Dark Benediction

by Walter M. Miller

  He rubbed his cheek ruefully. It was no world for a young mother and her baby. The baby would fit nicely in the bicycle's basket. The shotgun would offer some protection against the human wolf packs that prowled everywhere these days.

  "Little thief!" he growled halfheartedly.

  But when the human animal would no longer steal to protect its offspring, then its prospects for survival would be bleak indeed. He shrugged gloomily and wandered back to the kitchen. He sat down and ate the expensive biscuits—and decided that George couldn't have cut his throat for culinary reasons. Marta was a good cook.

  He entered the city on foot and unarmed, later in the morning.

  He chose the alleyways, avoiding the thoroughfares where traffic purred and where the robot cops enforced the letter of the law. At each corner he paused to glance in both directions for possible mechanical observers before darting across the open street to the next alley. The Geigers on the lampposts were clicking faster as he progressed deeper into the city, and twice he paused to inspect the readings of their integrating dials. The radioactivity was not yet dangerous, but it was higher than he had anticipated. Perhaps it had been dusted again after the exodus.

  He stopped to prowl through an empty house and an empty garage. He came out with a flashlight, a box of tools, and a crowbar. He had no certain plan, but tools would be needed if he meant to call a temporary halt to Central's activities. It was dangerous to enter any building, however; Central would call it burglary, unless the prowler could show legitimate reason for entering. He needed some kind of identification.

  After an hour's search through several houses in the residential district, he found a billfold containing a union card and a pass to several restricted buildings in the downtown area. The billfold belonged to a Willie Jesser, an air-conditioning and refrigeration mechanic for the Howard Cooler Company. He pocketed it after a moment's hesitation. It might not be enough to satisfy Central, but for the time being it would have to do.

  By early afternoon he had reached the beginnings of the commercial area. Still he had seen no signs of human life. The thinly scattered traffic moved smoothly along the streets, carrying no passengers. Once he saw a group of robot climbers working high on a telephone pole. Some of the telephone cables carried the coordinating circuits for the city's network of computers. He detoured several blocks to avoid them and wandered on glumly. He began to realize that he was wandering aimlessly.

  The siren came suddenly from half a block away. Mitch stopped in the center of the street and glanced fearfully toward it. A robot cop was rolling toward him at twenty miles an hour! He broke into a run.

  "You will halt, please!" croaked the cop's mechanical voice. "The pedestrian with the toolbox will please halt!"

  Mitch stopped at the curb. Flight was impossible. The skater could whisk along at forty miles an hour if he chose.

  The cop's steel wheels screeched to a stop a yard away. The head nodded a polite but jerky greeting. Mitch stared at the creature's eyes, even though he knew the eyes were duds; the cop was seeing him by the heat waves from his bodily warmth, and touching him with a delicate aura of radar.

  "You are charged with jaywalking, sir. I must present you with a summons. Your identification, please."

  Mitch nervously produced the billfold and extracted the cards. The cop accepted them in a pair of tweezerlike fingers and instantly memorized the information.

  "This is insufficient identification. Have you nothing else?" "That's all I have with me. What's wrong with it?" "The pass and the union card expired in 1987."

  Mitch swallowed hard and said nothing. He had been afraid of this. Now he might be picked up for vagrancy.

  "I shall consult Central Coordinator for instructions," croaked the cop. "One moment, please."

  A dynamotor purred softly in the policeman's cylindrical body. Then Mitch heard the faint twittering of computer code as the cop's radio spoke to Central. There was a silence lasting several seconds. Then an answer twittered back. Still the cop said nothing. But he extracted a summons form from a pad, inserted it in a slot in his chassis, and made chomping sounds like a small typesetter. When he pulled the ticket out again, it was neatly printed with a summons for Willie Jesser to appear before Traffic Court on July 29, 1989. The charge was jaywalking.

  Mitch accepted it with bewilderment. "I believe I have a right to ask for an explanation," he muttered.

  The cop nodded crisply. "Central Service units are required to furnish explanations of decisions when such explanations are demanded."

  "Then why did Central regard my identification as sufficient?"

  "Pause for translation of Central's message," said the cop. He stood for a moment, making burring and clicking sounds. Then: "Referring to arrest of Willie Jesser by unit Six-Baker. Do not book for investigation. Previous investigations have revealed no identification papers dated later than May 1987 in the possession of any human pedestrian. Data based on one hundred sample cases. Tentative generalization by Central Service: It has become impossible for humans to produce satisfactory identification. Therefore, 'satisfactory identification' is temporarily redefined, pending instruction from authorized human legislative agency."

  Mitch nodded thoughtfully. The decision indicated that Central was still capable of "learning," of gathering data and making generalizations about it. But the difficulty was still apparent. She was allowed to act on such generalizations only in certain very minor matters. Although she might very well realize the situation in the city, she could do nothing about it without authority from an authorized agency. That agency was a department of the city government, currently nonexistent.

  The cop croaked a courteous, "Good day, sir!" and skated smoothly back to his intersection.

  Mitch stared at his summons for a moment. The date was still four days away. If he weren't out of the city by then, he might find himself in the lockup, since he had no money to pay a fine. Reassured now that his borrowed identity gave him a certain

  amount of safety, he began walking along the sidewalks instead of using the alleys. Still, he knew that Central was observing him through a thousand eyes. Counters on every corner were set to record the passage of pedestrian traffic and to relay the information to Central, thus helping to avoid congestion. But Mitch was the pedestrian traffic. And the counters clocked his passage. Since the data were available to the logic units, Central might make some unpleasant deductions about his presence in the city.

  Brazenness, he decided, was probably the safest course to steer. He stopped at the next intersection and called to another mechanical cop, requesting directions to City Hall.

  But the cop paused before answering, paused to speak with Central, and Mitch suddenly regretted his question. The cop came skating slowly to the curb.

  "Six blocks west and four blocks north, sir," croaked the cop. "Central requests the following information, which you may refuse to furnish if you so desire: As a resident of the city, how is it that you do not know the way to City Hall, Mr. Jesser?"

  Mitch whitened and stuttered nervously, "Why, I've been gone three years. I ...I had forgotten."

  The cop relayed the information, then nodded. "Central thanks you. Data have been recorded."

  "Wait," Mitch muttered. "Is there a direct contact with Central in City Hall?"

  "Affirmative."

  "I want to speak to Central. May I use it?"

  The computer code twittered briefly. "Negative. You are not listed among the city's authorized computer personnel. Central suggests you use the Public Information Unit, also in City Hall, ground floor rotunda."

  Grumbling to himself, Mitch wandered away. The P.I.U. was better than nothing, but if he had access to the direct service contact, perhaps to some extent he could have altered Central's rigid behavior pattern. The P.I.U. however would be well guarded.

  A few minutes later he was standing in the center of the main lobby of the City Hall. The great building had suffered some damage during an air raid, and one
wing was charred by fire. But the rest of it was still alive with the rattle of machinery. A headless servo-secretary came rolling past him, carrying a trayful of pink envelopes. Delinquent utility bills, he guessed.

  Central would keep sending them out, but of course human authority would be needed to suspend service to the delinquent customers. The servo-secretary deposited the envelopes in a mailbox by the door, then rolled quickly back to its office.

  Mitch looked around the gloomy rotunda. There was a desk at the far wall. Recessed in a panel behind the desk were a microphone, a loudspeaker, and the lens of a television camera. A sign hung over the desk, indicating that here was the place to complain about utility bills, garbage-disposal service, taxes, and inaccurate weather forecasts. A citizen could also request any information contained in Central Data except information relating to defense or to police records.

  Mitch crossed the rotunda and sat at the desk facing the panel. A light came on overhead. The speaker crackled for a moment.

  "Your name, please?" it asked.

  "Willie Jesser."

  "What do you wish from Information Service, please?" "A direct contact with Central Data."

  "You have a screened contact with Central Data. Unauthorized personnel are not permitted an unrestricted contact, for security reasons. Your contact must be monitored by this unit."

  Mitch shrugged. It was as he had expected. Central Data was listening and speaking, but the automatics of the P.I.U. would be censoring the exchange.

  "All right," he grumbled. "Tell me this: Is Central aware that the city has been abandoned? That its population is gone?" "Screening, screening, screening," said the unit. "Question relates to civil defense."

  "Is Central aware that her services are now interfering with human interests?"

  There was a brief pause. "Is this question in the nature of a complaint?"

  "Yes," he grated acidly. "It's a complaint."

  "About your utility services, Mr. Jesser?"

  Mitch spat an angry curse. "About all services!" he bellowed. "Central has got to suspend all operations until new ordinances are fed into Data."

  "That will be impossible, sir."

  "Why?"

  "There is no authorization from Department of City Services."

  He slapped the desk and groaned. "There is no such department now! There is no city government! The city is abandoned!"

  The speaker was silent.

  "Well?" he snapped.

  "Screening," said the machine.

  "Listen," he hissed. "Are you screening what I say, or are you just blocking Central's reply?"

  There was a pause. "Your statements are being recorded in Central Data. Replies to certain questions must be blocked for security reasons."

  "The war is over!"

  "Screening."

  "You're trying to maintain a civil status quo that went out of existence three years ago. Can't you use your logic units to correct present conditions?"

  "The degree of self-adjustment permitted to Central Service is limited by ordinance number—"

  "Never mind!"

  "Is there anything else?"

  "Yes! What will you do when fifty men come marching in to dynamite the vaults and destroy Central Data?"

  "Destroying city property is punishable by a fine of—" Mitch cursed softly and listened to the voice reading the applicable ordinance.

  "Well, they're planning to do it anyway," he snapped. "Conspiracy to destroy city property is punishable by—" Mitch stood up and walked away in disgust. But he had taken perhaps ten steps when a pair of robot guards came skating out from their wall niches to intercept him.

  "One moment sir," they croaked in unison.

  "Well?"

  "Central wishes to question you in connection with the alleged conspiracy to destroy city property. You are free to refuse. However, if you refuse, and if such a conspiracy is shown to exist, you may be charged with complicity. Will you accompany us to Interrogation?"

  A step closer to jail, he thought gloomily. But what was there to lose? He grunted assent and accompanied the skaters out the entrance, down an inclined ramp, and past a group of heavily barred windows. They entered the police court, where a booking computer clicked behind its desk. Several servo-secretaries and robot cops were waiting quietly for task assignments.

  Mitch stopped suddenly. His escorts waited politely.

  "Will you come with us, please?"

  He stood staring around at the big room—at the various doorways, one leading to traffic court, and at the iron gate to the cellblock.

  "I hear a woman crying," he muttered.

  The guards offered no comment.

  "Is someone locked in a cell?"

  "We are not permitted to answer."

  "Suppose I wanted to go bail," he snapped. "I have a right to know."

  "You may ask at the booking desk whether a specific individual is being held. But generalized information cannot be released."

  "Mitch strode to the booking computer. "Are you holding a woman in jail?"

  "Screening."

  It was only a vague suspicion, but he said, "A woman named Marta."

  "Full name, please."

  "I don't know it. Can't you tell me?"

  "Screening."

  "Listen! I loaned my bicycle to a woman named Marta. If you have the bicycle, I want it!"

  "License number, please."

  "A 1987 license—number six zero five zero."

  "Check with Lost and Found, please."

  Mitch controlled himself slowly. "Look—you check. I'll wait."

  The computer paused. "A bicycle with that license number has been impounded. Can you produce proof of ownership?"

  "On a bicycle? I knew the number. Isn't that enough?"

  "Describe it, please?"

  Mitch described it wearily. He began to understand Ferris's desire to retire Central permanently and forcibly. At the moment he longed to convert several subcomputers to scrap metal.

  "Then," said the speaker, "if vehicle is yours, you may have it by applying for a new license and paying the required fee."

  "Refer that to Central Data," Mitch groaned.

  The booking computer paused to confer with the Coordinator. "Decision stands, sir."

  "But there aren't any new licenses!" he growled. "A while ago Central said— Oh, never mind!"

  "That decision applied to identification, sir. This applies to licensing of vehicles. Insufficient data have been gathered to permit generalization."

  "Sure, sure. All right, what do I do to get the girl out of jail?"

  There was another conference with the Coordinator, then: "She is being held for investigation. She may not be released for seventy-two hours."

  Mitch dropped the toolbox that he had been carrying since morning. With a savage curse he rammed the crowbar through a vent in the device's front panel and slashed it about in the opening. There was a crash of shattering glass and a shower of sparks. Mitch yelped at the electric jolt and lurched away. Steel fingers clutched his wrists.

  Five minutes later he was being led through the gate to the cellblocks, charged with maliciously destroying city property; and he cursed himself for a hot-tempered fool. They would hold him until a grand jury convened, which would probably be never.

  The girl's sobbing grew louder as he was led along the iron corridors toward a cell. He passed three cells and glanced inside. The cells were occupied by dead men's bones. Why? The rear wall was badly cracked, and bits of loose masonry were scattered on the floor. Had they died of concussion during an attack? Or been gassed to death?

  They led him to the fifth cell and unlocked the door. Mitch stared inside and grinned. The rear wall had been partially wrecked by a bomb blast, and there was room to crawl through the opening to the street. The partition that separated the adjoining cell was also damaged, and he caught a glimpse of a white, frightened face peering through the hole. Marta.

  He glanced at his captors. They were pushing
him gently through the door. Evidently Central's talents did not extend to bricklaying, and she could not judge that the cell was less than escape proof.

  The door clanged shut behind him.

  "Marta," he called.

  Her face had disappeared from the opening. There was no answer.

  "Marta."

  "Let me alone," grumbled a muffled voice.

  "I'm not angry about the bicycle."

  He walked to the hole and peered through the partition into the next cell. She crouched in a corner, peering at him with frightened, tear-reddened eyes. He glanced at the opening in the rear wall.

  "Why haven't you gone outside?" he asked.

  She giggled hysterically. "Why don't you go look down?" He stepped to the opening and glanced twenty feet down to a concrete sidewalk. He went back to stare at the girl. "Where's your baby?"

  "They took him away," she whimpered.

  Mitch frowned and thought about it for a moment. "To the city nursery, probably—while you're in jail."

  "They won't take care of him! They'll let him die!" "Don't scream like that. He'll be all right."

  "Robots don't give milk!"

  "No, but there are such things as bottles, you know," he chuckled.

  "Are there?" Her eyes were wide with horror. "And what will they put in the bottles?"

  "Why—" He paused. Central certainly wasn't running any dairy farms.

  "Wait'll they bring you a meal," she said. "You'll see."

  "Meal?"

  "Empty tray," she hissed. "Empty tray, empty paper cup, paper fork, clean paper napkin. No food."

  Mitch swallowed hard. Central's logic was sometimes hard to see. The servo-attendants probably went through the motions of ladling stew from an empty pot and drawing coffee from an empty urn. Of course, there weren't any truck farmers to keep the city supplied with produce.

  "So that's why... the bones...in the other cells," he muttered.

  "They'll starve us to death!"