The smaller man gets up. “Very well, sir. I’ll do my best.”
As he walks forward, the colonel says to me in a low voice, “Is the senator disconnected, computer?”
“Yep,” I reply. And, observing the scowl on his face, add, “You can let all those pent-up feelings out to mother.” Yahco is motioning Sart to come and sit by him again. His scowl has faded a little. To me, he says, “I have to admit, computer, you are very trying in your present state.”
“You ain’t heard nuthin’ yet,” I say, echoing a common phrase from the distant past, one of my summarizations. “Thank you, computer,” he cuts me off.
But, of course, I’m on “continue.” So I hear his low-voiced comment to Sart, as he says, “When we finally get full control of the computer, that loud-mouthed senator is the first one whose head I’ll bash in.”
Sart looks thoughtful. “Watch it, sir. That fellow has survived twenty-three in Congress. He may have his assassins ready, also, at the moment of takeover.”
“Hmmm,” Yahco nods thoughtfully, “maybe you’re right.” He straightens in his seat. “Anyway, that’s for later. Right now, we’ve got Mr. Smarty Glay Tate’s rebels boxed up on a lonely mountain road. We’ll take care of him first.”
Listening to him, I can’t agree more. There is also, for a fleeting moment, a new type of echo, a different level of cynicism from the advanced education department. So fast that even I am unable to catch the meaning, except as a vague additional reaction to the threat of Glay. Something . . . something about me as me. Very obscure but definitely related to Glay Tate.
That individual’s vehicle has, at that exact moment, turned off the main road and is moving to join the rebel circle. Three minutes later I drive Yahco’s S.A.V.E. past the road where Glay’s machine turned off, and at Aldo’s suggestion take up a position just beyond the high point of the pass, where the other S.A.V.E.s are drawn up.
As the two men get to their feet, Captain Sart says, “This fellow Tate reminds me of an actor I knew years ago. It was amazing how quickly that man could adjust his face to look like someone else’s, and also match voices with them. So, colonel, knowing how Tate can imitate people, if I should get separated from you, we’ll have the computer identify us. And the same for anyone new who shows up.”
“Good thought,” Yahco agrees. He adds, “That should put an end to unpleasant surprises. Computer, do you hear? And are you taking the initial battle actions? As I have previously instructed you?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Which?” Yahco asks sharply.
“Both,” I say.
‘‘What action,” he persists, “are you taking?”
“After all,” say 1, “when you unveiled that voter-control system in Mardley for the first time, you were letting the cat out of the bag. I’m taking the negative approach, if that’s not too obscure for a mind like yours, which seems to be singularly dense at this moment.”
“Thank you, computer,” he acknowledges.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
I suppose it is pretty out there.
In various categories I have summarized jillions of comments on the beauty of scenery. So I could go on ad foreverum about the pleasant twilight. And the way the haze still lights up. The way the sky reflects from a sun that has disappeared beyond even this high horizon. And other human fantasies about what is, after all just a mélange of planetary surface chemistry and biochemistry. The consequent disarrangement is called wilderness, and is admired by human beings for its unpatterned profusion.
The mountain side road, known as T-87-H goes off in two general directions: north and south. The “main” highway, which started out in Mardley pointing south through the Mardley valley, presently turned east, and has been winding east ever since. When I built it as a paved road eighty-three years ago, I followed the old gravel road over the lowest point—that is, over the pass. But then I recorded that there were greater heights of land both to the north and the south. Even the glade where the rebels have circled up for the night is forty three feet higher than the paved road. All the S.A.V.E.s without exception are located on ridges higher than the road, although they have to be approached by way of washes and depressions and small canyons.
That is immaterial, however, to this initial stage of the attack. On the screen inside the Pren-Boddy rebel van, I watch a dark red light that begins to pulse steadily. It preempts a portion of the picture. And, looking at it, I have to admit that it’s pretty obvious. Blatant is the word. Nothing like the subtle method we’ll use on the voters to elect Yahco to the presidency.
But we’re not playing a subtle game here. The purpose is not long-run influencing. What we have to do is capture a specific person’s mind right now. The fact that the stuff may be noticeable to others is unfortunate; but we can’t waste time.
Boddy notices it first. He walks rapidly down the aisle, stops in front of Meerla, and partly bends past her. This blocks my view of the screen from Meerla’ mini-Eye-O. I can still see it by way of this van’s rebel intercom unit, but that’s a slant view; not clear.
Boddy says in a low voice to Glay Tate: “They’ve got an A type hypno-thing going wide open against somebody. Who could it be tuned to?”
. . . You stupid nut, I think, who else but Matt Orlin? Wouldn’t he be the obvious person for “they” to knock out?—
The “they” is me. And the “A” is intended to mislead. As soon as Boddy gives the letter description, I switch to “B”—which is the negative.
It’s interesting that everybody that I can see by way of the mini and intercom outlets, even Pren up front, is looking at Glay, waiting for his reaction. At once, he does something. What he does is he gets to his feet. Says “Excuse me, Meerla!” And edges past her.
Whereupon, he strides rapidly forward, and stands in front of the viewplate. One direct look, and he closes his eyes. Then he turns his back. “It’s Type B now,” he says in a loud, clear voice. “Don’t look, anyone.”
Swiftly, he moves sideways over to the open microphone. He grabs it up with his left hand, and says in a strident, urgent voice, “Hey, people, this is Glay. Don’t look at the viewplate. Matt—I’m sure it’s you they’re after. So, quick, turn on the screen.”
This is a hard world for human beings. They’re basically so vulnerable, I mean. The reason I turned on the positive pulse first was entirely for the benefit of Matt Orlin, the engineer in charge of the group’s defense screen.
While the “A” did its unobtrusive pulsing, I rhythmed an exact duplicate of his personality into the projected energy field, and in an instant took hypnotic control of him. And then switched to the negative. The purpose of “B” is to drill into the controlled person: Don’t-do-anything.
Presumably, since a portion of his brain is free to observe, Matt’s solution is . . . human. By the time Glay is trying to communicate with him, Matt has taken the easy way out. He is leaning over his instrument desk, and is unconscious-asleep. Slumped forward. Looking kind of dead. But actually still breathing.
By that time, also, I am lobbing balls of live energy inside the circle made by the rebel vans. The fire balls are briefly hot, hot, hot. Wherever they fall, the brush and grass bums with a white intensity.
Aboard the Pren-Boddy van, Glay partially transforms into Matt Orlin. I’m guessing he runs into trouble because almost at once he’s back as himself. Once more he grabs the mike. Into it he says in the same urgent voice, “They’ve got Matt under control. I sensed an unconscious, hypnotized body. So—everybody—listen! Shut off all intercom. Now!”
Pren throws a switch, and then yells, “Hey, somebody’s got to go over to Matt’s and turn on that screen. Who’s closest?”
Meerla scrambles to her feet. Since the other Eye-O port is now off, I can deduce her movement from the shift in the height of her mini-Eye-O. “Tell me what to do,” she
calls. “Let me go. My uncle, Yahco, won’t fire at me.”
She doesn’t realize that it ain’t Yahco that’s running this battle. It’s that rebel-hated computer in action, and glad to do it, boy!
And, also, of course, she doesn’t know that Glay is aware of her two-faced situation. And that she isn’t about to be assigned a rebel-saving mission.
At that point, Glay belatedly (as I see it) does a quick partial transformation into Yahco. Which is pretty sharp of him—but really kind of obvious. The girl—my guess—has been addling his good sense; so that the obvious didn’t get done soon enough. All right, now he’s finding out that Uncle Yahco doesn’t have to give any more orders. That part happened decisive minutes ago, and cannot be unhappened.
So now he knows his enemy is the very system he wants to destroy. So, okay, long-ago-experimental-subject, let’s see what kind of interface you have in mind for your computer brother. Hey?
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
From the numerous Eye-Os of the S.A.V.E.s I can see the bright reflections of the fires. They light up the evening hazel above them, and the flame reflects from the upper branches of the trees that ring the glade. Because of the terrain, I cannot observe the fires directly. Which—I have to admit—is inconvenient. But at this stage it would be unwise to expose a S.A.V.E. to the rebels. That would be risking shelling from a K-2 cannon.
So over where the doomed computer haters are making their stand I have, with one exception, only Meerla’s mini-Eye-O as a source of information (the rebel intercom having shut off at Glay’s command.) The mini is not nothing. Through it I see Glay run to the side door of the Pren-Boddy van, and leap out. He’s gone. (And I presume he’s running to Matt Orlin’s vehicle.)
Any doubt about his destination ends a moment later. What happens, Meerla, before apparently anybody aboard the van can realize, runs to the same door. From the way the mini bobbles, I deduce that she jumps down to the ground. But she is outside. And, at once, I have my first ground view of the fire scene.
The idiot girl has evidently not realized the exterior situation. I deduce this by the fact that she starts to run forward. Then she stops. Next, she starts again. And once more hesitates. But evidently she is looking for Glay. As she turns this way, that way, suddenly I see him. And moments later, apparently, she sees him. For she starts to run in earnest.
By that time I have made my calculations. And I lob three fireballs into what I compute to be his path. Wrong guess. I have a glimpse of the fireballs through Meerla’s mini. They are flying over her head to the far side of the glade. Clearly, I’m no better at guessing than anyone else.
So, okay. Hastily, I rectify my calculations. And this time I see a trail of fire go down somewhat to the right of Glay. It’s not my day. When a computer depends on luck, he can be as wrong as any human loser.
I have the unhappy experience of seeing him, then, as he reaches what must be Matt’s van. He does something to the door—which gives me a moment’s hope. But, alas, the door opens. Whereupon, he leaps inside . . . as three fireballs strike the ground all around where he was.
These fireballs need a direct hit on something flammable, or on human skin. When these hit the ground, they land on grass. And actually have nothing much to do. Each ball is an energy sphere, an igniter bubble without substance. For a few seconds it is hot enough to fire up anything flammable. But here, now, this means a small grass fire. And most of the heat from the fireball simply rises. And is gone like a puff of smoke.
During the minute that I’m trying to hit Glay Tate, my second observational Eye-O—the exception that didn’t shut off—has been giving me information. There I am monitoring the silent interior of the van which operates the defense screen. From the moment that Glay starts toward it, I’m trying to unsilence it. What I do is I shift the hypno from negative back to positive. My intention is to awaken Matt. I’ve got plans for him.
Matt’s intercom didn’t shut off for the simple reason there was no one awake in that van to hear Glay’s urgent appeal, let alone do anything about it. (The driver is up front, alertly waiting to drive the vehicle; and is unaware of what else is new.)
At the instant that Glay swings the van door open, and charges inside, Matt is actually stirring. What this does for him isn’t that great. These human beings are a sad lot. If you’ve ever seen a sleepyhead wake up of a morning you’ve got the picture of my problem with him.
You wouldn’t believe my luck. Matt stirs just enough to Unbalance himself in his chair. Whereupon he crumples sideways onto the floor, hitting his head on some metal outjut.
Boy!
Our 90 percent golden-sheen guy pays no attention to the injured—I guess he’s injured—fellow rebel. At this moment Glay is a first-things-first-and-no-side-issues type. Damn him!
He heads straight for the big switchboard. Pushes levers. Turns dials. And at the exact moment Meerla enters, he shuts I off the intercom connection. Instantly, I have only the girl’s mini as an observational port inside the van.
At this point the physics of the defense screen itself gives me my one break. You don’t just switch on one of these protective energy barriers. You activate it. And then it goes through several phases of build-up.
By way of the mini I see Glay’s hand go up, and shove the activating switch. After that, basically, there’s nothing to do but wait. So I guess it’s nice not to be blanked out. I can argue that there’s something to be said for having an observational unit by which I see Glay turn; and for the first time become aware of his beautiful Meerla.
What he doesn’t see—and what I observe because I’m looking from Meerla’s throat level—is that, finally, Mat® Orlin is sitting up. Presumably, she sees Matt also, but of course she doesn’t think of him as an enemy.
Whatever, if she has noticed, it doesn’t show in her voice as she says, “Mr. Tate, you’re angry at me for some reason.”
As a computer that kind of remark would once have been outside of my programming. Oh, I would have recorded and summarized it; but there would have been no evaluative thought. Now, with my new, advanced education it comes in clear and strong as a typical human attempt at deception from someone who hasn’t got a leg left to stand on.
You wouldn’t believe it. He’s done his job. He’s activated the screen, and sequence one is in process. And so he acts like he has all the time in the world. Walks over to her. Stands directly in front of the mini-Eye-O. And says, “I still get confusion from you, honey. You’re going to have to decide what you really want to do.”
Honey! What’s this? Boy, that computer mating system of mine really hit the line on this fellow. Softened him up but good. Maybe the colonel’s confidence in this dame is going to work out after all.
The dame says, “Mr. Tate, I am confused. I saw, and felt, you do things that . . . whatever it is . . . it’s marvelous.”
Glay replies earnestly, “Meerla, we’re going to have to keep an eye on you. You’re awfully close to that grave, still. Best thing would be if I could persuade you that life is still worth living.”
His answer comes from directly above me: a sudden inhalation of breath. And then a cry. It’s Meerla’s voice emitting a warning sound. Just for a moment I’m bewildered. And then I have a glimpse of Matt Orlin partly visible behind Glay. He’s on his feet, and he lurches forward—a lot of lurchers around this evening. Alas, Glay has taken the scream seriously, and also—I deduce—he saw where Meerla was looking. So he spins around and confronts the hypnotized idiot, Matt Orlin.
I say idiot because the damned fool is attacking with his bare hands. Glay takes one look, one step sideways, reaches down with one hand, raises that hand with something in it, and strikes one blow.
The blow hits the neck, not the head. There is a nerve there which—so I have observed—the oriental hand defense systems aim at. Matt Orlin goes down. And lies still. No doubt about it. He
is the victim of a skillful defense. Too bad.
We’re now at stage two of the energy screen build-up. I can hear a humming sound from the machinery. At which point a voice breaks in (Loov’s): “Glay, don’t open your door. The glade is full of smoke. You’ll suffocate if it gets inside the van.”
What’s interesting about this communication is that they seem to be aware that the defense screen in its second step blocks me from tuning in on their intercom. And, by God, they’ve already got it back on. I’m still lobbing in fireballs, but the fact is there’s nothing more to bum that will catch on fire. All the trees and shrubs inside the circle of rebel vans are already aflame, busy, busy, busy creating the smoke that Loov mentioned.
A second voice (Pren’s) chimes in urgently: “Glay, somebody’s walking up the mountain road toward us. It’s too dark to see clearly who it is, but it’s got to be one of them. Maybe we’re about to hear a scheme. We—”
Right there the screen’s Stage 3 cuts off Meerla’s mini.
Naturally, I have given Yahco an on-going account of the turmoil and action inside the rebel camp. So, there’s been a consultation between him and Sart and Nair.
What Yahco says in his sly voice is, “I’ll go over and try to strike a bargain.”
“With what?” Sart sounds genuinely baffled. “And with whom, for Pete’s sake?”
“With Glay Tate for Meerla. I want him to release her to me for her own safety.”
“But—” It’s Sart, sounding astonished now—“you told him who she really was. So how do you expect?—”
“Listen—” It’s Yahco’s slyest voice, that I’ve heard so often I could puke oil from all the millions of places where I use it, and for which I have direct connects with my own oil wells and oil distilleries (my own in the sense that I operate them, and can utilize their output); but I have to admit I’m curious as to how Yahco thinks he will accomplish his purpose—“don’t forget the man-woman thing, when it works, has no limitations. We have to trust that she’s his perfect mate. If she is, then he’ll lift the screen so she can go through it to safety. And that’s what I want—the screen up, and this time we’ll try some DAR 3 direct hits.”
A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld Page 13