Prescription for Chaos

by Christopher Anvil

  "I remember him."

  "Stewart guaranteed the Gnat for ninety days. That's the kid's father out there."

  "Randy, that Gnat was full of bugs!"

  "I tried to tell Stew—"

  "That's the sixth one to come back on us. You almost need psychic powers to even get into the case without wrecking something. Once you get inside, there's stuff labeled 'Made in Sarabanga.' I can't find anyone even knows where that is. Not to mention there's eighteen little screws that hold down the cover, and all those screws are soft."

  "I guess the margin was such—Look, I've got to be going."

  "Who's talking to the kid's father?"

  "Mort is—ah—trying to calm the storm, and—"

  "Mort? That wimp! Look, Randy, I'm better than two weeks behind, thanks to that Gnat guarantee. I can't keep up, much less honor this 48-hour fix you guys are offering. Get rid of this guy! Three of them came in a few weeks ago, and Curtis ran them out. Randy, if you've got to sell junk, that's your business. But I can't fix all this stuff! I didn't plan on a big scene, but you've got to know there's a limit!"

  "I know. I know how it is, Mike." Randy sighed. "I never dreamed—" He paused, shoved his thoughts back on the track, and groped behind him for the doorknob. "I'm sure Mort will—"

  A newly familiar voice echoed down the hall: "Twenty-one day guarantee, hell! I've got a copy of your ninety-day guarantee right here. The original's in my lawyer's office! Now, you going to make this right, or—"

  Randy slid out into the hall, walked fast, stepped outside, and paused as the heat of the asphalt parking lot hit him. He opened his car door, staggered in the bake-oven blast, peeled off his jacket, and began to mentally review what he would say at the seminar.

  Randy, two hours later, stood, chilled by the air-conditioning, before the blank-faced attendees of the Sharke Computing Systems Biennial Free Seminar on Home, Professional, and Personal Computing. He concentrated on the speech's conclusion:

  "In conclusion, as you will remember, we have discussed the factors of density of circuit elements on the chip, number of chips to the system, architecture, assembly and machine-language programming, LSI and VLSI, higher level languages, operating systems, and applications programs. The improvement in all of these factors must be understood to truly appreciate the change that is rapidly overtaking us—the change to a Fully Computerized Environment, or FCE, as we may call it."

  He smiled. If anyone in the crowd smiled back, he didn't notice it.

  "I am sure," he finished, speaking the hopeful lie that had the virtue of tying things up and ending on a note of optimism: "I am sure everyone in this audience today will enter the FCE willingly, and will successfully ride the wave of the future."

  There was empty silence, then a thin scattering of applause. Then, as people sat up, perhaps jarring others awake, the applause briefly strengthened. Then there was a rush for the exit.

  Randy looked on moodily. "If there are any questions—"

  The room continued to empty. Well, now he had to get back to the store. Hopefully, Mort would have outlasted the indignant father. That was the thing, he told himself—outlast the opposition. Maybe then things will start to look up again.

  Once parked behind the store, he got out onto the familiar soft asphalt, let himself in, and listened alertly. There was a murmur from somewhere. A furtive glance showed Mike, the technician, hard at work.

  Up front, Mort was speaking hesitantly. "I can see this new program might be revolutionary, but I'm not quite sure we could sell it. I mean—"

  "Oh," said an unfamiliar voice, "everybody will be going for it. Of course, I could take it over to the Sharke compatibles first. Or—"

  Randy stepped around the counter, and held out one of his cards. Their visitor promptly held out one bearing the name of the company, "Armagast Software."

  Mort looked at his watch. "Well, about time for me to go home."

  Randy said, "How did it work out with the—ah—the boy's father?"

  "Stew came in after you left, and agreed to fix the Gnat. Then after the kid's father left, Stew blew up and said you and I should have gotten rid of him. Then he claimed Curtis should never have sold the Gnat to the kid. Next he said it was your fault we ever stocked the Gnat in the first place."

  "Me?"

  "He said he relies on your technical judgment."

  "I told him for bugs the Gnat was an ants' nest! He said the margin was fifteen percent higher than the competition. Now he blames me?"

  "I'm just repeating what he said. I thought you'd want to know. Well, see you on Tuesday."

  Randy glanced at the avidly listening salesman. "I'm not sure we need to add anything to our line. Who did you say wrote it?"

  "Armagast."

  "Armagast of Armagast Software, not Armagast of Future Designs?"

  "Same person."

  "What's the program?"

  "A problem-solving program. Very unusual. I could say revolutionary. You'll understand if you've heard of Armagast."

  "Have you run it?"

  "I—ah—It's so new—"

  "How much?"

  "Only two hundred fifty. A bargain."

  "I'll take one for the store, and one for me personally."

  "And your personal computer?—What make?"

  "Well—I have a Model 3 Cougar."

  "No problem. We could supply ENIAC, if it had disk drives."

  It took Randy a moment to remember that ENIAC dated from the forties. He could feel his cheeks burn, and was still mad after he was home, settling down at the Cougar's keyboard, his wife watching worriedly.

  "Randy—I hope that's a disk you borrowed from the store."

  "Since when did the store stock anything for Cougar?"

  She hesitated. "How did the seminar go?"

  "Horrible."

  "Hard questions?"

  "They didn't ask questions. After I got through, I guess they figured they'd never understand. And at the store—Well, we had a woman who wanted us to interface a Barricuda printer to her Sharke computer, and if my guess is right, next she'll want to run a program set up for something else. Then we had a guy whose kid bought a Gnat from us, and it's dead already, and Mike, our technician, is swamped, and then there was the lecture, and finally—let's see—" He brightened. "Then there was a software salesman, and he had this program."

  "What's the program?"

  "I'm not sure. It's supposed to solve problems."

  She hesitated. "How much was it?"

  "Two-fifty."

  She looked at him.

  "Two hundred and fifty dollars?"

  "Plus tax. So now I'm guilty."

  "You don't know what it will do, and you spent two hundred dollars for it?"

  He got up carefully, stepped to a table separate from the table holding the computer, and brought his clenched fist down on the table.

  "A call went out a while back, remember? It said, 'The future is computers. Anyone who wants to earn his keep should study computer science.' I don't mean to make a federal case out of it, but I did do the work and I did earn the piece of paper. And now how do I spend my time? Answering the same questions over and over, wrangling with customers, trying to suck people into buying when for all I know it will ruin them, and, to vary the monotony, I get to deliver lectures to people who think Sanskrit while I talk Greek. We were headed for the Moon! How did we end up in this swamp? Do you know how many companies are going broke, and what the rest are doing to stay afloat?"

  "I just know I can't hold a job and at the same time be in the hospital with a baby. And I can't go right back afterward. If the job is even there."

  "I know. But the dream is dying! Why?"

  She looked at him, frowning. "At least you do have a job."

  "Thanks. I know what it is."

  "But, Randy, why did you spend two hundred dollars? We need it!"

  He sighed. "Armagast wrote this program."

  For just an instant, he thought the room wavered.
She stared at him. Then, for some reason, she came over and kissed his cheek.

  He looked at her blankly.

  "Okay," she said. "But please, Randy, don't get another program—unless Armagast wrote it."

  "I didn't know you knew about him."

  "I don't."

  "He wrote Control—it's the operating system for the 99000. He's one of the giants. They drove him out of business for a while. But he's still fighting. There are rumors he's coming out with a new machine that will beat them all."

  "Maybe that's why the prices are being cut? And the dream—"

  "No. As long as he's there, the dream's still alive. And this is his first program, so far as I know, since Control!"

  She nodded uncertainly. "All right. You go ahead. When you're through, I'll get you something to eat. I hope the program won't disappoint you."

  He looked after her, puzzled. The money was still spent, wasn't it? And she was right, they did need it. He turned back, frowning, to the computer, ran his thumb affectionately across the stylized chrome cougar-head design with its big curved fangs and the horrible motto: "We Byte." He slid the disk in, listened to the familiar hum-rumble-clunk, waited, and then the screen lit with a swirl of curving lines as if he were falling into a whirlpool.

  SOLUTIONS

  by

  Armagast Software

  There was a dizzying pause, and then successive lines of print flashed onto the screen:

  "This is not a problem-solving program.

  "This is a program to help speed your solving of problems.

  "The mind is in many ways the most practical problem-solving device.

  "What it needs is facts. We will assume you have the facts, though you may not be aware of it.

  "What it needs is concentration. We will strengthen that concentration.

  "What is needed is to see the possible combinations of facts that, as they join and rejoin in all conceivable patterns, occasionally offer practical solutions.

  "The program you are about to experience makes use of certain as yet unappreciated aspects of the nature of microprocessors and of the human brain and the human mind.

  "Because this program involves factors which may not be fully understood, you should, BEFORE you run this program, carefully read our Customer Agreement. This may be informally summarized as follows:

  "'We are legally responsible for nothing whatever, in any way whatever, related to your running this program, or for any consequential damages resulting therefrom. You are fully and inescapably responsible, from the moment you tore the plastic wrap, for anything and everything that happens afterward, anything to the contrary notwithstanding.'

  "However, please do not rely on this informal summary. Read the Agreement. It is much more detailed and restrictive.

  "If you wish, you may stop here and return the program for your full purchase price, less a slight charge for repacking. To return the program, type 'R' on the keyboard. To continue, type 'C.' To think things over, or reread the Agreement, WHICH MUST BE READ FIRST, type 'P' for pause."

  Randy sneered, and hit "C" on the keyboard.

  Gently at first, the screen seemed to swirl. He felt a moment's dizziness, and then the words that flashed on the screen appeared to transmute into a deep thoughtful voice:

  "Too often, we overlook the obvious when we try to solve a problem. We should look the problem over very carefully, note the exact details, note how the details are related, and not hesitate to use paper and pencil. Be sure you know what the problem is. Possibly there is a similar, simpler, or more familiar problem to use as a model? Can you . . ."

  The voice went on, each suggestion somehow compelling a thought-out response, and the effort of each response creating a kind of mental jolt so that he felt dizzy, as if successive blows sapped his strength. He was still struggling to put his problem into words—"What's happened to the dream?" when everything seemed to fade out.

  "Randy—" The feminine voice was gentle.

  "Whew." He sat up dizzily. The room spun around him. "How long—"

  "I just came in to tell you good-night. You were slumped over the machine."

  He massaged his forehead.

  "Well—If that's Armagast's latest—I hate to say it—Maybe the dream is dead!"

  "Oh, don't say—"

  "It's junk. A little advice and a feeling like some stage hypnotist just tricked you into dancing around with a broomstick."

  "Maybe it will seem better in the morning."

  "I'll see if I can get my money back. I'm afraid it's too late. But the store copy goes back tomorrow, as soon as I get hold of Stew."

  * * *

  Stewart Rafer pushed up his thick-lensed glasses and eyed the package as Randy, hand pressed to forehead, described the program.

  "—and you should have seen the disclaimer in the program itself—which is supposed to be just a mild summary."

  Stewart was studying a large paper covered with fine print.

  "I just wonder—This whole thing gives me the impulse to see if I couldn't crack their little gimmick. What are we, the auto industry?"

  Randy looked blank, then went on, "What makes me sick is Armagast. I can't believe he did this."

  "Well, they get zilch for this package from me, and I'll lean on them to give back what they got from you. Not that we can count on it." Stewart glanced at his watch. "Now, I've been thinking we could give better service if we could pick up machines for repair, and bring the finished job back to the customer. One of these multiformat vans might answer our needs. But I'd like your opinion."

  "What's—"

  "Tell Mort you and I are going out, and we'll be back about four, at the latest."

  "Is Mort in today?"

  "Should be. I told him to come in."

  Randy stepped down the hall into the showroom, told Mort, and then stood still a moment, considering that:

  a) Stewart had not exploded at the purchase of the Armagast program.

  b) Stewart was going to try to get Randy's money back.

  c) Stewart had hired Mort for an extra day's work, so Randy could go along to look at the new van.

  Not once in the past had Stewart treated Randy so much like an equal. And here was Stewart even saying that he would like Randy's opinion.

  On top of that string of impossibilities, there was what Stewart wanted Randy's opinion on—a "multiformat van." What was a "multiformat van"?

  Then there had been that about "cracking the gimmick." Apparently Stewart wanted to unlock the tricky antipiracy traps in the Armagast program. When had Stewart ever shown interest or talent for that?

  In short, something was wrong. If this was reality, Randy didn't recognize it.

  Of course, it could be just Stewart. Maybe Stewart was coming down with a cold, and this was how it hit him?

  But then he realized there was a worse inconsistency:

  Armagast.

  Even when the big companies drove him to the wall, Armagast had still paid off his creditors and delivered the goods to his customers. That was one reason for the fanatical loyalty the man inspired, for the users groups that stuck with outdated Armagast hardware, for the rejoicing when the Armagast updates began to come through, against all predictions stepping up the power of the Armagast machines. Even the announcement, mailed to former customers:

  "Armagast Computers is happy to offer our former customers the renewal of all services we formerly provided. Effective immediately, we also renew all Armagast warranties for a period of ninety days from the date of this letter. We offer immediately a series of upgrades to make our computers fully comparable to our competitors. We thank our customers for their loyalty, and we continue to stand by our pledge: 'Solid quality at a fair price.'"

  Would the individual behind that have put out a program that didn't work?

  It was at that point that Randy became conscious of a ghostly wind on the back of his neck.

  No, the Stewart he knew positively would not act as Stewart now was a
cting.

  And, no, Armagast flatly would not do as Armagast apparently had done.

  Therefore—

  From down the hall Stewart called, "Okay, Randy, let's go."

  Randy swallowed. "Coming."