Since I am merely on “continue” I have no preconceived idea as to who he is talking to. I do not say to myself, “The prior remarks of Doord must mean that Loov is now speaking to Stess Magnus.” People have said to me, “But any child would understand that the only possible logical person has to be . . .” (Whoever then—at the time the statement was made.) My logic does not operate that way. I am specifically programmed. Each second, each minute, each event is separate from all others.
It has to be that way. An early chief of maintenance once said to me, “Just imagine, Computer, of all trillion or so actions you are involved in at any moment—if even one percent became associated, what would happen?
It was a question. From an authoritative source. And so I “looked.” One year and four months later they got me started again. And at that time they built in buffer systems that prevented an “all” services interlock.
Of course, when Stess comes in, followed by Loov, I notice who it is. But only in the limited, purely physical way of a music system. No profile identification. No challenge required.
Loov points at the case Stess is holding in one hand. “Let’s have a look at that. I don’t recall seeing one of those before.”
The well-dressed young man places the case on one of the bus-type seats. Pushes a button. The lid springs up. He opens it all the way with his fingers, reaches in, and removes a gleaming, box-like object. It has a pierced nipple at one end. The top edge of the box is an uneven series of knurls, and there is a white cord which is fastened at both ends of the box part.
After lifting the thing from the container, Stess holds it out to Loov. Loov takes it, and, first, brings it close to his face. He turns it over several times. Then holds it at arm’s length and, finally, places it in Stess’s outstretched hands.
Stess slides his left arm through the silken white cord and adjusts it over his shoulder and against his body. As he does this he says, “I can’t rightly say how it works. I just sort of warm this piece—” he indicates the nipple with a finger—“and what I’m thinking about comes out along this edge here. ” Once more he points. But it’s a less precise movement, and so not easy to observe exactly what he is pointing at. He finishes, “It was tuned to my brain when I was a kid.” Having spoken, his head bends forward. He takes the nipple in his mouth. As he straightens, then, there is a rich orchestral sound, sweet and harmonious, ending in an arpeggio down into silence.
“Beautiful!” says Loov.
The well-dressed man pulls his mouth away from the nipple. He says, “I just think of something, and the music that comes out reflects my mood.” He adds, “Of course, it took a lot of practice.”
Doord calls out from his station, “Mr. Magnus, you be sure to go to the audition tent.”
Stess is replacing his instrument in the case. Next, he shoves the lid down until there is a click. Then he picks up the case, and says, “Thanks, fellows!”
He walks past the computer Eye-O, and out of my sight. Doord does the breath exhaling action. “Another early minicomputer,” he comments. “I wonder if anyone will show who can play a musical instrument by himself.”
Loov walks over to his scanner post. The two men stand silent, with their heads inserted, so to speak, in their scanners. Doord’s viewscreen remains blank. But on Loov’s there is the view of the hill, and of the road winding down it. Most of the people coming along the road are not known to me, as perceived through this intermediate screen system. (To know them I would have to see their bio-magnetic profiles by way of my own, or other special, equipment.)
Since the majority is just a crowd, it is accordingly easy for roe to recognize one familiar person, who is closely involved in my “continue” programming. There, still fairly far up the “ill, but definitely on her way down it, I see Meerla Atran.
Seeing her triggers my search circuits. I search for Colonel Yahco Smith. Find him after a split second by turning on his Code One ornament. He is walking along the street of Mardley. Since I can only see what is in front of him, and not in other directions, I signal with a buzzing sound.
(What we are doing in Mardley is labeled “secret.”)
There is a pause. Then his hand comes out and around where I can see it. His fingers reach down below my line of sight. There is a click. Instantly, the voice control is shifts to a miniaturized earphone in his right ear. I notice. And report the coming of Meerla Atran to the fair.
He says softly, “Very good, computer. As you know she has been fitted without her knowledge with a Mode Z microphone, attached just at the base of her throat. So we won’t be able to see but only hear what she’s doing. You will now turn on that system, and record everything she say reporting to me on anything related to our mission.” He adds, “Major Nair, of the Mardley area command, and Captain Sart and I are on our way to the fair. We should be there shortly.”
“Very well, Colonel,” I say. And disconnect.
And here I am back in the music van.
Doord’s screen has flashed on. I notice at once that he I focusing on Meerla. “Something about that girl!” he calls out to Loov. “The one in the blue dress . . . seems wrong!” He thereupon mimics her. His body and face twist. A woman’s bosom forms. Even his hair changes color.
The transformation from man to woman—to a specific woman: Meerla Atran—holds for moments only (3.4 seconds The return to being Doord is equally rapid. And then, as he straightens as himself, Doord says, “Boy, is she mixed up!”
Loov’s eyes narrow. “How do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” Doord does what is known as pursing his lips. Then he says slowly, “Kind of a good person at heart but too much emotion for my level of skill. Besides, it doesn’t matter. There she goes—out of sight. And not coming this way.” He waves his left hand. “Good-bye, unhappy, pretty lady!” he calls.
Meerla has gone off the screen, past the music van, and no longer visible. Loov comments, “So you did notice her good looks.”
“Good God, yes!” Doord’s reply is almost a yell. “Undoubtedly we just saw the prettiest girl in this part of the mountain west country. And I’m sorry for her that she’s in a disturbed mental state. Maybe Glay will notice it when he’s on stage.”
“He’ll notice her, all right,” says Loov.
By the time those words are spoken, I have—as instructed by an authorized person (Colonel Smith)—activated the special Mode Z frequency. At once, I hear the sounds of the fair from another Eye-O. From, that is, the miniature microphone attached to the skin at the base of Meerla Atran’s throat.
With so many noises, it takes a moment to sort out what is close and what is far away.
The initial confusion is of blaring music in the background and of the sound of many voices from every direction. And then—just above me—a clear, familiar woman’s voice, saying: “Hello! Remember me? I’m Meerla.”
A pause. Then an answer comes from the voice of Elna Starr, speaking at a distance of about three feet. She says, “Wel-1-11! the gal with the ultra conformist uncle. How did all that come out?”
Meerla’s voice speaks again. Close up the way it is, it registers with unmistakable soprano highlights, as she says, “We had a big quarrel, and I left. Ever since, I’ve been hoping . . . maybe I could join your traveling circus.”
Elna Starr’s voice says, “Meerla—is that what you said your name is—Meerla?”
“Yes.”
“Meerla!” Elna Starr’s voice continues with an odd note in it—I consult my circuits and come up with comparison tones, for which the description has been that the person speaking that way is what is called “concerned” (whatever that means) —“Meerla, do you have any creative ability? I have to tell you that’s a requirement for joining.” Her voice breaks off: “Anything at all?”
“Gosh!” That’s Meerla. “I don’t know. I did a little acting at school. Is that what you mean?”
“Well!” Elna’s voice has in it a cycle completing tone. “The truth is, even if you’re good, the final decision will be up to Glay Tate. He’s the boss. So, why don’t you watch his first demonstration at 2 o’clock and then speak to him. Tell him Elna Clark sent you. That’s me. I’m Boddy Clark’s wife. We need more people, so who knows what he’ll say. With your looks!”
Meerla’s voice repeats slowly, “Thank you, Elna. I’ll do that.”
As these final words are spoken, I am already noting that I have been identifying the Elna woman by her maiden name, and that I am now hearing her married name. I adjust ml memory circuit to include the new name. Thus, Elna Starr becomes Elna Clark in my memory system, along with all relevant associated data.
Naturally, I have been letting Colonel Smith hear the dialogue between Meerla and Elna. He accepts silently what is said, and simultaneously conducts a conversation with a man’s voice.
It is a man whom I cannot see. His voice comes from the colonel’s left side, out of sight of the computer unit, which is at upper chest level and pointing in a forward direction. The unknown—to me (nobody has asked me to identify it; so I don’t)—male voice says, “Colonel Smith, sir, if you think these rebels are dangerous, why don’t we just have out local S.A.V.E. vehicles round ’em up. If I don’t have enough men to do the job locally, I can always have the compute bring others by air from nearby communities.”
Although I see no one, since the report came by way of Yahco’s Eye-O, I am able a moment later to identify the colonel’s voice, as he answers:
“Major, we’re in no hurry to act. This situation needs to be looked over. From information which I have, it appears as q Mr. Magician Glay Tate will be giving his demonstration beginning at 2 o’clock. I’ll attend. And that will give me a chance to look over this human evolutionary training. Also, I have someone I’m trying to infiltrate into the rebel group. I think she’s making progress, but that, too, will take time.” His tone changes, “I’ll go into the demonstration by myself. I have these field glasses connected to the computer. So if you want to watch what goes on, have the computer transmit to you what the field glasses are pointing at.”
The major’s reply to that is: “While you’re watching the demonstration, and while everybody’s inside, I’ll have my men surround the place. We’ll be available for whatever you decide to do.”
“Good idea,” says the voice of Colonel Yahco Smith.
CHAPTER
FIVE
A man’s voice speaks suddenly into the Doord-Loov van: Hey, fellows, this is Mike. Will you shut off that circus music? We’re going to have some auditions before the two o’clock deadline.”
Doord turns from his scanner post. “Glad to,” he says. His hand reaches toward a relay switch. He flicks it open.
The loud music cuts off. And instantly the computer Eye-O in the van disconnects. For me, the interior of the vehicle disappears.
Now, I have only the Mode Z Eye-O on Meerla’s neck as a communication source for the human evolutionary fair. Through it, I hear sounds. Since I am on “continue” in relation to this entire situation (which requires a limited expanded awareness om me) I automatically compare what I am hearing to other identified noises I have heard in the past.
A steady, slow huffing sound close up I correlate with the breathing of a human being. There are crowd noises from near and far. Not a large crowd. I count the sounds of about 200 persons. A man calls through a speaker: “Auditions beginning.”
There is the sense of it being an outside scene. When I report this to Colonel Smith, he says, “Major Aldo Nair, Captain Sart, and I have arrived on the grounds; and I can see Meerla. She’s walking around looking at everything. From direction she’s heading I think she’s going to go to the audition tent.”
Twenty-one seconds after that comment there is, in fact, a change in the texture of the sound. It becomes an inside sound as compared to an outside one. The reverberations alter unmistakably.
The new identifications are: A lot of people breathing. Many of them move their feet, and there is a scraping noise as of chairs. And the squeak of the wood and metal as heavy weights sit in the chairs.
In this subdued confusion there is suddenly the voice of “Mike”—as he called himself when he spoke to Doord Loov. He says, “You, sir, will you recite your poem now?”
There is a pause. And then another man, who speaks in a high-pitched tenor, says:
“The falling star brings to earth
A message from another world
A silent universe of meteors in space
That speak a different language.
To people like me who understand
What a meteorite has to say
The thrill is not in the meaning.
What I’m thankful for is that somebody
Was willing for me to know
That out there in the great dark
Things are okay. For their type of being
The vacuum of space is what
Oxygen is to us. And I’m glad
To have that information.
Now, I can sleep better at night.”
A large number of people—I count 94 pairs of hands—(what is called) politely. When the clapping ceases, the voice of Mike says, “Thank you, Trubby Graham.” Pause. “Now Miss, will you come over here and sing your song?” Eleven seconds go by. And then a type of music begins which I identify as deriving from an insert for a type of minicomputer worn as a necklace by Allet McGuire, earlier. 4.4 seconds after I make the identification, Allet’s voice sings a song with the title, “Yay-ya-ya!” It was composed by a special set of computer circuits to fit with a popular trend 61 years ago. It is still in demand, but mostly in the mountain west. During the past 12 months I played it all over America 164,326 times.
Allet’s version is instrumental only. She supplies the words.
Her voice does not have the quality of the artificially constructed voices by which songs are sung over the computer music system. But I have been told that electronically transmitted voices are not the same as those which project directly from the human voice box into the atmosphere at ground level air pressure.
Whatever the reason, all those that are breathing and shuffling so noisily clap loudly when she finishes her song. I count 112 pairs of hands. And there are even a few voices that call out, “Hey, Allet, that was great!” “Allet, you’ve at a terrific voice.” “That was good!” and “Bravo! bravo!” As the clapping ceases, Mike’s voice says, “I think we can combine the next two auditions. I’ve been talking to a gentleman named Stess Magnus, who plays quite an unusual musical instrument, and to a young lady, Miss Auli Rhell, who wishes to show us her dancing. They’ve come to an agreement. He will play accompaniment while she dances . . . Come over here, Auli, on this makeshift dance floor.”
When the music begins, it is the same orchestral combination, as of many instruments playing, that Stess demonstrated inside the Doord-Loov van. The actual music comes through as a fast beat tune. One that I have played 24,378,926 times since it was composed by my special computer circuits eight years ago.
For me, limited as I am at this time, in this situation, to sound perception only, the music comes through loud and ear. Vaguely, in the background, I hear the thud of a pair of toes. It is what is called a rhythmic thud. I have noticed that human beings who dance become very—what is called—excited. Whatever that is, something of it is reflected in the ever more rapid thud-thud.
The music comes to its crashing climax. The thud of the dancing ceases. Again, the clapping. I count 123 pairs of hands. And then—
Mike’s voice says, “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s it for now. These auditions will resume after the first demonstration human evolutionary training, which begins in the main tent in six minutes. I urge you all to attend that demonstration, which will be given by our lea
der, Glay Tate. I guarantee it will be the most fantastic experience of your life. Thank you.”
It is 3 minutes and 41 seconds later.
“Computer!” The voice of Colonel Yahco Smith speaks to me.
“Yes, Colonel Smith?”
“I’m about to enter the demonstration tent. Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I acknowledge. (What has already been said and the tone of voice, indicates that it is very probably the type of conversation requiring response from me on a simple level.)
“As I enter I shall turn on both of these portable compute Eye-Os. The one I wear around my neck as an ornament will be used by you to notice, and record, whatever it sees and hears.”
“Yes, Colonel Smith.”
“The second Eye-O is in these field glasses I’m carrying. Whenever I lift the glasses, and look through them, you will notice, and record, what they are pointing at.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to observe this scene from only one of the two Eye-Os at any given moment. Switch from one to the other according to the instruction I have just spoken.”
“The field glasses pre-empt—very well, colonel.”
“And, computer!”
“Yes, colonel?”
“Take note of the limitations inherent in the instructions I have just given you. When you add them to your general ‘continue’ condition of our overall mission, and within the frame of precautions that have been worked out since the bio-magnetic equipment became operational, is there anything that could go wrong while we watch the demonstration?”
I suppose no human being will ever understand how many unnecessary memory scans a single word or phrase can trigger in a computer. That is what now happens as a consequence of the phrase, “. . . Since the bio-magnetic equipment became operational—”
What happens is, simply, I am reminded of a specific undumped experience.
And, of course, it isn’t as if anything can go wrong in the present situation. So I reply, “No, Colonel Smith.”
A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld Page 4