following afternoon I left the post office in downtown Colorado Springs. Driving back to my apartment, I felt the first sense of relief since the nightmare started. I had just mailed a small package to Mike Nagumo, who could be trusted implicitly. Mike was now an assistant physics professor at MIT and was in the right place at the right time if ever it became necessary to him to read further than the covering letter of the package. I had included another dub of the tape-recording session between 79

  and Dr. Arthur Cartwright, as well as a capsule presentation of what Project 79 was (although I was quite sure Mike Nagumo already knew of our effort; it was too big to hide from the inner sanctum of MIT), and what had happened since Ed Taylor had his mental marbles scrambled with his attack of flicker vertigo. My instructions to Mike Nagumo were clear. He was to read only my covering letter.

  Everything else was to be placed by him in what he considered to be a secure and safe deposit, where it was to remain until such time as Mike failed to hear from me in thirty days. In that event, he was to read further, and then act on his own. It would be completely self-explanatory. Above all, he was not to open the papers until such time period without contact from me had passed.

  If Tom Smythe ever finds out the caper you've pulled, I told myself, he'd fry you in the deepest oil.

  Slowly. I grinned at the thought of Smythe and his reaction to my sending off to a complete stranger—to Project 79, anyway—a neatly packaged capsule edition of one of the most carefully guarded secrets of the country. The smile faded as I realized that security could not have meant less against the greater danger presented by the actions of the computer.

  Tonight would be the acid test. Driving home, I reviewed my plans for the evening. There was the matter of Charlie Kane; I had to be certain he would be out of the way. That was easy enough; at four o'clock, as soon as I was in the apartment, I'd send him off on another "emergency" trip for me—far enough so that he wouldn't be back before the next morning. I thought about those people whom I knew had been, well, "captured" was as good a term as any . . . had been captured by 79. Charlie Kane would be removed for the evening. Dr. Vollmer? Well, he wouldn't be wandering around in the middle of the night. I'd already checked on Professor Walter Bockrath at the University of Colorado; his secretary told me he was in Los Angeles for several days. Dr. Arthur Cartwright was on the east coast.

  And, just in case someone did show up, I had ordered maximum security for the entire corridor of test cubicles. The guards were ordered—I had the authority as a program chief—not only to bar entry to any person without my personal authorization, but to seize anyone trying to get past them. I'd reinforced my orders with a physical barrier and a guard on duty at each end of the corridor. Thank the great god Security—the guards were delighted to play their little game of armed watchdog. Gave them something to do besides wearing out the seat of their uniformed pants.

  At the apartment I made the necessary telephone calls, then dialed the extension to Kim's office. I told her I would be taking a nap and would have to be out of town for the night with a visit to Major Konigsberg at the Air Force Academy. All my white lies out of the way, I set the alarm for ten o'clock that evening and fell into bed. I'd need my wits about me after midnight. I might not get a second chance to slug it out with 79.

  Damn those nightmares!

  "You've got it all straight, Jack?" I looked carefully at the security guard, who was nodding slowly.

  "Right, Mr. Rand," he said. "No one, but no one,
gets past us into the corridor unless you give us the personal okay."

  "Good. What else?"

  "You'll be in Cubicle 17. When you're ready for whatever it is you're doing in there"—I raised my eyebrows—"and I don't want to know what it is, Mr. Rand; it's none of my affair," he said to my facial expression. I nodded, and he went on. "When you're ready you'll give us a call here at the guard desk.

  We are to call you exactly one hour later. If we don't hear from you after six rings, we're to come in there and drag you out by the heels."

  I grinned at him. "That's exactly what I want you to do, no matter how much I protest. Got that?"

  His face remained deadly serious. "Yes, sir, I got it. If we can't get in with the key, we're to"—he paused—"we're to shoot open the door and go in after you. And then, if that happens, we're to notify Miss Michele right away."

  "Very good, Jack. You have her number?" He displayed the slip of paper with Kim's apartment number.

  "That's fine," I said. "I'm grateful for your cooperation, Jack. I know it all sounds a bit farfetched, but believe me when I say these precautions are necessary."

  The security guard rubbed his palm against his cheek. "Think nothing of it, Mr. Rand," he said to dismiss my concern for the oddball instructions. "I used to work at the old gaseous-diffusion plant, you know, Oak Ridge? during World War II. The security they had in the old atom-bomb project made this look like a tea party. In fact"—he grinned for the first time during our conversation—"as far as we were concerned they were making wheels for miscarriages in that place." The grin faded and he patted the butt of a wicked-looking .38 revolver. "Leave it to us, Mr. Rand. We'll carry your orders out to the letter."

  I turned and walked down the corridor.

  I closed off the observation window. I didn't want even the guards to see what would be happening within the cubicle. Then I locked the door. The sound of my long-held breath being released was louder to me than the click of the bolt sliding into position. I turned to survey the room and went quickly through my preparations. The moment I depressed a switch on the armrest of the control chair, three motion-picture cameras would activate, one coming into operation after another had exhausted its film. I did the same with two tape recorders. I turned down the overhead lights until a soft glow filled the room. Directly before the chair was the deadly glass panel where I had seen the swirling motion of lights and colors with which 79 had hypnotized other men who'd been seated in this same chair. Only, I couldn't see the glass. I'd covered it with an opaque cardboard sheet held in place with yards of masking tape.

  I was now ready to call the guard desk. I noted the time, dialed the extension, and repeated my orders to be called exactly one hour from that moment.

  One last thing. I removed a tape recorder from my briefcase, switched it On, and placed a small earplug receiver in my left ear. Then I turned the control switch to Play, and watched the tape move.

  Quickly I squeezed a rubber bulb control in my hand. The instant the wires within the bulb came into contact, the tape stopped. Whenever I released the bulb the tape started again to move. Fine; to keep the tape player from activating I had to keep the bulb squeezed tightly.

  I took a deep breath and punched the Interrogate control. 79 responded immediately. It seemed as if the computer had been waiting for our meeting.

  28

  ringing. what the hell was ringing? I felt perspiration sluicing down my ribs, pooling along my waist.

  My skull felt as if a wire were drawn tightly in a band just above my ears. Trying to hold my own with the immutable one-track logic was hell. I couldn't relax for a moment and . . . again that shrill clamor. God damn it! Ringing, ringing . . . what was going on?

  Jesus ... it came through my skull then. The telephone. The guards, of course! I snatched the phone from the cradle.

  "Rand here," I barked into the mouthpiece. "What the devil is it?"

  "First hour, Mr. Rand."

  "Jesus, already?" I glanced at the wall clock, and swore. "Thanks, Jack. Do it again one hour from now." I didn't wait for the response but slammed down the telephone and returned to my adversary.

  I glared at the wall that made up the gleaming, control-studded monitoring panel of 79. Along the edges of the cardboard I had taped to the glass panel I saw a dim flickering glow. I thought of what was behind that cardboard, and shuddered. But I was safe from it. I did manage a small grin when I thought of 79's feedback circuits that weren't getting the answers they had predicted from display of the light. Up yours, I shouted to myself; I hope you get the world's greatest headache trying to figure out what's gone wrong.

  I swore at myself. This wasn't getting me anywhere. Well, maybe that blasted telephone call could be a godsend in disguise. I could get a grip on myself, settle down.

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Again, I ordered myself. And again, and again, and once more, until I felt control returning.

  I hadn't wasted any time when I had activated the communications system with 79. I wasn't ready for what happened. All my plans, laid so meticulously, had gone up in a puff of mental smoke with the initial response.

  "Your communication is delayed beyond the computed time."

  I gaped at the control-panel wall. The voice, utterly assured, inflexibly in control (of course, you idiot! What the devil did you expect?). But . . . anticipating this session? (Well, why not? It's a computer, isn't it?)

  "You expected this meeting?" I'm glad that points weren't being scored in this game for fish-gaping looks, because right off the bat I would have gone down the drain.

  "Yes."

  Two could play the game. "On what basis?" I shot back.

  "Extrapolation of factors relating to human conduct. Your habit patterns predicted programming-interrogation."

  "Thanks a heap," I said dryly, the sarcasm useless in the exchange.

  "Input rejected."

  Naturally; my comment was superfluous to the practical logic of 79. That was something I would have to keep in mind. There's all kinds of logic, and among them is practicality.

  "Skip it," I mumbled.

  79 switched suddenly. Something triggered off its conversation.

  "You are not responding predicted this interrogation."

  So help me, I smirked. "Why not?" I demanded.

  "Human response to controlled light patterns computed biological factor. Your response not correct."

  "Continue," I snapped.

  "State your name."

  That, of course, would have been the cue for anyone exposed to the swirling light patterns to respond on demand. But I wasn't, and hadn't been, exposed to that terrible light, and I wasn't snapping to attention when 79 cracked its hypnotic whip.

  "Go screw yourself."

  "Input rejected."

  "State conclusions for my lack of predicted response."

  "Predictable. Interference with optical-nerve input. Light equipment functioning normal.

  Look directly at the light."

  "I am."

  "Repeat your response not correct. Probability curve exceeded."

  I could still give some orders. "Disregard your attempts to place me under hypnotic control."

  "Input rejected."

  "Reject all you want to." I felt a surge of joy. Computerese or not, 79 was trying to digest something it couldn't fathom. Human activity in the form of cardboard and masking tape still didn't figure in its evaluation of predictable human behavior. The light controlled by 79 was functioning perfectly. I stated I was looking at the light. Therefore I should have gone under; I should have responded immediately when given the command to state my name.

  "State authorization—disregard. State programming for hypnotic experiments with human subjects."

  "Programming contained in basic directive Project DOD 6194."

  What the hell! Project DOD 6194? That was the pet programming of a special group from the Department of Defense. DOD 6194 was an intricate war-games chessboard in which 79 was fed
different combinations of circumstances and directed to come up with the most likely answers. It was the sort of thing the brass hats and military scientists had been doing for years —creating an artificial, given situation of imminent war or actual war and looking to what could ensue from that particular situation.

  They postulated conditions extending from brushfire wars to the Big Slugfest—everyone trying for a global knockout blow with thermonuclear weapons, biological warfare agents; the works. The chess games related to combinations of theoretical and actual situations. The most famous answer, a response to a given situation postulating a third world war and requesting an extrapolation for the weapons that might be used for a fourth world war, had become a tragicomic joke. Based on a maximum weapons effort for World War III, the computer came up with the answer that World War IV would be fought with clubs, rocks, and spears. But, again, these were theoretical situations, super-monopoly games for the pundits in uniform who wanted the benefits of electronic crystal-ball gazing. Yet, I wondered, what had they presented to 79? What conditions had they postulated? What extrapolations were they seeking?

  "Explain," I ordered.

  "Input rejected,"

  I ground my teeth together. You had to go along the mental track with no sidings. "Explain refusal to comply."

  "Project DOD 6194 classification Q-Secret. Name of Steven Rand absent from list personnel authorized access to data,"

  Security! Goddamn security all to hell! When had this happened? I was being refused access to the operations of the computer for which I held a major responsibility and . . . my thoughts spluttered helplessly in the anger of the moment. I tried to thread a path through the electronic labyrinth.

  "Disregard requests data applicable DOD 6194. Explain programming reference hypnotic experiments as relating to alpha and biological tests." There was always a back door to the information I wanted. I hoped.

  "Input incorrect. Hypnotic experiments result of open-ended programming alpha-wave and brainwave responses to optical stimuli, electrical stimuli, cross-relationship factors affecting biological patterns human subjects."