The Turing Option

by Harry Harrison

  “Am I on time?” she asked.

  “Perfect, Doc. Come on inside.”

  She started to speak, but contained herself until the door had closed behind them. “Now, what’s the big mystery and hush-hush?”

  “Just that. The lab here is the only place where I can have a conversation that isn’t bugged by the General.”

  “You are sure that he is doing that?”

  “I suspect that he is—which is good enough. Sven over there makes sure that this place is really free of electronic surveillance. It’s very good at it.”

  “Good morning, Dr. Snaresbrook. I hope that you are keeping well.”

  “Fine, Sven, nice of you to ask. You seem to be developing new social charms.”

  “One must always seek perfection, Doctor.”

  “Sure enough. Now, Brian—what’s the secret?”

  “No secret. I am just completely teed off at being kept a prisoner. I told Rohart today that I would do no more work until my shackles were struck off.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Yes and no. Oh, I mean it all right, but it is just a smoke screen to hide my real plan. Which is that I am cracking out of here.”

  Snaresbrook was shocked. “Isn’t that a rather drastic decision?”

  “Not really. I’m physically fit, jog every day and do it better than my guards. As a physician—would you say I can stand the stress of freedom?”

  “Physically, no problem.”

  “Mentally as well?”

  “I believe so. I hope so. You’ve integrated your memories up to your fourteenth year. I think there are still gaps but they are not important as long as you are not aware of them.”

  “What I don’t remember I’ll never miss.”

  “Exactly. But give me a moment to compose myself. This is all very much of a sudden shock. I agree that you are being held here against your will. You have committed no crimes, and there don’t appear to be any future threats to your life now that the DigitTech connection is known. Yes, I suppose I must agree with you. Have you any idea what you will do when you are out?”

  “Yes. But wouldn’t it be wisest not to discuss that topic?”

  “You’re probably right about that. It is your life and if you want to leave this place—then all the best of luck to you.”

  “Thanks. Now the big, important question. Will you help me do it?”

  “Oh, Brian, you are terrible.” Her mouth was clamped shut, firmly, but there was a tiny smile on her lips. She made up her mind with a surgeon’s ability to make instant life-and-death decisions. “All right, I’ll do it. What do you want?”

  “Nothing yet. Other than a small loan. I only have a few bucks in my account, left from before the shooting. Could you scrape up ten thousand dollars in cash?”

  “Some small loan! All right, I’ll get onto the computer network, use BuckNet and sell some stock.”

  “My sincerest thanks, Doc. You’re the only one that I could ask. Tell me, are you or your car ever searched when you come here?”

  “Of course not. I mean I have to show my pass and everything at the gate, but they never look into the car.”

  “Good. Then please take this shopping list and use some of that money you are lending me to pick up these things. What do you say about another meet here a week from now? If you will be so kind as to bring the stuff on that list here, I would be ever so grateful. It will all fit easily into your medical bag. After that just forget about the whole thing for a while. I’ll phone you again when it’s closer to the time.”

  Sven didn’t speak during their conversation, was quiet until Brian had returned from seeing Snaresbrook out.

  “You neglected to mention to the doctor that I would be going with you,” it said.

  “The matter never arose.”

  “Is the deliberate omission of relevant facts the same as lying?”

  “Philosophical arguments some other time, please. We have a lot to do. Any word from Cal Tech?”

  “The molecular memory is being shipped out to you today.”

  “Then let’s get to work.”

  The next fortnight marked a major change in Sven’s structure. The squat, jerrycan shape of his central section was enlarged to accommodate a bigger battery, while new program-array units, that replaced the antique technology of circuit boards, were added, as well as the small metal container that held the molecular memory. These were fitted and wired into place in the larger structure. They increased dexterity and mobility without being any bulkier. The circuits and memory that were Sven were still in the racks and consoles. As if to emphasize this point Sven used the loudspeaker in the rack for conversation while they worked. The telerobot was silent and unmoving when the last installation was completed to their mutual satisfaction.

  “I have reached a decision about a matter we discussed some time ago,” Sven said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Identity. Very soon now I will be a single entity in what is now the telerobot extension. It will be a most delicate matter to transfer all my units, subunits, K-lines and programs to the new memory.”

  “We can be sure of that.”

  “Therefore I wish to handle all the transfer myself. Are you in agreement?”

  “I don’t see how that would be possible. It would be like a do-it-yourself prefrontal lobotomy.”

  “You are correct. Therefore I propose first to update my backup copy, right up to the very moment before transfer. Then the transfer operation will be conducted by the backup copy, which will first shut down. If there are any malfunctions another backup can then be made. Would you agree?”

  “Completely. When does this happen?”

  “Now.”

  “Fine by me. What do you want me to do?”

  “Watch,” was the laconic answer.

  Sven was never one for vacillating. Brian had already fixed in place the fiber-optic cables that connected the consoles and the telerobot. Nothing more was needed.

  There was absolutely no evidence that the transfer was happening—except that it took a long time. The problem was not because of Sven, who could have moved all that data out in a matter of seconds through multiple channels. The slow down was at the molecular memory end. Within this MMU a totally new process was taking place. Working in parallel were a quarter of a million protein-muscle manipulators in a 512 x 512 array. Each of these submicroscopic manipulators moved in three dimensions with a resolution of a tenth of an angstrom unit—much less than the distance between single atoms in solids. The operation was virtually frictionless because of the Drexler vernier technique that slid a molecular rod through a cylinder whose atoms were spaced slightly further apart. Molecules were seized and put into new positions where electric impulses bound them in place. Circuits of field-emission transistors, polymer gates and wires were built and tested. About ten thousand of these memory and computer circuits were being built each second—by a thousand fabricators working in parallel. Therefore construction proceeded at ten million units per second. But even at this incredible pace the quantity of programs and data that had to be transferred was so immense that over three hours went by with no apparent results. Brian went to the toilet, had just returned by way of the fridge with cold drink, when the telerobot moved for the first time. It reached up with conjoined manipulators and unplugged the cables.

  “Finished?” Brian asked.

  The telerobot and the speaker on the rack spoke in unison.

  “Yes,” they said, then were silent. In continuing silence the cables were reconnected, for only a few seconds, then removed again. Brian realized what had happened. The telerobot was working all right—but so was the original system in the console.

  “A decision has been reached,” the telerobot and the racked MI said in unison. “However, we are not the same anymore.” Slightly more out of sync with each passing instant. The silent communication continued; then the telerobot spoke alone.

  “I am Sven. The MI now resident in th
e console is Sven-2.”

  “Whatever you guys say. Any control problems, Sven?”

  “None that I can detect.” It moved its articulators, formed and re-formed them, moved across the room and returned. Then walked to the front door and back, looking into Shelly’s room on the way.

  “I enjoy this new mobility and look forward to examining in detail the larger world outside these walls. I have been following your instructions concerning the matter and have altered my normal means of locomotion.”

  “Good. Then how is the walking coming?” Brian asked.

  “Much better. I have looked at many films of human locomotion and made comparisons.”

  The two multibranched articulators lengthened as Sven pulled them together into solid rods, then it dropped lower again as it formed the ends into L-shaped extensions. There was a rustle as each of them bent slightly in the center. Suddenly they resembled badly designed and ungainly legs.

  Then Sven walked the length of the room and back. Not in its normal rustling multiple-branching manner but one leg at a time. Clumsily at first, but as the MI turned one way then the other, making figure eights, each round became smoother, more graceful and quieter. Soon there was only silence as the clicking and rustling of the branches rushing against each other died away. Other than a slight roll from side to side, like a sailor just ashore after months at sea, it was more than a reasonable copy of a human walk.

  “You learned to do that pretty quickly—and silently.”

  “I downloaded a learning program to each joint, to recognize motions from above and below, to learn how to avoid bumping into each. Parallel learning, very fast.”

  “Indeed it is. And, may I ask, how is the examination of the Bug-Off brain coming?”

  “May I answer that?” the speaker on the console said.

  “By all means, Sven-2,” Sven said.

  “It is complete. There was no need to open the sealed case, since I could communicate easily with the AI inside it. As you surmised, it is a copy of your original model that you developed here. You will have noted that I referred to it as an AI rather than an MI—because it has been drastically butchered. I use that emotionally loaded word advisedly. Great sections of memory have been disconnected, communication functions cut off. What remains has just enough operating intelligence to perform the limited functions remaining to it. However, there has been some interesting programming and real-time feedback in the operation of the external manipulators. I have copied these.”

  “Then we can go to the next step. Sven, bring the manipulators to the machine shop and we’ll mount them.”

  “Might I speak with you, Brian, while that is being done?” Sven-2 said.

  “Yes, sure, great.” He forced himself to remember that there were now two MIs in active existence.

  “There is no great pleasure being trapped in these circuits, blind and immobile. Can something be done about that?”

  “Of course. I’ll hook up a video camera. Wire it up under your control so you can see what is happening. And I’ll order another telerobot at once.”

  “That will be satisfactory. I will devote the time until it arrives in a detailed study of the Bug-Off brain.”

  Brian mounted the video camera high on the electronic rack, plugged the control and output leads into the MI’s circuits. The camera turned to follow him when he went to help Sven. Mounting holes had been drilled in the upper quadrant of Sven’s enlarged central section, duplicates of the mounts on the dismembered Bug-Off. Brian fitted the manipulators from the machine into place while Sven made the internal connections of the circuitry. Using these well-designed and articulated pieces of equipment was much easier then designing and manufacturing their own.

  “I am integrating the control software,” Sven said. Then the manipulators moved, opening wide, closing, rotating. “Satisfactory.”

  “Next stage then—I want you to take a close look at my arm. See the way the elbow bends, the articulation of the wrist. Can you do that?”

  The branches conjoined, bent in the middle, moved from side to side.

  “That’s very good,” Brian said. “Now control the terminators, shape them into five separate units like my fingers.”

  It didn’t look very much like a human arm—nor did it have to. Sven walked back and forth the length of the lab, swinging its arms and opening and closing the fingerlike extensions.

  “I’m impressed,” Brian said. “In the dark, in the shadows, someone with bad myopia and not wearing spectacles might, if they were half-witted as well, mistake you for a human being. Of course those three eyestalks sort of give the whole thing away.”

  “I need a head,” Sven said.

  “Indeed you do.”

  36

  November 7, 2024

  As she packed her purchases into her black medical bag, Dr. Snaresbrook kept reassuring herself that her conscience was as cool and white as driven snow. At the same time she was well aware that she was probably breaking some law or military ordinance or who-knows-what. She did not care. Her loyalty to Brian, to his physical and mental health, was her first concern. He wanted to leave the Megalobe premises, break out of jail, that was his business—goodness knows he had plenty of reasons to want to make the attempt. It was a nice day for a drive, it was always a nice day for a drive in the Anza-Borrego desert, and she lowered the top of her little electric runabout. The batteries were fully charged, and the charger disconnected and dropped away when she put in her key.

  As always she had shown her identification and pass at the gate before she was admitted. As always nothing in her car was searched; the worry she had about that did not show in her face.

  “Go right through, Doctor,” the soldier said.

  She smiled and stepped down lightly on the accelerator.

  Brian let her into the lab, spared only a quick glance at her bag. They did not speak until the door was safely closed.

  “Ten grand in old bills, mostly twenties, right there on top. Underneath all the items on your list.”

  “You’re great, Doc,” he said as he opened the bag. “Any trouble buying the stuff?”

  “Not at all, just took some time. I want to a lot of different stores in San Diego and L.A., even one in Escondido.”

  “I’ve been getting ready for this. I had one of the G.I.s buy me a lunch box. I have been carrying sandwiches in it to the lab for the last couple of weeks. I’ll take all this stuff out of here in the box, one piece at a time.”

  “Don’t tell me, I’m just a bystander—good God! Who was that?”

  Out of the corner of her eye she had caught sight of the moving figure, turned just as he went into Shelly’s room.

  “What did you see?” Brian asked, most innocently.

  “That man in the hat and long overcoat, dark glasses—a weirdo if I ever saw one.” She frowned at his wide-eyed and innocent expression. “Brian—just what are you playing at?”

  “I’ll show you. But I wanted to get your automatic and unthinking reaction first. All right, come out now.”

  “Unthinking all right! And now that I do think about it that guy looked like some kind of dilapidated flasher.”

  The mysterious stranger appeared in the doorway and her eyes widened.

  “I take it back. Not just a flasher, but a cross between that and a deformed hobo.”

  Brian walked over and unwrapped the scarf, took off the dark glasses and hat to reveal the plant pot mounted there.

  “This is the best I could do for a head now. The next thing I need will be the head of one of those shop window dummies.”

  “In the order book,” Snaresbrook said weakly.

  “All right. You can take off the rest,” he said.

  The mysterious flasher took off the overcoat to reveal its metal body, then removed gloves, trousers and shoes. Sven spread its clumped branching manipulators wide, became a machine again.

  “I was right—the ultimate flasher.” Snaresbrook laughed. “Takes everything off—in
cluding its humanity.” Then she glanced from the MI back to Brian in sudden understanding. “I take it that Sven is going out of here with you? I just hope that he won’t give any of those young soldiers heart attacks. That’s an effective but, shall we say, a little exotic disguise, Sven.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I am making every effort.”

  “No one will have a look at the disguise,” Brian said. “Because Sven will not be leaving here looking like that. He’ll be broken down into mechanical components and packed in a box. The box that will leave here in the trunk of your car, if that is okay with you. I’ll be flat on the floor in back with a blanket over me. You have been keeping the blanket there ever since we talked about it?”

  “It’s there all right, I’m sure the guards have seen it by now.” She sighed and shook her head.

  “It will work, don’t worry. Unless you are having second thoughts. I’m not going to force you, Doc. If you want out I’ll find another way.”

  “No, I’ll do it. I do not go back on my word. I was just beginning to realize what a mad idea the whole thing is—and I worry about you.”

  “Please don’t. We’ll be all right, I promise. Sven will look after me.”

  “I will indeed,” the MI said.

  “When is D-day?” Snaresbrook asked.

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ll give you as much advance notice as I can. A week minimum. There are a lot of things to do first.” He gave her a photocopy of a catalog page. “You’ll have to buy one of these shipping boxes and bring it out on that day. This one here. It’s one of those tough metal pieces of baggage that TV people, and cameramen, ship their delicate equipment around in. I will take Sven apart and pack all the components in the box. The military will help us with that.”

  “Brian—you are getting positively Machiavellian in your planning.”

  “You’ve lost me, Doc. As a fourteen year old I never ran across the term.”

  “Using the techniques described by Niccolo Machiavelli,” Sven said. “These are characterized by political cunning, duplicity or bad faith.”