by Isaac Asimov
“Why not try it out?” I said. “Send a beam of protons through the hole.”
“I’ve done that. Nothing happens. The doughnut is not powerful enough. But my mathematics tells me that the more organized the sample of matter, the more likely it is that an interchange, such as left to right, will take place. If I can show that such a change will take place on highly organized matter, I can obtain a grant that will enable me to greatly strengthen this device.”
“Do you have something in mind as a test?”
“Absolutely,” said Bob. “I have calculated that a human being is just sufficiently highly organized to undergo the transformation, so I’m going to pass through the doughnut hole myself.”
“You can’t do that, Bob,” I said in alarm. “You might kill yourself.”
“I can’t ask anyone else to take the chance. It’s my device.”
“But even if it succeeds, the apex of your heart will be pointed to the right, your liver will be on the left. Worse, all your amino acids will shift from L to D, and all your sugars from D to L. You will no longer be able to eat and digest.”
“Nonsense,” said Bob. “I’ll just pass through a second time and then I’ll be exactly as I was before.”
And without further ado, he climbed a small ladder, balanced himself over the hole, and dropped through. He landed on a rubber mattress, and then crawled out from under the doughnut.
“How do you feel?” I asked anxiously.
“Obviously, I’m alive,” he said.
“Yes, but how do you feel?”
“Perfectly normal,” said Bob, seeming rather disappointed. “I feel exactly as I did before I jumped through.”
“Well, of course you would, but where is your heart?”
Bob placed his hand on his chest, felt around, then shook his head. “The heartbeat is on the left side, as usual—Wait, let’s check my appendicitis scar.”
He did, then looked up savagely at me. “Right where it’s supposed to be. Nothing happened. There goes all my chance at a grant.”
I said hopefully, “Perhaps some other change took place.”
“No.” Bob’s mercurial temperament had descended into gloom. “Nothing has changed. Nothing at all. I’m as sure of that as I’m sure that my name is Robert L. Backward.”
IASF 1/87
Frustration
Herman Gelb turned his head to watch the departing figure. Then he said, “Wasn’t that the Secretary?”
“Yes, that was the Secretary of Foreign Affairs. Old man Hargrove. Are you ready for lunch?”
“Of course. What was he doing here?”
Peter Jonsbeck didn’t answer immediately. He merely stood up, and beckoned Gelb to follow. They walked down the corridor and into a room that had the steamy smell of spicy food.
“Here you are,” said Jonsbeck. “The whole meal has been prepared by computer. Completely automated. Untouched by human hands. And my own programming. I promised you a treat, and here you are.”
It was good. Gelb could not deny it and didn’t want to. Over dessert, he said, “But what was Hargrove doing here?”
Jonsbeck smiled. “Consulting me on programming. What else am I good for?”
“But why? Or is it something you can’t talk about?”
“It’s something I suppose I shouldn’t talk about, but it’s a fairly open secret. There isn’t a computer man in the capital who doesn’t know what the poor frustrated simp is up to.”
“What is he up to then?”
“He’s fighting wars.”
Gelb’s eyes opened wide. “With whom?”
“With nobody, really. He fights them by computer analysis. He’s been doing it for I don’t know how long.”
“But why?”
“He wants the world to be the way we are—noble, honest, decent, full of respect for human rights and so on.”
“So do I. So do we all. We have to keep up the pressure on the bad guys, that’s all.”
“And they’re keeping the pressure on us, too. They don’t think we’re perfect.”
“I suppose we’re not, but we’re better than they are. You know that.”
Jonsbeck shrugged. “A difference in point of view. It doesn’t matter. We’ve got a world to run, space to develop, computerization to extend. Cooperation puts a premium on continued cooperation and there is slow improvement. We’ll get along. It’s just that Hargrove doesn’t want to wait. He hankers for quick improvement—by force. You know, make the bums shape up. We’re strong enough to do it.”
“By force? By war, you mean. We don’t fight wars any more.”
“That’s because it’s gotten too complicated. Too much danger. We’re all too powerful. You know what I mean? Except that Hargrove thinks he can find a way. You punch certain starting conditions into the computer and let it fight the war mathematically and yield the results.”
“How do you make equations for war?”
“Well, you try, old man. Men. Weapons. Surprise. Counterattack. Ships. Space stations. Computers. We mustn’t forget computers. There are a hundred factors and thousands of intensities and millions of combinations. Hargrove thinks it is possible to find some combination of starting conditions and courses of development that will result in clear victory for us and not too much damage to the world, and he labors under constant frustration.”
“But what if he gets what he wants?”
“Well, if he can find the combination—if the computer says, ‘This is it,’ then I suppose he thinks he can argue our government into fighting exactly the war the computer has worked out so that, barring random events that upset the indicated course, we’d have what we want.”
“There’d be casualties.”
“Yes, of course. But the computer will presumably compare the casualties and other damage—to the economy and ecology, for instance—to the benefits that would derive from our control of the world, and if it decides the benefits will outweigh the casualties, then it will give the go-ahead for a ‘just war.’ After all, it may be that even the losing nations would benefit from being directed by us, with our stronger economy and stronger moral sense.”
Gelb stared his disbelief and said, “I never knew we were sitting at the lip of a volcanic crater like that. What about the ‘random events’ you mentioned?”
“The computer program tries to allow for the unexpected, but you never can, of course. So I don’t think the go-ahead will come. It hasn’t so far, and unless old man Hargrove can present the government with a computer simulation of a war that is totally satisfactory, I don’t think there’s much chance he can force one.”
“And he comes to you, then, for what reason?”
“To improve the program, of course.”
“And you help him?”
“Yes, certainly. There are big fees involved, Herman.”
Gelb shook his head, “Peter! Are you going to try to arrange a war, just for money?”
“There won’t be a war. There’s no realistic combination of events that would make the computer decide on war. Computers place a greater value on human lives than human beings do themselves, and what will seem bearable to Secretary Hargrove, or even to you and me, will never be passed by a computer.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Because I’m a programmer and I don’t know of any way of programming a computer to give it what is most needed to start any war, any persecution, any devilry, while ignoring any harm that may be done in the process. And because it lacks what is most needed, the computers will always give Hargrove, and all others who hanker for war, nothing but frustration.”
“What is it that a computer doesn’t have, then?”
“Why, Gelb. It totally lacks a sense of self-righteousness.”
Hallucination
Part One
Sam Chase arrived on Energy Planet on his fifteenth birthday.
It was a great achievement, he had been told, to have been assigned there, but he wasn’t at all sure he felt
that at the moment.
It meant a three-year separation from Earth and from his family, while he continued a specialized education in the field, and that was a sobering thought. It was not the field of education in which he was interested, and he could not understand why Central Computer had assigned him to this project, and that was downright depressing.
He looked at the transparent dome overhead. It was quite high, perhaps a thousand meters high, and it stretched in all directions farther than he could clearly see. He asked, “Is it true that this is the only Dome on the planet, sir?”
The information-films he had studied on the spaceship that had carried him here had described only one Dome, but they might have been out-of-date.
Donald Gentry, to whom the question had been addressed, smiled. He was a large man, a little chubby, with dark brown, good-natured eyes, not much hair, and a short, graying beard.
He said, “The only one, Sam. It’s quite large, though, and most of the housing facilities are underground, where you’ll find no lack of space. Besides, once your basic training is done, you’ll be spending most of your time in space. This is just our planetary base.”
“I see, sir,” said Sam, a little troubled.
Gentry said, “I am in charge of our basic trainees so I have to study their records carefully. It seems clear to me that this assignment was not your first choice. Am I right?”
Sam hesitated, and then decided he didn’t have much choice but to be honest about it. He said, “I’m not sure that I’ll do as well as I would like to in gravitational engineering.”
“Why not? Surely the Central Computer, which evaluated your scholastic record and your social and personal background, can be trusted in its judgments. And if you do well, it will be a great achievement for you, for right here we are on the cutting edge of a new technology.”
“I know that, sir,” said Sam. “Back on Earth, everyone is very excited about it. No one before has ever tried to get close to a neutron star and make use of its energy.”
“Yes?” said Gentry. “I haven’t been on Earth for two years. What else do they say about it? I understand there’s considerable opposition?”
His eyes probed the boy.
Sam shifted uneasily, aware he was being tested. He said, “There are people on Earth who say it’s all too dangerous and might be a waste of money.”
“Do you believe that?”
“It might be so, but most new technologies have their dangers and many are worth doing despite that. This one is, I think.”
“Very good. What else do they say on Earth?”
Sam said, “They say the Commander isn’t well and that the project might fail without him.” When Gentry didn’t respond, Sam said, hastily, “That’s what they say.”
Gentry acted as though he did not hear. He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and said, “Come, I’ve got to show you to your Corridor, introduce you to your roommate, and explain what your initial duties will be.” As they walked toward the elevator that would take them downward, he said, “What was your first choice in assignment, Chase?”
“Neurophysiology, sir.”
“Not a bad choice. Even today, the human brain continues to be a mystery. We know more about neutron stars than we do about the brain, as we found out when this project first began.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed! At the start, various people at the base—it was much smaller and more primitive then—reported having experienced hallucinations. They never caused any bad effects, and after a while, there were no further reports. We never found out the cause.”
Sam stopped, and looked up and about again. “Was that why the Dome was built, Dr. Gentry?”
“No, not at all. We needed a place with a completely Earth-like environment, for various reasons, but we haven’t isolated ourselves. People can go outside freely. There are no hallucinations being reported now.”
Sam said, “The information I was given about Energy Planet is that there is no life on it except for plants and insects, and that they’re harmless.”
“That’s right, but they’re also inedible, so we grow our own vegetables, and keep some small animals, right here under the Dome. Still, we’ve found nothing hallucinogenic about the planetary life.”
“Anything unusual about the atmosphere, sir?”
Gentry looked down from his only slightly greater height and said, “Not at all. People have camped in the open overnight on occasion and nothing has happened. It is a pleasant world. There are streams but no fish, just algae and water-insects. There is nothing to sting you or poison you. There are yellow berries that look delicious and taste terrible but do no other harm. The weather’s pretty nearly always good. There are frequent light rains and it is sometimes windy, but there are no extremes of heat and cold.”
“And no hallucinations any more, Dr. Gentry?”
“You sound disappointed,” said Gentry, smiling.
Sam took a chance. “Does the Commander’s trouble have anything to do with the hallucinations, sir?”
The good nature vanished from Gentry’s eyes for a moment, and he frowned. He said, “What trouble do you refer to?”
Sam flushed and they proceeded in silence.
Sam found few others in the Corridor he had been assigned to, but Gentry explained it was a busy time at the forward station, where the power system was being built in a ring around the neutron star—the tiny object less than ten miles across that had all the mass of a normal star, and a magnetic field of incredible power.
It was the magnetic field that would be tapped. Energy would be led away in enormous amounts and yet it would all be a pinprick, less than a pinprick, to the star’s rotational energy, which was the ultimate source. It would take billions of years to bleed off all that energy, and in that time, dozens of populated planets, fed the energy through hyperspace, would have all they needed for an indefinite time.
Sharing his room was Robert Gillette, a dark-haired, unhappy-looking young man. After cautious greetings had been exchanged, Robert revealed the fact that he was sixteen and had been “grounded” with a broken arm, though the fact didn’t show since it had been pinned internally.
Robert said, ruefully, “It takes a while before you learn to handle things in space. They may not have weight, but they have inertia and you have to allow for that.”
Sam said, “They always teach you that in—” He was going to say that it was taught in fourth-grade science, but realized that would be insulting, and stopped himself.
Robert caught the implication, however, and flushed. He said, “It’s easy to know it in your head. It doesn’t mean you get the proper reflexes, till you’ve practiced quite a bit. You’ll find out.”
Sam said, “Is it very complicated to get to go outside?”
“No, but why do you want to go? There’s nothing there.”
“Have you ever been outside?”
“Sure,” but he shrugged, and volunteered nothing else.
Sam took a chance. He said, very casually, “Did you ever see one of these hallucinations they talk about?”
Robert said, “Who talks about?”
Sam didn’t answer directly. He said, “A lot of people used to see them, but they don’t anymore. Or so they say.”
“So who say?”
Sam took another chance. “Or if they see them, they keep quiet about them.”
Robert said gruffly, “Listen, let me give you some advice. Don’t get interested in these—whatever they are. If you start telling yourself you see—uh—something, you might be sent back. You’ll lose your chance at a good education and an important career.”
Robert’s eyes shifted to a direct stare as he said that.
Sam shrugged and sat down on the unused bunk. “All right for this to be my bed?”
“It’s the only other bed here,” said Robert, still staring. “The bathroom’s to your right. There’s your closet, your bureau. You get half the room. There’s a gym here, a library, a dining are
a.” He paused and then, as though to let bygones be bygones, said, “I’ll show you around later.”
“Thanks,” said Sam. “What kind of a guy is the Commander?”
“He’s aces. We wouldn’t be here without him. He knows more about hyperspatial technology than anyone, and he’s got pull with the Space Agency, so we get the money and equipment we need.”
Sam opened his trunk and, with his back to Robert, said casually, “I understand he’s not well.”
“Things get him down. We’re behind schedule, there are cost-overruns, and things like that. Enough to get anyone down.”
“Depression, huh? Any connection, you suppose, with—”
Robert stirred impatiently in his seat, “Say, why are you so interested in all this?”
“Energy physics isn’t really my deal. Coming here—”
“Well, here’s where you are, mister, and you better make up your mind to it, or you’ll get sent home, and then you won’t be anywhere. I’m going to the library.”
Sam remained in the room alone, with his thoughts.
It was not at all difficult for Sam to get permission to leave the Dome. The Corridor-Master didn’t even ask the reason until after he had checked him off.
“I want to get a feel for the planet, sir.”
The Corridor-Master nodded. “Fair enough, but you only get three hours, you know. And don’t wander out of sight of the Dome. If we have to look for you, we’ll find you, because you’ll be wearing this,” and he held out a transmitter which Sam knew had been tuned to his own personal wavelength, one which had been assigned him at birth. “But if we have to go to that trouble, you won’t be allowed out again for a pretty long time. And it won’t look good on your record, either. You understand?”
It won’t look good on your record. Any reasonable career these days had to include experience and education in space, so it was an effective warning. No wonder people might have stopped reporting hallucinations, even if they saw them.