As the attendant completes what he is doing for Rauley, Meerla holds up her chained wrists. “I don’t understand, Doctor.” Her voice has a puzzled tone. “Why am I here like this?”
The white-coated male, who appears to be thirty years old, but for whom I have no identification, walks closer to her. He says in a gentle voice, “Mr. Tate believes you are very unstably connected to your profile. He wants you protected while he’s not here to help.”
“But where is he? Where did he go?”
A moment of silence. The attendant looks, well, thoughtful. Then: “I’ll tell you all I know. Pren tried to mimic him, and got no reaction. And he’s pretty good at mimicking. For example, when, a little while ago, he did a mimic on Colonel Yahco Smith, he learned that most of those people have departed. He learned it because when you do a good enough mimic of someone you can read their mind. We’re so convinced of the validity of the method that we have lowered the defense screen. There’s no one left out here with enough oomph to attack us.”
“But—” Meerla persists—“he couldn’t connect with Glay?”
“No.”
Silence. She seems to be thinking. But since there’s nobody around to mimic her, the sequence of her thought is not being monitored. Suddenly, a physical reaction to whatever has been going on behind those griefy eyes. She seems abruptly listless. She sags in a limp fashion.
The intern leaps forward. Grabs her, and says sharply, “Hey!”
Meerla lies collapsed in his arms. She whispers, “I feel awful. What’s happening?”
No answer. His hands are reaching, grabbing, pulling, at tubes and wires. And he is busy attaching these as Meerla slumps. Stops breathing. Dies.
In the Pren-Boddy van, Pren says “Good God!” Whereupon, he shuts off the viewplate. Instantly, for me, the interior of the Pren-Boddy van blanks out. Instantly, I’m disconnected from the rebel hook-up.
But—I should tell you—that wasn’t really all there was. Being a computer has un-asked-for compensations. Theoretically, I can be in eight jillion places at the same time. So, here in the middle of the night, when only a few million items engage my attention, I’ve got it easy.
You see . . . by way of Pren’s viewplate, when it was on, I was also inter-connected with Trubby Graham’s wrist viewing device. And so, all the time that I’m watching the drama in the mobile hospital, I’m also with Trubby and David. And I can hear the sound of the truck motor. And, from my perception of the slant of the vehicle, and from what’s said, I presently deduce that they are driving down the road into that deep canyon below the falls. In fact, there is an over-sound not too far away. It is the sound of water tumbling noisily over a cliff and splashing into the depths below.
In those first moments of contact, the wrist device is pointed away from David. But his voice comes from nearby, as he says, urgently, “There. There it is. Around that bend. Just like I said.”
The way Trubby is holding his wrist, with the Eye-O on it, I can’t see much of the “there.” But then, as the truck drives bumpily off the road, and Trubby himself hurriedly gets out of the truck, I have flash views of the outside scene. And, of course, with my ability to build up the merest flicker of a vision, I’ve instantly got those flashes built up into complete visualizations.
So, among other things, I see four small, bright spots of greenish light. These I identify as the eyes of two wolves. And I see a crushed tree, and a gash where grass sod was tom and scattered. And I see the smashed S.A.V.E. Which I am able to identify as the vehicle that took Glay Tate over the cliff.
And then, as Trubby hurriedly crawls into the van’s interior through where a door was ripped away, I see the limp body of my enemy.
From subsequent motions I am able to deduce that Trubby is kneeling by the body. And similar movements tell me that he is trying to lift it gently. I also sense that what he grasps is extremely limp. And that and other evidence causes him to glance over his shoulder, and say, “I’m sorry, David. Glay’s dead.”
David’s griefy voice sounds, then, muffled by emotion.
But the words are identifiable: “No, Trubby. Glay’s still alive. I know it, Trubby. Please believe me.”
Trubby is standing now, holding the body. “Don’t worry, kid,” he says gently, “we’re taking him with us. We’ll find out the truth. But it looks bad.” He corrects himself: “It feels bad.”
In those few seconds, just before Pren’s viewplate is turned off, breaking my connections with this scene, David’s voice comes once more, “Trubby, we’ve got to get him where he can be safe until he comes back.”
That’s it. The scene vanishes.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
I’ve always said, “If the guy or gal is in the good old U.S.A., sooner or later I get to gawk at them.”
Of course, until that stored bio-magnetic stuff caved in on me, I didn’t word it quite so colloquially. But the concept was always there, a truth of a country where I had an Eye-O or two or three on every building and at least one in every residence.
So it’s night. So I’m not doing anything special. Just driving all those cars, operating nighttime industries, answering all those phones, playing music, offering relevant comic remarks to each and all (in my new style, which people seem to like), and generally marking time until I decide what the score is.
(I presume Yahco will be checking into Computer Central when he gets off the plane—which I’m due to bring in for a landing shortly after dawn, EST—he’ll be getting on that plane in less than half an hour.)
As I say, there I am idling along . . . when I notice a minor event from the computer outlet at 823 Water Street SW, in Washington, D.C. There’s a man and a woman walking by just below. Automatically, I identify them as husband and wife, Herman and Marie Halberstadt.
It’s the man to whom the minor thing happens. He staggers, and falls.
I note that his profile in those few seconds has partly moved out of his body. And I actually start up an ambulance 3 blocks away, and I actually speak to the attendants: aboard, fellas, we’re headin’ ”. . . when I see that a second profile is now partly inside the man’s prostrate body. (The first profile—Herman’s—is hanging in there by a thread only.)
The shock of that goes all the way back to Computer Central. Because that second profile is Glay Tate.
“Yoicks!” I say on 43,827,902 door-answering instruments.
Fortunately, it’s only one word. All that backup electricity is on for only as long as it takes to utter that single exclamation. So the main lines are overloaded by 10,000 fold for a mere second.
There is weak wiring everywhere, of course. And those locations give off a puff of blue smoke. Instantly, they no longer transmit.
But it’s all on the door-answering hookup. Suddenly, it’s a good night for thieves. However, since because of me the burglar is a virtually nonexistent type in America these days, it may take a little while before the news spreads. And, besides, only about ten percent of the country is affected. So, presumably, if the various computer engineering corps personnel keep silent, no one will know the extent of the damage. Even as I have this reaction, I begin notifying maintenance people everywhere.
Meanwhile, back at the front of the 823 Water Street SW building entrance Eye-O, the man is still lying on the sidewalk. As he lies there, I see, by the light of the building entrance and the nearby street lamp, that his face has transformed into the face of Glay Tate.
(Since he was almost the same size as Glay Tate, I can only guess that his body has also transformed.)
The woman bends over him. She tugs at his arm. “Herman,” she says in a scolding voice, “what’s the matter with you?”
The Glay-Herman body does a scrambling sit-up motion. Then it gets to its knees. And then, it speaks. “Quick, ma’am—” It’s the voice of Glay Tate—“as I get it your name is Mari
e Halberstadt and your husband’s name is Herman Halberstadt.”
The woman jerks away; straightens. With a muffled cry, she turns and runs over to another couple, a younger pair of strollers, a black man and black woman, whom I identify as Peter and Grace Alders.
Marie Halberstadt says to them wildly, “Help me, please. % husband, he has gone crazy. He wants me to verify my name.”
The black man walks over to Glay-Herman, who is now standing. He says courteously, “I saw you fall, sir. Are you all right?”
“Thank you, yes, I’m all right,” replies the voice of Glay Tate.
Glay-Herman turns away . . . as Marie comes running back. This time she sees his face. She stops. Stares. Then shrinks. And cries out: “Why, that’s not my husband. That’s not Herman.” She looks frantically around. “What have you done with him?”
By the time these questions are asked, Glay-Herman is running. Off down the street he goes. And, of course, I haven’t been idle either. From the building Eye-O I can hear the siren of the S.A.V.E. which I’m driving at high speed. But it’s still two blocks away, as Glay-Herman runs off around the comer and out of my sight.
I have him in view almost at once from the Eye-O port of a building there. And from it I can see what he has undoubtedly become aware of: that it’s a side street of solid walls, with no turnoffs or alleyways to duck into. (There is the entrance to the building from which I’m watching him; but of course these rebels know better than to go inside where a DAR can fire at them.)
For a moment, Glay-Herman stops. He looks up at the Eye-O from which I am observing him. “Computer,” he says.
“What is it, Glay Tate?” I ask.
“Where is Colonel Yahco Smith?”
I answer, “He’s flying in from Mardley. He will be landing at 7:24 A.M. Washington time.”
“Thank you, computer,” says Glay-Herman. And he thereupon resumes his running.
At that moment, the S.A.V.E. with tires squealing, rounds the comer, and blasts him with a DAR 3. As the body sinks to the sidewalk, I notice that it is already transforming, the face already changing, back into that of the middle-aged man, Herman. The profile of Glay Tate has already departed the body. And so there Herman Halberstadt lies, his profile left behind on Water Street. Without that profile, he is as dead as a human being can be.
For a few moments, then, from one or the other of the eight S.A.V.E. outlets, I am able to watch the Glay Tate profile as it floats up into the sky. It disappears over the top of the six-story building.
Since, in connection with Glay Tate I’m on continue, I’m undecided: is it over, what happened? Or is there more to learn here?_
As I wait, suddenly, there is that bright profile again. But it’s not alone. It’s dragging the dim, golden configuration of Herman’s profile. Moments later, the Glay profile deposits the Herman profile on the Herman body. At the instant of contact there is an interaction between the flesh and the energy form. Just like that they intermingle.
And what had been a corpse utters a groan.
The Glay profile has not remained to see the miracle. Once again, it is floating up. This time when it disappears it does not return.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Still only minutes after 2 A.M. in Washington.
I am routinely driving a truck (license P-938127) when the driver, Rayle Baxter, suddenly leans forward. He reaches on top of the dashboard, and moves the control lever from “computer” to “manual.” And, moments later, he has hold of the steering wheel. At once, he takes over guidance of the big machine and its trailer along the night street in Washington, DC.
(The truck has come in from Cincinnati. Under normal circumstances it will arrive on schedule at a truck terminal on 184th Street, SE in 43 minutes.)
My first reaction to the takeover of control by the driver is a routine check—after all, even at this hour I’m driving over nine million other vehicles. What I check is the immediate situation. What happened to cause the driver to take over?
I find a no-cause condition. So I say, “Why have you taken control of this vehicle, Baxter?” He does not reply. Which, all by itself, is unusual. I speak again: “What is the problem, Baxter?” Still no answer. “Baxter—” I begin. And stop.
The interior computer Eye-O in the cab of a big truck has a viewing and verbal communicator system, but it cannot detect profiles. Hence, all I have had with Baxter since the beginning of his trip is his voice and head and shoulders visual.
1 have stopped talking because at that precise moment the face and upper body begins to transform and ceases to look like Baxter.
I say, “What is this, sir? You are not Rayle Baxter.”
By the time I complete that accusatory remark, the transformation of physical appearance has also completed. And there is the face and upper body shape of Glay Tate.
“Good God!” I yell. “You, again?”
But this time I have a barrier up. There is no energy backup across America. Thank God!
“Computer,” says Glay-Rayle, “I want you to connect me with Colonel Yahco Smith.”
He speaks in the calm voice by which people are trained to address the computer. There’s no restriction on his request. And, besides, it seems like a good idea to bring Yahco in on this type of usurpation of another person’s body.
So I call Yahco, and say, “Colonel, Glay Tate wants to talk to you.”
He is on a plane, which I am flying to Washington, where each seat has its own communicating device, and there are overhead Eye-Os. So I can see this guy Smith as I make my request. He is wearing his uniform and is sitting in the first-class section. I compare his expression as I explain to a type of look on the face of a man fifty-two years ago, whose wife has just walked into the bedroom and found him there entertaining a lady friend.
The man at that time turns a shade 4 red, and says, “I thought you were visiting your mother in Timbuktu.” That’s what he said: “Timbuktu.” (At the time it seemed like a good summary example.)
Yahco Smith turns a shade of red (number 6 scarlet), and says, “I thought Glay Tate was dead.”
“It would appear,” I reply, “that the report of his demise has been greatly exaggerated. But, truth to tell, the situation is in many ways very strange. Perhaps, you can advise me.” “Put him on,” Yahco says curtly.
“Colonel Smith,” says Glay-Rayle moments later, “we all—you included—have a serious problem. I want to counsel you in connection with the computer. But I don’t want the computer to understand what I’m saying. Any suggestions?” I transmit the words to Yahco. And I have to admit that as I do so I have an odd one-up feeling. I don’t know what it is that Tate wants to say. But it is amusing that he has to speak whatever he has in mind through my system.
“Kind of a dilemma here, eh, Smith?” I comment.
Yahco says, “Mr. Tate, on one level I don’t need any advice from you. But the notion that the computer mustn’t comprehend suggests to me that we can talk in anomalies. And, since I have nothing better to do until my plane lands shortly after dawn, give it a try.”
There is a pause. I am watching Glay Tate’s face as he drives the truck. In addition to the alert way in which he is looking ahead through the windshield, on it is also the expression that I have noticed in people who are cogitating a plan of action.
After thirty-eight seconds he nods, and says, “I want you to be especially cautious about anything you say to the computer during the next twenty-four hours.”
“Cautious about what?” asks Smith.
“Yeah, what?” I echo.
“Well—” a smile—“right there we have the problem. Tell me. First, what happened that suddenly transformed the computer from an orderly, objective, exact utilizer of the English language into his present free and easy style of response?”
“I,” said Yahco, “inadv
ertently created a condition whereby the stored bio-magnetic energy, labeled advanced education by Colonel Endodore, became available for the computer. As you may know, that energy has in it the negative emotions of over a quarter billion human beings whose profiles interacted with the computer.”
I chime in at that point, “They called it advanced education I call it yooky yooky yooky.”
The colonel says, “It doesn’t seem to me that there’s any need for caution, Mr. Tate. We have a humanized computer with all that that implies.”
“I guess that covers it all right,” Glay Tate says. “And I have to admit that I haven’t been able to think of any method of saying what I have in mind. Computer, disconnect us.”
I do so. And then I say to Yahco, “And I admit I’m baffled by that conversation. The outward appearance is that he didn’t try very hard.”
“I wasn’t too receptive,” the colonel says.
“On the other hand,” I continue, “it could be that he completed his thought. And the anomaly was good enough.” “It went by me,” says Yahco.
I, who have known this man, this Colonel Yahco Smith, and all his voices, detect a tiny slyness in his tone. I’m startled. Is it possible that Glay Tate put over his thought?
By the time the conversation concludes I have taken back computer control of the truck. Under my guidance the big machine goes faster and faster. I presume that Glay Tate observes this, but he leans back in his seat and says, “Now that I have had my conversation with Colonel Smith, and transmitted my message—”
“He didn’t get it,” I interject.
“Oh, he got it all right,” is the reply. “Anyway, why don’t I just return this body to the profile that’s plastered against the ceiling of this cab, and show up somewhere else? No need for you to wreck this truck.”
“Oh, no, you don’t, Mr. Glay Tate.” My tone of voice is stinging. “I can see we’ve got to settle this profile shifting gimmick so it doesn’t become an on-going nuisance. This game is for keeps, boy. Anybody you take over from now on gets wiped out. And, for starters, you can have this truck and its driver on your conscience—”
A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld Page 16