Astounding Science Fiction Stories Vol 1

by Anthology

  "All-X so far! Give us ten minutes for clearance."

  "Take twenty, but make sure it's clearance. Checked Quantitative, have you? How about feed-backs? ... yes ... what's that? Semantic circuits! Hell yes, check all synaptics for clearance! I want no excess data fouling up this run!"

  He clicked off and sat there moodily, and Beardsley watched him, noting the quick nervous rhythm of Arnold's fingers. Arnold noticed it, too, and desisted.

  "Look," he said. "Mandleco, Losch, Pederson. Those three Primes just don't make sense to me!"

  "They don't?" Beardsley allowed just the proper note of resentment. "Surely you are not questioning Coördinates...."

  "You know I'm not! But--"

  Beardsley waited, knowing it was coming now. The thing Arnold had been aching to voice for the past five minutes.

  "But--well, damn it, there is Mrs. Carmack, for example. As you pointed out yourself, she'll be a rich woman now! It would seem to me--"

  "That she'd be a Prime? I'm surprised at you, Jeff; that's ancient thinking." If there was a trace of sarcasm, it was lost on Arnold. "Oh, I grant you it used to hold true--principle beneficiary was always prime suspect. Fiction especially was full of it. Queen, Dickson Carr, Boucher you--know the ilk. But with ECAIAC we've gotten away from all that, haven't we?"

  Arnold stared at him suspiciously, hesitated, then brought it out with an effort. "Well--how did she equate?"

  "Who? Oh yes, the beautiful widow. She only made Logical, and even that is borderline."

  "I see." Arnold rose, dialled himself another drink, then changed his mind and put it down untouched. He turned to gather up the tapes, and his voice was apologetic.

  "It's not that I'd ever questioned Coördinates Division! We're too closely aligned for that, Raoul...." (First time he's ever used my first name, thought Beardsley.) "You have a splendid record to uphold, as we do here at Mechanical. That's why ... well, I want to get this off as smoothly as possible!"

  Something indefinable, a queasy feeling, took Beardsley about the middle. He said sharply: "Any reason why not?"

  "No, not really. But in recent weeks--I tell you this in strictest confidence, understand!--in recent weeks it's been a rather ticklish thing to get total synaptic clearance."

  * * * * *

  Synaptics? Beardsley began thinking back to the Crime-Central "Required Annual Basic." The Mechanical had never been his strong point. He said uncertainly, "But--that's serious!"

  "It's just that we've found ECAIAC holding back excess data from previous runs. Fouls up the relays, takes hours to iron out the clearance." Arnold gave him a keen look. "More of a nuisance really, but the weirdest thing. Stubborn!"

  Stubborn. Beardsley could have thought of a better word. Through the panelled glass he glimpsed the black metal sheathe of the monster out there, the shapeless crouching and malevolent winking lights, and he felt himself going to pieces inside with a sudden shaking crumble; he hated himself for it but he couldn't stop it; his hands clenched until the knuckles showed white.

  "... matter of time until we find the cause," Arnold was saying, "but I guarantee total clearance today. Shall we get on with it?" Hands loaded with tapes, he moved for the door.

  "No!" Beardsley cried. "Arnold, if you don't mind, I--"

  "Oh, for God's sake, not again! Raoul, I swear I'm going to do something about this phobia of yours; it's getting to be not so funny any more." With a show of exasperation, Arnold propelled him through the door. "I give you my absolute word our pet won't snap at you. Not today. It's going to be far too busy for the likes of you!"

  * * * * *

  And Jeff Arnold was right, Beardsley discovered. Those baleful overtones were gone, replaced by a sustained soft whisper along the ninety-foot hull--a rather impatient whisper but not at all unpleasant. Beardsley relaxed by slow degrees, but kept a cautious distance, while Arnold pointed out every light along the length flashing green for Total Clearance.

  "She's rarin' to go," said Arnold with a display of good humor, "but we'll let her wait a while, eh?" He clapped a friendly arm across Beardsley's shoulder. "You just come along now and watch; I think your trouble is, you've never been properly introduced! We'll have no more of this feudin' and fussin' between you and ECAIAC."

  So Beardsley, showing more courage than he felt, trailed the cyberneticist through every unit of final check-up. Much of it he knew already from the "Required Annual Basic" ... or thought he knew. For this was so different from the Manuals! He felt at once ashamed and awed as he viewed at first hand the unfolding schematic structure. He was thrilled at sight of the selectors and analyzers of processed beryllium, the logic-and-semantic circuits in complex little bundles, the sensitized variant-tapes waiting for transferral impress, all revealed by a flick of Arnold's fingers that threw open entire sheathed sections to bare the inner secrets. The thousands of tiny transistors amazed Beardsley. The endless array of electric eyes startled him. And the spongy centers of synaptic cell-clusters horrified him, recalling too vividly to mind what he knew of the physical human brain.

  Along the monstrous length he trailed Jeff Arnold; he trailed and he watched and he listened, not interfering once by word or gesture. And before it was over his heart was surging with a great revelatory beat because suddenly he knew ... he knew....

  Arnold seemed in high good humor as they paced back. "So," he nudged Beardsley in the ribs, "we'll have no more of this nonsense between you and ECAIAC. Eh? You're just bound to be good friends now."

  Beardsley didn't answer. The revelation was still too much with him. He watched as Arnold conferred with a group of his techs about a micro-chron, and the time was carefully noted for Central Record.

  Then the first of the tapes went in. The Basic Invariant--Amos Carmack.

  It reached synapse and a tiny blip registered on cue.

  The rest of the tapes fed in, razoring through the rollers, past the selenic-sensitized tips of the relays. There was no progressive order. After the Basic Invariant progression didn't matter. Possible or Logical or Prime, all factors would correlate or cancel; any divergent status-shift would be duly handled by transferral impress.

  Beardsley counted the tapes. Twenty ... twenty-one ... twenty-two.

  The techs dispersed, taking up their various posts where special eject-tapes clicked out a second-by-second record of the progression.

  * * * * *

  Nothing much happened. The sound of ECAIAC became a steady inundant drone; or did Beardsley just imagine that he detected something of the gleeful in it? With an effort he put the thought from him, and keeping a cautious distance he took a turn around the monster, up one side and down the other.

  He stopped by Jeff Arnold, who was jotting down figures from the chrono. That seemed silly, as nothing had happened yet.

  Arnold glanced up and grinned at him, as if totally unconcerned that this was the most repercussive case in the entire history of Crime-Central! A little disconcerted, Beardsley said, "What happens first?"

  "Oh, plenty is happening. But the first you'll notice will be a total reject. Watch when that happens. Complete silence, every light red for exactly two and a half seconds--the reject, and then everything continues."

  "How about Transferral Impress? You know--possible to Logical, or Logical to Prime?"

  Arnold paused over his notes for the merest instant. "Why--it's progressive, of course. That you won't notice!"

  Beardsley stared at him curiously, started to speak and then changed his mind. He wandered again, watching the techs but not interfering. And suddenly he was aware that the first total reject had come. It happened with smooth and sudden silence just as Arnold had described, ECAIAC breaking pace for mere seconds ... then all was clear again, and one of the techs hurried down the aisle with the tape, which he handed to Arnold.

  * * * * *

  Beardsley was aware of a wild pounding of pulse as he stared at the anonymous tape. One of the fifteen "possibles"? It might even be a rejected Logical. Mrs. Carmac
k? She was borderline. Or a Prime! It could be Mandleco himself--or Losch or Pederson. No ... it was unlikely any Primes would fall this early....

  But maybe they were no longer Primes! Maybe right now Transferral Impress was at work, maybe one or more of them was being relegated to lower coördinate-status somewhere there in the entrails....

  He felt a bounding excitement. And, as if reading his thoughts, Jeff Arnold gave him an amused look.

  "Don't let it get to you, Raoul. I used to find it the same; we all do. But then you get to thinking, hell, why try to guess? Identities don't matter now!" He indicated the coded tape. "A total reject--anonymous. ECAIAC's way of telling us that person could not possibly be the murderer."

  "But--you're not even curious?"

  "At rejects? Why?" Arnold seemed perplexed. "Oh, you mean because I'm among the 'possibles.' Frankly it doesn't bother me. I know I'm not the murderer, and I have faith in ECAIAC. If this isn't my tape, the next will be--or the eighth, or the fifteenth."

  Beardsley nodded slowly. With ECAIAC it was only the final equate that mattered, the total result of Cumulative. He saw the truth in that, and the perfection. Or--his eyes beneath the glasses came to a quick bright focus--was it quite perfection? He watched in silence as Arnold consulted the micro-chron and jotted more notes. Rej. Q-9 (code): (.008 synap. circ.): 11:23 A.M.

  Beardsley wandered again, watching the techs. A sudden shivering seized him. How could they remain so calm? Were they so close to the forest they couldn't notice? Something was about to happen ... to him it was unmistakable, in the very atmosphere, sharpened and heightened by the four walls--a pervading sense of wrongness and a pyramiding tension.

  Even Arnold wasn't aware; audibly nothing had changed, as ECAIAC continued its soft-clicking whisper and the techs methodically checked the progress tapes. Beardsley stood numbly for a moment, struggling against a welter of panic. Palms sweating, he moved a safe distance away and waited.

  Eight minutes later came another reject. Six minutes later, the third. ECAIAC continued its blithe, soft-throated rhythm--but Beardsley was not fooled.

  Someone sent out for coffee. It arrived in steaming thermo-containers. Beardsley was on his first cup of coffee when rejects 4, 5 and 6 came through.

  He was on his second cup when number 7 ejected, and he had just taken a last swallow when all hell broke loose.

  * * * * *

  It wasn't much different from the other rejects. Total silence, every light in every section red ... trouble was, they couldn't seem to get together again. Some went back to green, others blinked with ominous uncertainty, still others said "to hell with it" and exploded in vicious shards of glass that sprayed across the room. That was only the beginning. Twenty feet from Beardsley came a louder explosion, a sort of muffled hissing. He ducked, as a complete bank of transistors zoomed past his head. From a dozen places along the ninety-foot length angry trails of smoke poured out. A tech yelled "Damn!" as he pulled back a burned hand. Sheathes crashed open. Long strands of vari-colored wire burst out and began a crazy aimless writhing, accompanied by an ominous buzzing sound as if a swarm of angry metallic bees had escaped. Someone was yelling, "Master-switch! The master-switch!"

  Beardsley saw Arnold leap to the master-switch, where he became entangled with a tech who was screaming at him, "My God, sir, hurry! It's BREAKDOWN!"

  Cursing, Arnold shoved the man aside and pulled the controls.

  But now that it was roused, ECAIAC didn't want to give up so easily. There came a staccato series of minor explosions--defiant gesture, thought Beardsley!--before silence engulfed the room together with a drift of acrid smoke.

  It was acrid and angry smoke. From a safe distance Beardsley adjusted his glasses and observed the frantic, scurrying techs, many of them nursing burned hands. Aside from a pounding heart he was amazed at his own calm; nevertheless, he tread with caution as he approached Arnold, who was on his haunches dolefully surveying the area of major damage.

  "Uh--is it something serious?"

  Arnold glared up at him. "Overload on the feed-backs. If that's all it is, we can pull out the unit and replace it in a few hours."

  "Never happened before, eh?"

  "Not like this," Arnold groaned. "Lord--it just seemed to go berserk!"

  Beardsley glanced around nervously. "You see? You see? I didn't think our beautiful friendship could last...."

  Arnold snarled, "Get out, Beardsley! What the hell you doing here anyway? Go somewhere and read a book!"

  "Yes. Yes, I--" Beardsley swallowed hastily. He then straightened, took a last look around and pulled himself together. Without a word, he turned and strode resolutely into Jeff Arnold's office; he closed the door carefully, then hurried over to the stat and pushed the button for priority.

  "Hello," he said. "Mandleco's office? ... this is Mechanical Division ... no, I want Mandleco ... I don't care, get him I said! This is emergency! Put him on at once!"

  * * * * *

  Mandleco arrived twenty minutes later. The Minister of Justice was tall and raw-boned with a long hook-nose, a shock of whitening hair, and more than a suggestion of military arrogance. He paused for precisely one second in the doorway, then strode straight over to Jeff Arnold. Before saying a word he bent slightly and peered into the maze of mechanism.

  Beardsley wanted to say, "Do you find the cause of the trouble, sir?" But he held his tongue.

  Mandleco straightened up, glaring. "Arnold, what is the meaning of this?"

  "Breakdown, sir."

  "I can see that! The cause, man, the cause!"

  "I--it's only the feed-back, sir." Arnold struggled with the terminals, most of which were a fused and tangled mess. "Not as bad as it looks, I assure you. I've already contacted Maintenance; they're sending up a new unit."

  "What precisely does that mean? Can you complete the run or not! This has got to go through today!"

  Arnold touched a hot terminal, jerked back his hand and swore. "It will, sir. Give us a few hours. We had seven total rejects, so I doubt the tapes are at fault. More like a synaptic overload. Transferrals are okay, so I want to try it with a stepped-up synaptic check; that'll alleviate any overload without drain on the minor selective, which is better than setting up complete new correlation-grams."

  It was too much for Mandleco. Grinding a fist in his palm, he stared into the matrix and muttered, "Unprecedented. Absolutely unprecedented! Arnold, I just can't understand why--"

  "Happened pretty suddenly," Beardsley intruded. His voice was low and laden with meaning. "Almost as if it had gone berserk! And little wonder, if you ask me...."

  Mandleco turned quickly. "Eh? What do you mean?"

  "Well ... how would you feel if you had just been handed the news, out of the blue, that someone you loved had been brutally murdered? ECAIAC reacted, is all. She must have regarded Carmack as a father--"

  * * * * *

  Arnold looked up in amazement. "Beardsley, will you stop that crazy nonsense!"

  "Nonsense?" Beardsley appeared hurt. "Why--you said yourself that you wanted me and ECAIAC to become great friends!" He appealed to Mandleco. "That's what he said, sir, and he even took pains to introduce me and all, and--"

  "It was in the nature of a joke, sir!" Arnold's voice rose an octave. "A private little joke, and he's trying to make it appear--"

  "Stop it, stop it!" Mandleco thundered. "Arnold--you get that new unit installed on the double! Put your best men on it. That's an order! Beardsley, I'm glad you had the presence of mind to contact me. Commendable, most commendable."

  Arnold scowled, hit Beardsley with an accusing look.

  "Above all," said Mandleco, "not a word of this must leak! Damn it, why should this have to happen now? Public confidence will be undermined if they think ECAIAC is--is--"

  "Not infallible?" suggested Beardsley.

  "Exactly. You hear me, Arnold? Not a word of this must get out!"

  "I'm sure it won't," Arnold glared venomously at Beardsley, "if you'll just keep
him away from the tele-stats."

  * * * * *

  The Minister of Justice walked away, still muttering something about public confidence and political repercussions. Beardsley kept pace beside him until they were across the room. Then he spoke, timidly at first.

  "Pardon me, sir, but--I'd like to ask you something." His voice was low and confidential. "If you'll just look around you...."

  "Eh?" Mandleco followed Beardsley's gesture, and for the first time he seemed to see the room in total. Shards of glass lay everywhere. A great tangle of wire was strewn half the length of ECAIAC, and a bank of transistors reposed against the far wall in pitiful ruin. The techs had already started a strip-down, their tools and units across the floor adding to the general confusion.

  Mandleco said, "Well? What is it you--" His words stopped as if sliced in two by his teeth. "Yes. Yes, by God, I see what you mean!"

  "Can you really conceive of operation in two hours? Two hours," Arnold said. "Two days, maybe. More likely in two weeks!"

  Mandleco groaned as if in pain, staring around.

  Beardsley pressed his point. "You'll pardon my saying it, sir, but I do realize what the Carmack Case means--to you personally. So much build-up and publicity, and the people demanding a verdict ... why, if the case were to snag now--"

  "Unthinkable!" A shudder touched Mandleco's long, lean frame. "Out with it, man! What are you trying to say?"

  Beardsley was suddenly sweating. He felt as if a long tube were inside of him, hot and throbbing, reaching up with a surge of pulse to his temples. It had to be now. He had to say it.

  "Well," he gulped. "Just this, sir. I think the case can be cracked right now. Today. Without ECAIAC."

  "Nonsense! Without ECAIAC? Why, that's--"

  "Sure. You think it's crazy. But I tell you I can do it!" Beardsley's words came fast and urgent. "I've followed this case from the beginning, I processed it, I'm familiar with every angle. I tell you, I can deliver the killer. Give me permission to try!"

  Mandleco stared at Beardsley as if he were some queer specimen under a microscope; his mouth opened to speak, then he clamped his teeth tightly and strode away.