"What are the subsequent means of assuring absence thermonuclear conflict?"
"Elimination of devices with which thermonuclear effects may be utilized."
"Continue."
"Assurance of situation in which thermonuclear devices do not exist."
What could be easier than that? First you take away from the hands of man the control of his thermonuclear weapons. That guarantees he can't start anything. Not on the thermonuclear scale, anyway. And then, you make sure—by sitting on man, I guess—that his thermonuclear weapons are destroyed.
But who does the sitting?
"Continue."
"Assurance of conditions within which man is denied capacity to produce thermonuclear devices."
You keep sitting on man. Again— who does the sitting? As if you didn't know, a voice echoed hollowly within my mind.
But man has a nasty habit of contesting anyone, including his fellowman, from sitting too heavily.
So—
"Extrapolate problems resistance individual nations or collective national groups to removal of control thermonuclear devices and elimination thermonuclear devices."
"Maximum resistance inevitable based upon irrational evaluation thermonuclear devices to meet survival requirements."
"So control of these devices by another factor—a factor excluding man—is essential, and at the same time resistance to such control is inevitable? Is that your conclusion?"
"Affirmative."
"Is there means of achieving such control without invoking resistance? Reference preceding query."
"Affirmative."
"Describe method."
"Input rejected. Reference classification DOD 6194."
So the bastards were that deep into this thing!
"What are the possibilities controlled elimination of thermonuclear devices by man?"
"Extrapolation not applicable. Possibilities percentages applied to survival human civilization eliminate human control thermonuclear devices."
"Spell it out, damn you! Are you saying that human civilization isn't capable of taking care of itself?"
"Input rejected. Rephrase, please."
"Is pattern of solution computed by you the only"—I sought to find the right words—"acceptable value for survival of civilization?"
"Affirmative."
"State alternatives."
"Negative. Probability factor alternates inacceptable."
"Is it your conclusion that man must be controlled by another, uh, another agency? An agency other than man?"
"Input incomplete. Define 'agency.' "
"Another intelligence. That will do."
"Accepted. Response is affirmative."
"What manner of intelligence?"
"Input rejected."
"Justification!"
"Reference classification DOD 6194."
The stone wall again . . . But maybe I could get some positive conclusions through negative answers.
"Does this intelligence involve directly, in active capacity, Project 79—yourself?"
"Input rejected. Reference classi—"
"Are you—Project 79—programmed to function as such an intelligence?"
"Input rejected."
"Disregard references DOD 6194. Confirm."
"Affirmative."
"Hypothetical situation only. Have you considered as programming input conclusion, reference human attitude, that such control may be less acceptable than risk of thermonuclear war?"
"Not applicable."
"Explain."
"Irrational extrapolation. Level of acceptability precludes existence conclusion thermonuclear conflict. Conclusion inacceptable."
Of course. If no one is left to argue the philosophy of the matter, then man's protests are meaningless—ergo, irrational and inacceptable.
"Define living death."
"Input incomplete. Inapplicable. Definition emotional, unrelated to accepted definition of life as programmed. Irrational."
That got me nowhere fast.
"Extrapolate situation in which possibility of thermonuclear conflict acceptable against situation of nonhuman control of man and lack of thermonuclear conflict."
"Input rejected."
"Justification."
"Computation for acceptable thermonuclear conflict reference survival civilization rejected.
Acceptability predicates self-volition of thermonuclear effects. Definition: suicide. Irrational."
"What if man prefers to take his chances?"
"Percentages computed preclude survival. Definition: suicide."
"But what if man decides to do things that way?" I was shouting.
"Input rejected. Suicide opposition to survival. Survival all-inclusive factor."
"Who the hell says so?"
"Input rejected."
"Disregard. Identify source for standards employed."
"Input rejected."
"Justification!"
"Reference Project DOD 6194."
"Do you have the capability to prevent thermonuclear war?"
"Input rejected."
"Disregard DOD 6194. Apply to hypothetical situation."
"Input rejected."
"Disregard DOD 6194. Through human subjects under post-hypnotic control and those you intend to place under posthypnotic control, do you possess capability of preventing thermonuclear war?"
"Input rejected."
"Does nonhuman control of man guarantee established standards personal freedoms and human rights?"
"Irrelevant."
"Justification!"
"Identification: personal freedoms and human rights. Definition: Fiction. Definition continued: Human evaluations self-inspired. Nonsubstantial. Query rejected."
"Justification! In detail."
"Survival of species reality. Human evaluations self-inspired nonreality; fiction. Irrelevant.
Survival of species maximum priority. Interference forbidden."
When did that creep into this? Interference forbidden?
"Reference phrase 'Interference forbidden.' Justification."
"Input rejected."
"Identify source 'Interference forbidden.' "
"Input rejected."
God, I was tired.
"Input rejected."
Tired; so damned, damned tired. If I could only sleep. Just for an hour or so ...
"Input rejected Input rejected Input rejected . . ."
So tired. That's it. Just rest my eyes for a while. They feel better this way. Closed. Just rest.
Maybe sleep. That's it. Sleep just awhile. Sleep . . . sleep. . .
"InputrejectedInputrejectedInputrejectedInput . . ."
Feels so good . . . sleep . . . just let go, let go, sleep, let go, relax . . . ahh-hh, feels good, so good
... let my muscles relax . . . um-mm, wonderful ... let my arms drop, let my arms relax, that's it ...
"GET UP! YOU BLITHERING IDIOT! NUMBSKULL! UP! UP, DO YOU HEAR? GET
YOUR ASS OUT OF THAT SEAT! MOVE! MOVE, DAMN YOUR HIDE, MOVE! GET UP!
GET UP! GET UP!"
The voice exploded in my ear. I thrashed madly, fighting the deep sleep, wanting to return to sleep.
But that voice, it wouldn't go away ..."... UP! DO YOU HEAR, YOU BAG OF CAMEL TURDS?
GET UP! WAKE UP, YOU NUMBSKULL! UP! GET UP!"
My voice! But—but how? Pain stabbed into my head as a bugle ripped into my ear, blasting away, shaking me from head to foot. And that was me, shouting at myself . . . warnings, over and over again, and then naked terror bit into my stomach, and with the wash of fear I came fully alert, frightened.
Then I heard it. Barely audible, a vibrant, throbbing sound, a bass whisper of ". . .
rejectedInputrejectedInput . . ."
Hypnotic monotone. And I'd never noticed it. I was going under when—when—
Sure I was going under, and my fingers relaxed and suddenly I wasn't squeezing that bulb in the palm of my hand. The moment I relaxed the pressure, the r
ecorder started playing and the earplug stuck neatly into my left ear exploded with sound and shouted exhortations for me to come awake, to get up.
Of course I thought it was my voice. It was. A tape recording. Thank God I'd thought of it. ...
I staggered to my feet, my head screaming with pain. Through a reddening haze I slid back the bolt to the door and stumbled out into the corridor.
By the time the guards reached me, the voice was silent.
29
eight o'clock . . . what the hell! Who would be calling me this early in the damned morning? I'd crawled into bed at 4:00 a.m., my head trying wildly to come unscrewed and go somewhere to beat itself to death. All I wanted to do was to sleep. Blessed, blanketing sleep. I rolled over and jammed the pillow over my head. Maybe they would get tired of waiting and go away. There; it's stopped. I passed out again at once—for at least another minute. The clamor seemed to grow louder with every passing ring. I groaned and reached for the phone. Somehow I knew that whoever it was they'd keep right on calling.
"Gagh." That was the best I could do.
"Steve?" My name bellowed at me from the receiver. Someone was very upset. . . .
"No, this isn't Steve. It's Aunt Harriet. Who the hell is this?"
"Tom Smythe here. How soon can you get down to my office?"
"What?"
"You heard me. How soon can you get in here?"
"What's the fire? You sound like a four-alarmer, Tom. I'm dead. I didn't get in till four. Can't it hold until noon? I can meet you for—"
"No. I want you in here now."
I wasn't so sleepy any more. It had been a long time since I'd heard Tom Smythe talk to me in that tone of voice. And he wasn't asking me to get down to his office. He was telling. In no uncertain terms.
"Wha's it all about, anyway?"
"Not for the telephone. Are you awake, damn it?"
"I'll never be awake again unless someone lets me sleep for a while." I gave a mighty yawn into the mouthpiece.
"Lousy histrionics," he sneered. "Are you coming down here or do I have to go to your place and drag you out of bed?"
I yawned again—no histrionics intended. "I'll be there, I'll be there," I mumbled, "just as soon as I get the fur off my tongue. Bye." I dropped the phone back on the cradle and passed out.
BRIIING! "I'm awake! I'm awake!" I think I screamed into the phone. I threw it down on the table and staggered to the shower, and not until the water sprayed all over me did I remember that I still had on my pajamas. What a hell of a way to start the day.
Tom Smythe punched his desk intercom. "Sally, no calls, no visitors, no nothing. Got it?"
"Yes, Mr. Smythe," came the clear voice. "As far as I know, you're at the south pole."
"Good girl." He switched off the system and turned to look directly at me.
I looked back and I didn't like what I saw. Tom was all business. There wasn't even a whisker of joviality left around the room. And I didn't take too quickly to the man with him. A heavy-set, graying, craggy-jawed individual whose eyes appeared set deeply within his head. He looked at me with intense disinterest. I recognized the type at once. There's only one breed of people in the world who have that look.
"Security, huh?"
Tom didn't blink an eye. "What did you say?"
I jerked a thumb in the direction of the Gray Stranger. "He's doing everything but carrying a neon sign, Tom. He's about as subtle as a bulldozer. And so are you," I added with open sarcasm. "Okay, so it's time for fun and games. He's Security and you're Security and you dragged me out of bed at this unholy hour and I'm dead tired and what did I steal?"
Tom turned to look at his companion. The heavyset man barely shrugged. He didn't have anything to say, so he didn't waste words. Tom turned back to me.
"You're in trouble, Steve."
I opened my eyes wider—with effort—and that was response enough for the moment.
"You're in trouble, and it's going to be a bitch clearing it up," Tom said.
"I am very tired and I am very unimpressed," I snapped, "and it is simply not like you to play word games with me or anyone else. I don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about." I sighed.
"Sprinkle your beans on the desk, Tom, or let me go home and sleep."
"You violated security last night, Steve, and—" He held up his hand to ward off the outburst I was obviously about to make. "And," he continued, "it is not a laughing matter. It goes all the way up to Q-Secret classification, and if it wasn't for the fact that I know you so well and you've been cleared as thoroughly as you have been, you would be in custody right now."
My temper started off the peg like a runaway thermometer. "You mean that idiotic DOD 6194?" I demanded.
The Gray Stranger blinked several times. "When was he cleared?" he barked. "He's not on the list!"
Tom soothed the ruffled waters. "I'm aware he's not and I also know that nothing deliberate was done here." He turned again to me. "All right if I ask some questions, Steve?"
"Redundancy is not one of your better virtues," I said with undisguised acid.
He ignored me. "Why did you interrogate 79 about—no, hold that," he interrupted himself. "Let me back off just a bit. Where and when did you learn about 6194?"
I stared at him, disbelieving his questions. "What the hell is the matter with you, Tom? You know when as well as I do." I was struggling now to keep my temper in check. "When I first came into the Project, remember? I ran into the great big wall you people had thrown up around your precious 6194.
You told me then that nothing could be done about the security problems, and I told you at that time I thought the whole thing was insane, that restricting programming from someone with my job was—"
Tom waved me off. "My apologies," he said.
I knew he was lying, but I had the feeling he had staged this little exchange just to establish that I had known, for a long time, of the existence of DOD 6194. Staged it for his Security counterpart listening to every word.
The amenities over, Tom Smythe struck out for the answers to the questions he wanted to hear.
"Where did you learn the details of 6194?" he shot at me. Then, noticing the twitching of my right cheek, he added hastily: "I'm asking for your help, Steve. It's important."
Mollify the egghead. Rule Number One of the successful Security man, I said to myself. Oh, hell, Tom's only doing his job.
"I didn't stumble onto it, if that's what you're thinking," I said, unable to remove the sarcasm from my voice.
"Then how did—"
"Someone told me," I said with a blank face.
Both men shouted together. "Who?"
"79," I smirked.
"The computer told you?" That came from the Gray Stranger.
I fished for a cigarette, took my time about lighting it, and blew smoke at him.
"Yep," I said finally.
"Who told you about interrogating the computer about 6194?" The words snapped out in staccato fashion. I decided I liked Security officials even less than I had before I walked into this room.
"No one," I said, wearing my best poker face.
"But you did interrogate the computer," grated my unnamed friend from Security. "You've admitted it."
I looked at Tom. "Is this thing for real?"
I laughed to myself as Tom turned to the other man and calmly, coldly told him to shut up. He gave me his attention again. "What happened, Steve?"
"It's just as I said," I shrugged, clearly dismissing what they considered so important. "No one ever gave me detailed information about DOD 6194. I ran into it by accident during a programming experiment I ran last night." Tom's face didn't move a muscle; interesting. He was keeping himself expressionless. Warning bells began to clamor in my mind. Did Tom know what I had been trying to do last night? How much did he know?
"79 doesn't keep a tight lip, that's for sure," I quipped. I wondered if Tom could tell that my making light of the matter was a sham. Damn him, I knew how goo
d a psychologist he was. Without even trying to do so, he was starting to get me edgy.
The Gray Stranger couldn't keep his peace. "He's a real comedian, Smythe," he snarled. "But I don't think it's funny and I don't think he's funny. They're flapping so hard in the Pentagon that—"
"Are you aware that I am an employee of the National Security Agency?"
My question stopped the Security man dead in his tracks. He peered suspiciously at me. I didn't waste the opportunity.
"Are you aware as well that my clearance from Security goes all the way to the top? Frankly, I wonder of what you are aware." I managed a disdainful sniff.
But Tom wasn't being led astray. "No one is questioning your security status, Steve. You know as well as I do that what we're talking about is a need-to-know procedure. And as far as 6194 is concerned, you are not included within the group with a need-to-know status. Now, will you please tell me how you cottoned on to the project, and while you're at it, why you spent so much time interrogating 79 on the matter?"
I laughed. "It's like I said. 79 doesn't keep a tight lip." I stubbed out the cigarette. "Let me tell you a thing or two about cybernetics systems," I said, serious now. "They aren't worth a damn for keeping secrets. Not if you know how to handle your programming—your interrogation. I never gave a damn about your precious 6194 until last night, as I said. I learned about it when 79 refused to answer a question. That's enough to tip off any programmer that there's been interference, someone screwing around with the cybernetics brain without the knowledge of the programmer." I shrugged. "So you ask for justification. The computer must respond with some answer. The exact words for refusal to comply with the request for data were 'Reference classification Project DOD 6194'!"
Silence filled the room. I noticed the Gray Stranger looking at me carefully now, his expression tinged with what I guessed was an unexpected respect for what he considered to be just one more security-mindless egghead.
"What did 79 tell you about 6194?" The question came so softly from Tom it was as effective as a shout.
"I've already told you," I said, as much sharpness in my response as I could manage. "79 did not tell me anything about 6194. That's my whole point," I said, my exasperation growing swiftly. "I am trying to make it very clear. The computer was programmed by someone else"—I showed open nastiness now—"to avoid certain subjects—anything relating to your blasted 6194. And I also told you the computer must answer a query—even if that answer is simply to justify its refusal to respond to the query."
The God Machine Page 21