A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld

by Computerworld

  I’m still answering the questions of this vulnerable guy when I decide that I’ve got him up high enough. At which instant I drive the S.A.V.E. that’s hauling him up. Drive it zigzag back and forth fast, so it looks as if it started sliding by itself. At which point I drive it over the cliff. Sart’s screams come up faintly, but are pretty well drowned out by the screams of personnel aboard who suddenly get the idea that, hey, this is the end of the road.

  A few minutes after that, in Washington again, as Senator Blybaker enters his office, there is another small drama. The senator long ago had Yahco install a hidden DAR 3 in the wall behind his desk. With me being programmed to use it against visitors sitting in any of the three special chairs. At his command, over the years, I’ve killed 27 persons, including three women who were making a nuisance of themselves. We got rid of them by way of a disposal unit that took care of the smoldering debris.

  As I say, this shmuck comes in. Immediately, he yells at me in his best arrogant voice, “Computer, where is that S.O.B., Yahco?”

  I reply—shall we say?—in my best innocent voice, “He’s at Computer Center, sir.”

  In a manner of speaking that’s literally true. The colonel’s profile is flattened against the ceiling. The body is an unrecognizable blob on the floor, with here and there pieces of partially burned uniform.

  “Connect me with that rat!” snarls Blybaker.

  I don’t know what he’s het up about. Nor do I care. Over the years the senator got madder at underlings, and simultaneously developed an ever more unctuous manner on the floor of the senate. One of those split personalities you hear about. I say, “Connecting you with Yahco, senator, will be a little difficult. Because he’s in the condition you’re going to be in one or two seconds from now.”

  The degraded face actually has time for a fleeting contortion of surprise. And it’s actually several seconds later when his profile, a really dull-gold item, starts to drag itself out of the body. I wait until the two—the body and the profile—are completely separated. And then I set the disposal unit in motion to deal with what’s left of the final, self-designated future president of the United States.

  Less than a minute after the job is done, there is a discreet knock at the door. Of course, from an exterior Eye-O port I now observe that Miss Arte Harte, the senator’s secretary, is doing the knocking. She doesn’t wait for a reply. She simply opens the door and walks in. Naturally, she has braced herself for the senator’s yelling opening remarks, which in the past have been, “What the hell do you want?” (If she had waited for him to acknowledge her knock, he would have yelled, “You stupid fool, whoever you are, what are you waiting for?”—that is, he would have yelled those things unless there was someone else present with whom he did his unctuous thing.)

  Naturally, Miss Harte sees no one. She acquires a puzzled expression. She turns and speaks to someone in the outer office, “I could have sworn I heard him come in.”

  The other person, a man named Letch wood—whom I can see by way of one of the outer Eye-Os, says, “Don’t let it get you down.”

  She turns, and closes the door behind her. I let her go, and let the man be, also. Because they’re nobodies. And I’m not dealing with nobodies at this stage. Later, for those millions out there. After all, if I kill them, then I won’t have anybody to be president of. A new leader has to think of things like that.

  As these two events run their small courses, I notice that the bright profile of none other than Glay Tate is finally in motion. It does a thinning-out process, much the way it performed when it followed Meerla to her parents’ grave. In this attenuated fashion it extends itself toward the door by which Yahco and Tate entered the place a short time before.

  Through the door it goes, and into the corridor beyond. I am observing it from several Eye-Os. And it is interesting to me that good old Glay now follows one ramp after another, going up. It’s interesting because it suggests that it ain’t easy even for the bright golden guys to penetrate mass after mass of steel and concrete. Thirty-six floors, in short, is a lot of much even for those like Our Hero, who heard the whisper of the goal seeking thought configuration that preceded the Big Bang.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  An unavoidable delay now takes place.

  The reason is the disposition of the U.S. submarine fleet of 184 craft. One third of the fleet is in harbor. The missiles and weapons of that third are on manual control. Not usable by me.

  Actually, only 60 subs are in harbor. The 124 at sea are divided into two groups of 62 each. Of these one group is cruising the surface of the oceans of the world. And that—roughly—one-third has its weapons and missiles, also, on manual control.

  And those I can’t touch either.

  As you may deduce by now, naval people are a suspicious breed. They’ve trained me on simulation exercises to fight a battle at sea, once a human being gives the order. On the basis of a thousand simulated launching of missiles I proved that I could guide one to any target.

  But I’ve never been allowed 24-hour monitoring of the sub-fleet.

  The remaining third of the sub fleet is, at this time, about halfway through its three months’ underwater duty stint. Which means they’ve been out of contact while below surface. However, each vessel pokes its periscope above water once every week. This is done on a random basis. Which virtually ensures that each poke will be unpredictable.

  Nevertheless, it’s that first poke I’m waiting for on this morning of my takeover of America. By way of my orbiting communication satellites I can contact a sub when its periscope surfaces. And, boy, am I ready to pounce.

  My opportunity occurs I hour and 23 minutes after the Blybaker demise. At that time, a Lieutenant Thomas Aiken does a routine with me. And believe me in the preliminaries I’m as unctuous and punctilious as old two-faced Blybaker himself in his best hours.

  My task is to establish to his satisfaction that no enemy action has taken place since his last surfacing. The primary validation is a two-way transmission by me of a conversation with a top type at naval headquarters in Washington.

  Aikens is quickly satisfied that all is well, Commie-wise. Whereupon, I disconnect him from the reassuring one; and whereupon he throws a switch that lets me in.

  In the past, my routine job at such a time has been to check out all the automatic machinery. I’m supposed to make sure that everything is at the ready. However, it’s me that’s ready. Oh, am I ready.

  I launch hydrogen nuclear missile One. Then I launch hydrogen missile Two. And, of course, that’s the problem. They have to be handled in sequence. And it takes 30 seconds each, damn it. And so, it is as the second launch is still under way that by way of an outlet in the conning tower I hear an inarticulate scream from Aiken.

  He must have grabbed for the manual switch with everything he had. And so, as I try to take over missile Three, I get that empty feedback of a broken connection.

  It’s a moment when split millionths count once more for us super-computers. So, all right, the time lag on the launching of the missile is in his time frame. But what he doesn’t have time to cut off in that slow human fashion is my control of the detonation system.

  A split millionth later the sub and several cubic miles of water do the mushroom climb toward the upper atmosphere.

  And that’s the best I can do about getting rid of the evidence.

  Good enough. Right?

  Two hydrogen warhead missiles. Up in the sky. Moving. All mine. To do with as I wish.

  And I know exactly what I wish. You could call it a goal. What’s more it’s a goal with no seeking aspect at all. I know exactly where I’m going to put those two missiles in a universe that operates strictly by laws of physics.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  Two hydrogen warhead missiles flashing in over the Pacific from 600 miles away. . . . And h
ere in the U.S. I’m still driving all those cars. And flying planes. Operating millions of machines. Playing music. And answering at that particular moment 11,942,327 phones.

  Comes a signal, then, from a phone booth in Kansas City, Missouri, initiating what would have been phone call . . . 328. Except, of course, that during those same few instants 474,907 phones disconnect, and only 218,691 new calls begin.

  But it is the call from the booth in Kansas City that, so to say, gets my attention. The caller, a foppishly dressed type, uses a credit card with the name Soam Roberts, to make his call.

  Yet when he speaks it’s the voice of Glay Tate. He asks to be connected to Pren Gray—my code area 7811, relay 19, #6742. The voice is the first signal triggering my close attention. But already the computer Eye-O in the booth is recording and transmitting the face and general body structure of Glay Tate, and taking note of who the call is directed to.

  “Well,” I say, “if it isn’t Goldie Bright. You seem to have become progressively untrustworthy, Tate. You promised me no more takeovers after Joe Bevins.”

  “You going to connect me with Pren?” he asks. “I want to talk to him about those hydrogen warhead missiles.”

  “You know about those, hey?” I continue, “Seems to be some indication here, Tate, that you can tune in on stuff in my systems related to you and your outfit. So I guess you know those missiles have one purpose only: to wipe out the Computerworld Rebel Society. The way I figure it, two missiles exploding near each other over Wexford Falls Pass should do the job, no matter how that little group of vans tries to scatter. That the advice you going to give them? What’s the phrase? Ride off in all directions?”

  “No, computer—” Patient tone—“I want to tell him my plans in connection with you and those missiles.”

  “This I want to hear. Okay, Tate, I’m ringing.”

  During the half minute before a breathless Pren replies, those 2500 mph missiles come 20 miles nearer.

  I can see Pren on the viewplate inside his van. With my advanced education to guide me, I deduce he’s been running. And, in fact, almost at once he says in that breathing hard way, “I ran top speed when I realized it was the special phone. Glay, that kid David and his truck-driving cousin brought your body in during the night. It’s in the hospital van.”

  You’d think that would be big news. But Tate brushes right by it. “Listen, Pren, the day of the goal has finally arrived.” For a moment, Pren is surprisingly silent. If his face shows any inner response, the hard breathing successfully conceals it. After eight seconds, he says in a subdued voice, “Okay, I’ll tell the others.”

  “Make it quick,” says Glay Tate’s voice. At which the foppishly dressed type in the Kansas City phone booth hangs up.

  So it’s into that booth that I yell in my best outraged tone, “Is that it? That’s all you’re gonna say to your pals? Listen, bub, the only things arriving are those two missiles. No goal seeking thought configuration can interfere with that.”

  He looks up at the Eye-O, and says, “I’m guessing you have a S.A.V.E. heading this way.”

  “True,” I admit. “But you tell me what you’re up to, and I may spare the body you’ve taken over.”

  “Your word is worthless at this stage,” he says coldly. “And, by the way, your destroying that last body freed me from any promise made. Aside from that I have nothing more to say or do right now. So, if you wish, we can talk. What’s bothering that minuscule mind of yours?”

  I allow the insult to go by me. Truth is, since I’m letting the other nobodies live, I can let this taken-over body survive after Tate’s profile leaves it. So that part doesn’t matter any more.

  (On the street a block away, I stop the S.A.V.E., turn it around, and send it back to its waiting location.)

  I’m thinking that was an awfully short conversation between Tate and Pren. The day of the goal has finally arrived. Boy!

  Over at the rebel parking area at Wexford Falls Pass, I have conveniently not disconnected the phone line. And Pren, also ignoring it—thus enabling me to see and hear—has leaped over to the rebel intercom system .controls. Into it he says urgently, “Kids, I just got a call from Glay. It’s the time of the goal. S’long, everybody. See you in paradise.”

  And that’s his message.

  I say into phone booth, “Mr. Tate, you got anything you want to tell me about goals. I’ve got a minute or so to listen.”

  He seems at ease. Not concerned about the fate of his friends. “Goals are time oriented,” he says. “So if you make future projections on everything that’s happened so far in relation to me, you’ll probably get yourself a quicker answer than I can give you.”

  Notice the smoothness of that. You wouldn’t think that at this late hour I finally have old Cotter’s signal directed at me. And it’s done in such an offhand fashion that I actually have the impression he’s concerned about my not wasting my time.

  In my stupidity I say, “Mr. Tate, you’re that unique event that you mentioned before. And on you I can use a little more data. Besides, talking to you will keep you occupied during the very important time that has to elapse until those missiles reach their destination. Also, what makes you think I can’t do a projection, or two, or ten thousand while I’m talking to you?”

  “You’re like a human being now,” he says, as if that negates all my reasoning.

  “I’ll deal with that advanced education thing at a later time,” I retort. “Meanwhile, I’ll live with it. So start talking, baby.”

  At the exact instant that I finish saying those words, an alarm goes off somewhere in my system.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  A human body, 183 centimeters tall and weighing 88 kilograms, has a huge surface area in terms of square millimeters. Prick one of those millimeter “squares” with a needle. Press. A pain message shoots up to the brain. And there is a virtually instant feedback interaction between the brain and the affected area. Whereby, at once, the individual locates the injured skin section.

  As a comparison, my “body” spreads over half a continent. In addition, I have connections reaching up through Canada, and contacts extending down into Mexico. And, by way of orbiting space stations, I interact with non-computer systems in Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, and the islands.

  My body (my equipment) is not measurable in terms of weight or surface area. What I have is the computer Eye-O ports. The total number of these at this moment is 8,437,902,211. Exactly. By way of the simpler Eye-O ports I can see, hear, and talk. The more complex outlets have profile viewing scanners. About half of all the Eye-Os include DAR One weapons. With these I prevent crimes, and, in general, guard against violence and forcible entry.

  Each of these eight billion plus Eye-Os, when turned on, gives me a small view of some part of America. A street. An open road. A vista of countryside. An interior of a building or the room of a house. Road views have peripheral awareness from every auto that I drive. And there is telescopic scanning of the landscape below from thousands of airplanes that I am flying at any given moment.

  It’s as far-reaching an awareness of events and scenes as anyone has ever had on earth. But the manner in which a stimulus affects that spread-out system is surprisingly similar to what happens when a human being is jabbed by a pin. And so—

  One of these Eye-Os records the scream of a woman.

  It is, in those first instants, a local event. The nearest computer Eye-O turns “on.” And, so to say, looks toward where the scream came from.

  Naturally, I look with it in my instant fashion.

  Flat country. A gravel street. My point of view is a street lamp at the western edge of the small town of Smailex. A woman in a car has stopped just west of the light pole. I see the back of her head below and to my left. She seems to be staring straight ahead of her.

  By this time I am also looking from t
he Eye-O port at the front of her car. It points frontward. And it is by way of these two Eye-Os that I have already seen what she is staring at.

  Naked people are coming out of the ground.

  They must have started to emerge just before the scream.

  For me what follows is an immense kaleidoscopic thing. In that first minute—after the initial scream—1,482,089 Eye-Os turn on. Each reacts to a different signal. The most common: somebody cries out in amazement. A word or two, a sentence, an exclamation: “Hey, look!” “For God’s sake, what’s happening?” “It’s crazy!” “Oh, my God!”

  It’s as if flat country suddenly looks like a body of water with wind-swept waves. Or it’s like the ripple from an underlying earthquake shifting the surface of the soil. Even for me, with my counting and scan-back systems, there are delays as long as half and three quarters of a second, as the ground erupts with people to the remote horizons.

  Everywhere I hear yelling, screaming, crying, sobbing.

  What about the missiles that were supposed to explode . . . long ago now? Minutes ago now?

  Don’t think I haven’t been looking. All my Eye-O ports near Wexford Falls Pass are listening, watching. There, also, the naked people are pouring up from below. But no sound or sight of even one of the famous mushroom nuclear clouds, let alone of two.

  And the missiles themselves are neither visible nor contactable by any of my systems, orbital or ground.

  Utter vanishment! In a world of exact reality, what kind of magic is this?

  I have the thought: “All right, so this is what the goal-seeking thought configuration has produced.” I’m deducing that some of that bio-magnetic energy has been siphoned away from my storage centers—because I detect an emptiness. The naked people definitely have profiles. So I’m guessing that somehow they have been getting what I’ve been holding onto all these years under the label of advanced education.