“Yes,” Clarke admitted slowly. “That’s right.”
“But according to the bulletin this Arbiter will just be another machine!” The woman’s distress became suddenly obvious. “That hardly tallies with your earlier speech about them!”
“This is different, Miss Charteris. It will be intelligent.”
“Perhaps—but still a machine!”
Clarke shifted rather uneasily. The argument was not at all to his liking: it was stirring up his own inner doubts. Yet, as the woman had appeared in the light of an accuser, he felt the need to defend himself.
“I think the real meaning behind all this has escaped you,” he said. “It will be a machine because there is no other way to pool the knowledge of twelve brains—but the decisions it makes will be completely impersonal, and therefore just. It will have the brains of six of us as well as the intelligentsia, you know.”
“Oh, yes, I know that: it was mentioned in the bulletin—but I also know that Dr. Carfax has chosen six of the dullest Workers he could find! Minders of the most trivial machines. Not one of them has a spark of initiative. It’s a sop—nothing more! Against six trained minds they’ll be swamped out!”
Clarke’s bushy eyebrows came down into a sharp V and he leaned forward again intently.
“Just how do you know about this?”
The woman shrugged. “It’s no secret. The six in question were just flattered and cajoled into it, by Carfax. Now they are telling everyone that science can’t get along without them—or words to that effect.”
Clarke clenched a great fist on the table. He was intelligent enough to appreciate the incredible egotism of the dull mind when it thinks it is indispensable.
“If I thought for a moment that Carfax is trying to trick us, I’d—” Then he pulled himself up short and forced a smile. “In any case—whether you’re right or wrong—we can’t turn back now. I’ve already agreed to it, chiefly because there’s no other way around it.”
The woman nodded her dark head, but without much conviction, Clarke thought.
“All I am trying to do is warn you,” she said. “I think there is trouble ahead, and because I admire what you have tried to do I—”
She stopped as the signal buzzer sounded for a resumption of work.
“I understand,” Clarke smiled, getting to his feet and patting her shoulder. “But I’ll be able to take care of things.”
CHAPTER 5
In the days that followed, while he was awaiting the summons to the operation, Sherman Clarke was made aware of definite misgivings amongst the Workers. It made Clarke’s daily contact with them almost unbearable at times, but he went on doggedly about his work, convinced in himself that he had acted for the best.
It was a month, almost to the day, when he did finally receive a summons from the President to witness the operation, which was to create the Arbiter. His permit card, signed by the President, gave him immediate admission into the Eugenical Centre. A uniformed official conducted him to a huge door marked Theatre No. 1.
Entering the wide, cool expanse Clarke paused for a moment. There was quite a gathering present—Luther Nolan, Dr. Carfax, many members of the press and television companies, and Dr. Claythorne. Around him again were grouped nurses and lesser surgeons, already masked and gloved.
Clarke moved forward slowly as glances were cast towards him. His gaze went beyond the surgeon and his retinue to the twelve immaculate tables upon which, shaven-headed, lay nine men and three women.
“Good morning, Mr. Clarke....” The President came forward and shook Clarke’s hand cordially. “I imagine that history is about to be made. This is Dr. Claythorne, our Chief Surgeon. He will be in charge of the operation, under Dr. Carfax.”
The little surgeon nodded a brief greeting and shook hands, then he turned away and plunged his hands and forearms in antiseptic. Dr. Carfax came level; as usual, he was smiling like a man keeping a secret to himself.
“The final details are now complete, Mr. Clarke. In the next room is the machine casing, which will receive the brains. I have designed the actual Arbiter personally, after consulting with the best scientists in the city. We have made it invulnerable.”
“Invulnerable?” Clarke repeated. “Do you mean by that that once the brains are sealed into it, the machine can never be opened?”
“I mean just that,” Carfax assented calmly.
When he was assured of the willingness of the twelve men and women concerned to sacrifice themselves President Nolan gave the order to begin.
From then on Clarke joined the President in watching activity in a field that was unfamiliar, even repugnant, to him. He saw the twelve human beings go willingly under the anaesthetic. He saw the brains, still living, being fed by synthetic bloodstream and artificial heart. Then, under orders from Claythorne, the first brain was duly imprisoned within a soft mould of ductile metal.
Atom by atom, molecule by molecule, under the control of instruments so sensitive that light-vibration disturbed them, metallic moulds were set up, fitted into place by slender rods of force timed to a split thousandth of a second. The slightest error would have meant utter failure.
But there was no error. Claythorne saw to that. He was coldly efficient, intolerant of mistakes. The controlling forces made no slip. They had no human qualities in them to err.
Finally the first brain was complete. The dried shell of the dead brain was removed and the mechanical counterpart, deadly precise in its way of reasoning, came into being. The actual entity of Unwin Slater, First in Mathematics, had vanished and given place to the computations of Brain Unit No. 1.
The eyes of Sherman Clarke and Luther Nolan met; for a moment the barriers were down. They were both very human beings, mutually shocked by a brilliant yet diabolical surgical miracle....
The removal of the remaining eleven brains was simply a replica of the first operation. Dr. Claythorne went through each operation with the same studied attention to detail, until every brain had been removed. Next would come the transference into the moulds.
Clarke found himself the guest of the President for lunch, following the successful completion of the first part of the operation. With them were Dr. Claythorne and the inscrutable Carfax. During the meal the operation was not referred to. In fact Luther Nolan deliberately avoided mentioning it, just as though he were afraid he might speak his own mind too freely if the subject came up. He confined himself to commonplaces, and in deference to him the others had to do likewise.
After lunch, the quartet adjourned to operating Theatre No. 2. Here Clarke saw the Arbiter for the first time, and the words of Brenda Charteris came back to him with acid sharpness.
The thing was a machine—blatantly so! It was a positive physical shock to Clarke. He forgot the surgical preparations going on about him in his troubled interest....
In appearance it resembled a great circle of metal about fifty feet wide, studded at regular intervals round the edge with unbreakable domes, which sheathed the metallic brains inside. Wires, protected by similar armour, led directly to the circle’s centre and the governing machine unit. The circle was perched on three massive pillars; high up on the central pillar were television lenses for visual contact, and below that a loudspeaker and auditory mechanisms. Outwardly, nothing more was visible, but Clarke could guess at the maze of complexity that must be inside.
“You find it interesting, Mr. Clarke?” Carfax had come up silently and was regarding the Arbiter with thoughtful eyes.
“Interesting enough, yes,” Clarke admitted. “But I fail to see how it can be invulnerable, as you said earlier. It seems to be mostly ordinary metal and plastic.”
“Hardly ordinary,” Carfax smiled indulgently. “Both the plastic and the metal of the Arbiter have interlocking atoms. As you may know, all matter has a great deal of empty space between its electronic systems, but in every form of matter they have a definite pattern. Many years ago I found a way to treat materials so that their atomic make-up fits into
the empty space of ordinary material—just as wood dovetails. The law of attraction does the rest. And once the two metals or plastics are mated, they are impossible to separate!”
Carfax broke off whilst they watched the knitting of the artificial ganglion wires to the encased brains.
“Like locking yourself in a prison and throwing away the key,” Clarke muttered, but Carfax affected not to hear him.
Somehow, interest had gone for Clarke. He kept thinking of what Brenda Charteris had said.... To him it was like the closing of an impregnable door when the top cover was sealed over the twelve linked brains. Then the cover was fused into the metal of the Arbiter itself, Carfax adding the final touches with his own electrical instruments, which locked the metal in one piece—perhaps for all time....
Towards evening Clarke returned to his own quarters in the city with an invitation from the President to bring a deputation of Workers to consult the Arbiter three days hence. Then the problem of stagnant initiative and lack of competitive progress could be decided once and for all.
CHAPTER 6
The Workers whom Clarke chose to form the deputation were those he had spoken to on that morning when he had first revolted against security. There was Brenda Charteris, of course, then Boyd Turner, the incipient surgeon; Iris Weigh, would-be writer; Thomas Lannon, of architectural leanings; and Clifford Braxton, physicist. As representative Workers Clarke felt he could not better them.
What they thought of the Arbiter when they beheld it in the great room specially assigned to it in the Controlling Building, they did not say—but they, like Clarke, could feel the mental aura radiating from it.
Also present were the President and Dr. Carfax. The physicist had a sheaf of notes in his hand which, when he came to read them aloud, proved to be the case of Sherman Clarke versus the State stated in legal terms. Carfax read it out in a clear voice and then concluded—
“Such, Arbiter, is the controversy you are asked to settle. We now wait upon you.”
The Arbiter gave no visible sign of having heard, and still there was that unvarying aura of mental power emanating from it. A dead silence fell on the room until at length a mechanical bass voice spoke.
“My decision—the decision of twelve linked brains—is that Sherman Clarke has no case! To return to comparatively primitive ways of living in order that we might progress is in itself contradictory, since it involves going backwards in order to go forwards. Furthermore, since perfect economic and social stability have been achieved by the State, it amounts to a challenge to the State when it is alleged that it is preventing progress. No, Sherman Clarke, your plan is not feasible.”
Clarke sprang to his feet. “You mean,” he said hotly, “that we should rot and die in a too-perfect world?”
“You cannot question my decision, Sherman Clarke. I would warn you that your only safe course is to accept it.”
Clarke clenched his fists, his powerful face reddening—then the President spoke. As ever, his voice was quiet, yet vaguely troubled.
“I can appreciate your keen disappointment, Mr. Clarke, but you agreed to accept the decision when it was given.”
“That’s so, Mr. President, but at that time I did at least expect a reasonable explanation! I don’t consider one has been given....” Clarke made an effort, forced himself to regain control. “I accept the decision,” he said bitterly, “but under strong protest!”
The President nodded gravely, and Carfax, standing close by the Arbiter, permitted himself an impassive smile.
Clarke glanced round upon the men and women who had come with him. At his signal they followed him out of the room. Not until they were outside did one of them make a comment—and then it was Thomas Lannon, the would-be architect.
“Are you standing for this, Mr. Clarke?” he demanded.
“I gave my word to abide by the Arbiter’s decision.”
“The rest of the workers have realised by now that your earlier plan is the only one that could help us to find ourselves again,” Brenda Charteris said urgently. “They have almost come to believe that the decision would be given in our favour. This is going to hit them very hard.”
“I know it,” Clarke said grimly. “But it has to be....”
On the remainder of the journey back he said nothing further. At the back of his mind remained the disquieting memory of that smile on Carfax’s face....
The Arbiter’s decision in this first dispute was publicly broadcast and the State Department referred to the whole business as ‘eminently satisfactory’. As to this, Sherman Clarke and others had their own views.
But the Workers accepted the decision. For one thing they were not sure yet how much power the twelve-brained monstrosity could wield; for another, they were yet loyal to Sherman Clarke. They also believed in their President, and any precipitate action would have threatened his position.
Three weeks later, on arriving home, Clarke was surprised to find Boyd Turner and Clifford Braxton waiting outside his apartment door.
“Mr. Clarke!” Turner came forward eagerly as Clarke stepped from the lift. “I hope you won’t mind us taking up your time like this but—well, we’ve made an important discovery! You know us, of course? Boyd Turner, and—”
“Clifford Braxton,” Clarke finished, smiling. “Of course I do. Come in and tell me all about it,” he added, opening his apartment door.
Boyd Turner seemed almost too excited to take the drink of essence Clarke handed to him. Braxton was somewhat calmer—but he too had an air of suppressed excitement about him.
“We’ve neither of us been asleep like the others,” Turner explained, spots of colour on his high-cheekboned face. “Cliff and I got to talking over what you said about initiative. Although I realised long ago that I might never be a surgeon, I’ve spent my spare time experimenting—particularly in these last few weeks.”
Clarke put down his glass slowly. An extraordinary light came into his grey eyes. “What is this discovery you mentioned?”
“Bloodless surgery for one thing,” Braxton answered deliberately, “and superhuman intelligence for another.”
Clarke could only stare at them for a moment or two.
“How can you be sure?” Clarke asked finally, trying to assess essentials. “Have you proven it experimentally with human subjects?”
“Not yet. But we are confident of success.” There was no doubt in Braxton’s voice.
“I’ve worked out a system of bloodless surgery, produced by suspended animation and absolute cessation of molecular movement—or at least, almost complete cessation.
“By electrical means I can slow down the movement of molecules, working on the principle that the less molecular activity there is, the lower the temperature drops. You follow?”
Clarke nodded slowly. “Just as in outer space, which is near absolute zero—with scarcely any molecular activity at all. But what kind of electrical energy do you propose to use? I can’t follow that.”
“Nothing unusual about it. By producing a dampening circuit, I can retard the molecular speeds in any known substance. In a word, put a break on them. Even frost is a dampening electrical circuit of sorts in that it brings the molecules of water to a near standstill and causes it to turn to ice. The rate of molecular vibration in living creatures is well known. All I had to do was work out by mathematics the exact amount of electrical retardation required to slow up the molecular speed and so produce a frozen life, within a fraction of death. Difficult, but it can be done—and I have done it already, with animals.”
Clarke nodded admiringly. “It certainly sounds promising. But what about the superhuman intelligence you mentioned? Where does that come in? I don’t see the connection.”
“There is a connection,” Boyd Turner insisted. “Some time ago I worked out the details of a new departure in brain surgery—but the operation is too dangerous to carry out under normal anaesthesia. That’s where Cliff’s idea comes in. With the subject perfectly frozen, the operation can be c
arried out in absolute safety.”
Turner hesitated over the right words before plunging on with his exposition.
“It is a fact that a human being has five times as much brain material as he ever actively uses. That extra dormant material is probably there for future use,” Turner continued. “Nature has made that provision so that as man evolves, he will gradually come to utilise his full brain capacity. But I aim to beat Nature at her own game and produce a man who has all his brain power at his command.
“What is lacking with our brains is a nerve connection between the portion of the brain we use and the so-called useless portion. But by surgery it should be possible to make a synthetic nerve connection between the two to make the entire brain of use! It will mean a power of thought five times greater than we now have.”
“Superhuman intelligence,” Clarke whispered. He stood up, then put an arm round Turner’s shoulder. His steady grey eyes searched the eager face, then he glanced at Clifford Braxton.
“Do you trust me, gentlemen?” he asked quietly. The two men nodded, looked puzzled.
“Definitely we trust you—that’s why we came to you first,” Turner said. “We thought you should know, seeing as how you indirectly sparked off our research. Why do you ask?”
“Because I don’t trust the Arbiter!” Clarke sat down again, doubt on his rugged face. “If your cases are brought before it, the thing is capable of draining your minds of every secret you possess! I do not say it will do so, but it would be safer for a second party to know the facts.”
“Yes, maybe you’re right,” Braxton agreed, thinking. “For that matter Boyd and I would keep things to ourselves, only that wouldn’t do any good. To benefit humanity at all, our ideas have got to be put before the President. Actually, my suspended animation apparatus is finished, and quite self-contained. I dare say you know enough to be able to operate it in my absence, Boyd?”
Turner nodded. “I believe so—but I don’t think....” He broke off as Clarke got to his feet, his eyes gleaming.
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