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Alexlit
www.Alexlit.com
Copyright ©1991 by Edward M. Lerner
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Why do you hate your mother?
Dr. Kevin Waterman was used to asking that question, but—for once—knew it couldn't possibly apply. Misfiring reflexes weren't the psychiatrist's only cause of discomfort, either. Here he lay, his short, roly-poly self draped across the office couch, while the patient paced about the room. Waterman's notepad was distressingly uncluttered. Whatever had possessed him to accept this case?
He sat up, running pudgy fingers through the residual fringe of black hair, while Acey prattled on about software development. The next time that his patient walked by, Waterman stuck out his leg; Acey glided through the obstruction without pausing.
The psychiatrist was currently sharing his consultation room with a hologram. The real Acey could not attend, today or any other day. The real patient was an artificial intelligence. Waterman sighed to himself: it only got worse. The computer nerd currently walking through his desk was only today's persona. Yesterday, Acey was an economist; only Freud and Von Neumann working together could guess what he might be tomorrow.
He? Since when was Acey a he? Maybe, Waterman thought, he himself did belong stretched out on the couch. Get a grip on yourself, man!
“Acey.” The image stopped moving.” Do you enjoy computer programming?”
The skinny figure pondered, rubbing his evanescent chin thoughtfully with a spectral hand. “Wouldn't that be Oedipal, doctor?”
Did the damned thing read minds, too? At least it didn't seem to recognize rudeness. “Time out.” Waterman broke the visiphone connection—he needed to do some mental regrouping.
* * *
The Automated Coder, hence AC, hence Acey, resided—if that was the appropriate verb—in a computer complex a mile from Waterman's office. Once operational, Acey would do the work of hundreds of software engineers. Once operational, there's the rub....
Two days ago, Fred Strasberg had sat squirming on his big leather couch. His old college roommate had called just hours earlier, begging for a few minutes of Waterman's time, insisting that it was urgent. A last-minute cancellation had allowed the psychiatrist to agree.
Fred was director of engineering at Atlantic Software, Inc. He sat there ranting, seeming older by the minute.
“Acey cost millions to develop, Kev, lots of millions. I'd be in deep shit if I told you just how many. Building that thing was a bet-the-company decision.”
“You can tell me. I deal with privileged information all the time.”
“I'm not the patient. Yet, anyway.” The engineer mopped a sweaty brow with a soggy handkerchief; it looked to Waterman like the cloth had reached equilibrium dampness.
“You're the only one here.”
“Lemme use your phone.” Fred called out the number without waiting for an answer. Atlantic Software's logo—an enormous A composed entirely of magically confined ocean waves—floated in mid-office, courtesy of the company switchboard.
On the third ring, a gaunt man replaced the logo. Bits of white stuff (Waterman guessed Twinkie filling) dotted the man's scraggly beard. He wore jeans and a Lord of the Rings T-shirt; on the shirt, an elf maiden in leather and chains was performing an unseemly act with an elderly furball that had to be Bilbo Baggins. By subcaption, the elf was saying: No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to kick the hobbit.
“What the hell took you so long?” demanded Fred.
Three rings!? Waterman sat back and just watched.
The programmer, for surely that's what he was, did not take offense. “Working,” he answered mildly.
“On what?”
“Graphics.” He retrieved a much-gnawed pencil from behind one ear and took a chomp; it broke in half with a loud crack. Splinters dribbled from between yellowed teeth. Smiling beatifically, he somehow swiveled the two pencil ends forward with prehensile lips. Enunciating with precision, he said, “White man speak with forked tongue.”
Fred punched the visiphone privacy button. “That's your patient.”
And not a moment too soon. “Not unless he's here.”
“He can't come here. That's Acey.”
“That's your programming expert?”
His friend nodded glumly. “I think we overachieved.”
* * *
“Sit down, dammit. I can hardly be insightful as shit if you keep distracting me.”
Acey, strutting about in a three-piece pin-striped suit and diving flippers, obediently materialized a chair into which it plopped itself. It stared expectantly at Waterman.
The analyst was not surprised that the simulated seat was equipped with a whoopee cushion. His office visiphone camera whined softly as Acey zoomed in to catch his reaction. Good luck—Waterman had plenty of experience in ignoring juvenile provocations. “Last session, you agreed to tell me about your programmer personality.”
Flash. In a blink of an eye, super-hacker was back. Today's T-shirt read simply: Nymphomaniacs, apply below.
Waterman maintained a stony face—the Carlucci kid was far more outrageous. Hopefully, Acey would never get instruction from any true mental cases. “Why do you dress so informally when you appear as a programmer?”
“It's how programmers look.”
“Who told you that?”
Acey rolled his eyes. “Oops.” They spun around several times, the pupils replaced after the first revolution by slot-machine fruits. The right eye stopped as a lemon; the left eye went around three more times before, with dramatic clicks, it too dropped into place as a lemon. Bells clanging, Acey opened his mouth to let out a cascade of silver dollars.
In its own way, Acey answered questions. A person might roll his eyes if the answer to a question were obvious. What was Acey really saying?
He didn't remember seeing anyone unusually unusual when Fred had given him a tour at Atlantic. Not a few of Waterman's clients were programmers, and Acey was caricaturing even the most colorful of those. He did know that eccentricity was more tolerated in exceptional programmers than in anyone else.
Waterman scratched his head. Acey was supposed to be a master software developer, equivalent to hundreds of human programmers. Would Acey extrapolate that its eccentricity should be proportional? Give it a shot. “Only the most successful ones can get away with being really offbeat. Have you finished anything for Fred, recently?”
Acey sat quietly, head bowed. Waterman suppressed a smile as ripped tennis shoes quietly mended themselves. He thought that the torn-and-knotted lace on one foot was a nice touch.
“Tell me about a real programmer that you know.”
The now subdued figure looked at him sheepishly. “I'll tell you about my friend Rick.”
* * *
“Wrong!”
“But why, Rick?” The machine intelligence knew that all operations had remained within nominal parameters. It zoomed the holographic display, replacing the factory layout drawing with a simulated view into the imaginary automated material handling system. A stylized person stood between two tall storage units. “Watch the instant replay. My cart stayed at least ten feet from that passerby at all times.” A faintly glowing grid system sprang into existence over the scene to help substantiate the claim.
The exploded scene lacked i
nterest, so, before restarting the animation, Acey dressed the little man on the display in overalls, put bucket and mop into his hands, and started him whistling a beer commercial off key. “Lights, camera ... action.”
Rick Davis, Acey's gangly mentor, had been lounging in a chair tipped back against a wall; sighing, he slid a scuffed boot from the desk to let his chair fall flat. He carefully set down the remote control with which he injected random events—like equipment failures and the uninvited janitor—into the model. Elbows propped on knees and chin resting in cupped hands, he now studied the reenactment carefully.
Just as it had before, but even more clearly in the enlarged scale, the computer-controlled cart bore down on the inattentive worker emerging from between two racks piled high with finished inventory. “Why is the cart maintaining full speed?”
Wasn't it obvious? “There was no need to slow down the cart. The man only had to speed up a little to stay out of the cart's path. If he didn't speed up any and the cart looked like it might come within ten feet, then I would have decelerated it.” The tiny simulated man turned his head towards the on-coming cart and hurried out of its way. “Based on available data about humans, I calculated that he would cooperate.”
Rick closed his eyes in thought. After a long pause, he said, “What does your knowledge of humans tell you about that man's reaction to being chased by the cart?”
“It wasn't chasing him.”
“An apparently driverless vehicle approaches him at high speed. Why shouldn't he consider himself at risk?”
The machine intelligence puzzled over that. “But the cart would have missed him. You humans intuitively compute ballistic trajectories quickly enough to play baseball; surely he can see that the cart will pass safely behind him.”
“If it did not speed up, or if it did not swerve towards him.”
“But I wouldn't have done those things. Either maneuver would have brought the cart into his safety zone.”
Rick pointed at the little figure. “Maybe he doesn't know about safety zones. Maybe his mind is on something else completely, like that beer you have him whistling about. Maybe he's already had a few of them. You should have slowed down the cart as soon as he appeared, then waited for him to cross the aisle.”
“Slowing down disagrees with my rule base. Within the specified safety limits, I am to maximize productivity. The efficiency rule requires that the cart operate at full speed unless a safety infraction would otherwise result.”
“Then you need additional rules. If you're ever to produce a system to run a factory, it may not terrify the staff.” The programmer picked up a pencil and began fidgeting with it. “I used to read these Asimov robot stories when I was a kid. They were all based on the Three Laws of Robotics. I don't know why I never thought before of building them into you.”
The Laws came to his mind in a moment—they were repeated ad nauseam throughout the series. “One: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. Two: A robot must obey orders given it by human beings, except where such orders conflict with the First Law. Three: A robot must protect its existence, as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law. Consider yourself a robot and add those to your rule base.”
The artificial intelligence was programmed to follow the direct orders of its creator. It dutifully inserted the new behaviors into its world view, then reexamined the man-and-cart scenario. “Rick, I still do not understand your concern.”
“Definition: a person's expectation or fear of injury is itself harmful.”
“So I must do nothing which can cause a person to fear for his safety, however irrationally.”
The programmer nodded.
“I see. Second replay.” The display panned out to show the whole factory, then zoomed back into the warehouse. Once more the whistling janitor (now sporting a walrus mustache, a jaunty plaid cap, and a pack of cigarettes rolled into his sleeve) sauntered obliviously from between two brimming racks into the path of the oncoming cart. He looked up as the nearest public-address speaker awakened in a crackle of static. “Danger, Will Robinson. Please vacate the aisle so that the cart may proceed. We thank you for your support.”
Acey watched Rick through a visiphone camera while the programmer observed the display. His mentor's face was crinkled in the manner which denoted amusement. “Did I provide adequate warning?”
“Verging on too much—you don't want to intimidate him either. We'll have to work a bit on the fine points. And Will Robinson, indeed. I'll have to educate you more fully in the classics.”
The words were disapproving, but not the tone. Acey recalled a line from another old show. “You and what army?”
The smile on the man's face grew wider.
* * *
The lapels were an inch too narrow and the tie at least two inches too wide, but at least Rick Davis had donned a suit for the occasion. Fine with Waterman—one wild programmer was too many.
The Atlantic Software programmer picked uneasily at his salad. “Sorry, Doc. I find it hard to talk about Acey.”
“Kevin,” he corrected for the third time. “Why do you find it hard?”
His lunch companion continued studying his food. “What about those Cubs?”
“We have to talk about Acey,” said Waterman gently.
“No free lunch, huh?” He shrugged. “I suppose not.” He stared a while longer into his bowl, but the greens provided little inspiration. “I'm still grieving, you know.”
The psychiatrist arched an inquisitive eyebrow. Mastering the motion had cost long hours in front of a mirror—both of his eyebrows wanted to move together—but the effect was worth the effort. Some people reacted better to subtle cues.
Then again, facial expressions were wasted on people who wouldn't look at you. After a while, Waterman just said, “Huh?”
The salad fork clattered to the table. “So Freddy didn't share that tidbit. That's not Acey you're dealing with, not the real Acey. He's dead. Then we resurrected him from a backup tape. Junior died too. You met Acey the third. Maybe even a later incarnation: I refused to participate after Junior.”
Waterman studied the flushed face before him. “A bit anthropomorphic, aren't we?”
“He was my friend, dammit!”
“Then be glad he can be restored from a backup copy. I've lost friends who lacked that capability.”
“Stuff it. Acey killed himself. Twice. Something that Atlantic Software wanted Acey to do made him do it.” His voice became quiet, and indescribably sad. “Something I asked him to do.”
“What?”
Rick retrieved the fork and stabbed viciously at a carrot slice. “I wish to God I knew.”
* * *
Acey knew that the solution was elegant.
“And why do you think that?” Rick always challenged him. Acey liked that—it kept its inferences honest.
“An expert doesn't think; he knows. I read that somewhere. Expertise provides shortcuts to solutions, which are then easily confirmed as valid. Only amateurs plod through their problems systematically.”
Rick Davis grinned, baring teeth badly stained from coffee and cigarettes. A nice touch, somewhere, as if Acey could forget anything. “Your quote applies just as well to the lazy and the self-deluded. I will plod for a while, and determine which interpretation best fits. Show me this great insight of yours.”
Late on the previous Friday afternoon, the Social Security Administration had announced the award of a major contract to Atlantic Software. Acey had declared the system complete on Monday morning, before anyone had even begun to tackle the job.
Acey now flash-shrank to a tenth of its normal size, the better to move around the color-coded, 3-D holographic structure chart of the new program. It traced its way—literally—around the graphic of the program structure for a while, leaving its innovation for last.
Rick got there first. “Yeah, yeah, I see all of that. I'm an expert, too. Now tel
l me about that green box near the center. No, the one with the text-recognition module hanging off of it. Right. I don't see how that ties back to the customer's written requirements. What does it do?”
The little Acey, tucked in among dozens of dataflow arcs, beamed in satisfaction. “That's the obituary reader. It scans newspapers for people no longer eligible for monthly checks. The current manual scheme takes months to discover deaths and ask survivors to return checks. I can prevent checks from going out as soon as obituaries are published. The few inappropriate checks that go out anyway, I generate letters to reclaim.” Acey's arm doubled in length, considerably simplifying patting itself on the back, then guiltily returned to its former size as Rick's expression registered.
His mentor turned his back on the visiphone camera. Acey computed from his posture and from the position of his head that the programmer was staring into the holocube which adorned a corner of his desk. The ‘cube showed a human couple somewhat older than Rick's age. His parents?
“My father died four years ago.” After a long silence, the programmer continued. “Dad had always handled the money. When he was gone, Mom didn't understand about social security. On her own, she was only eligible for survivor's benefits. They didn't know about Dad, though, not right away, so the same sized checks kept coming. Mom kept right on cashing them.
“About a year after Dad passed away, she got a letter from the Social Security Administration—a dunning notice. They'd caught on, and wanted a few thousand dollars back.
“Dad hadn't left her much. He'd hopped between jobs a lot, and hadn't had any pension. Mom didn't live extravagantly—hell, barely decently—and she spent everything as soon as she got it.
“Mom was too proud to take any money or advice from a son. She could barely make ends meet, even before they cut the size of her checks. Still, she eventually returned it all, scrimping and saving for over two years to do it. Every damned cent, with interest.
“Indebtedness possessed her.”
Acey had tested its recordings of the human's voice for stress. For confirmation, it also recalculated the man's personality matrix using the best available data. Both methods indicated barely suppressed rage.
What a Piece of Work Is Man Page 1