The Return of Vaman - A Scientific Novel

by Jayant V. Narlikar

  There was a discussion of Kirtikar’s point of view, but the committee would not budge from its decision to go ahead. The only concession he got was a rider attached to that decision: ‘Great caution should be exercised in applying for practical purposes any information pertaining to or coming from the container.’ A concession that he knew very well was merely intended to keep him satisfied.

  As the meeting broke up and Laxman followed the Minister to his sanctum sanctorum, Arul took Kirtikar aside.

  ‘When are you leaving for Bombay, sir?’

  ‘By the last flight tonight. Why?’

  ‘Laxman and I want to talk to you quietly … may be for an hour.’

  ‘Then come to INSA at five in the afternoon. I will be through with my meeting by then.’

  As he left Shastri Bhavan, Kirtikar wondered what it was all about.

  2 The Machine

  Navin and Pyarelal were having lunch at the Nalanda, a restaurant of Gautam Hotel near the Pusa Circle. Although a sumptuous buffet had been laid on, the two were more interested in talking in a dimly lit corner.

  ‘I need the manual for the computer … a copy would of course do’, Pyarelal said.

  ‘Impossible! Absolutely impossible! As I told you, this information is top secret and Laxman has deposited it with the Minister … I guess the Minister will constitute a task force to oversee the building of the computer. But I won’t be on it for sure! My brief henceforth is to compile the history of the container people.’ Navin’s voice rose in expostulation.

  ‘Take it easy Navinbhai’, Pyarelal purred in his peculiar, silky voice. ‘Nothing is impossible in this world. In any case, with suitable lubrication even the stiffest joint can be made to move.’

  Navin hesitated. He knew what lubrication Pyarelal could apply.

  ‘Karl has gone abroad to find the clientele. Be assured that this time we are talking of really high stakes … How about one lakh?’

  Pyarelal held out a finger. Navin held out both his palms with all fingers opened out.

  ‘You are asking a lot, Navinbhai.’

  ‘As you said, PL, these are high stakes. You are lucky that I have only two hands with only five fingers on each.’

  ‘OK, done! We will celebrate.’ Pyarelal called the waiter to serve the drinks. The alacrity with which Pyarelal had accepted his demand made Navin wonder if he had underbid.

  As they were celebrating, a young man on a nearby table got up. He then slipped out and went to a public call box in the lobby downstairs, where he dialled a local number and talked for a long time.

  Traffic was at its peak on Balhadurshah Zafar Marg as the scooter brought Arul and Laxman through the gates of the Indian National Science Academy. Two pink buildings stood in the grounds and Arul asked the driver to drop them at the building on the right. The beginnings of summer were noticeable, and they were relieved to leave the hot, dusty road and enter the waiting room.

  The receptionist informed them in Hindi that the meeting was still going on and that Kirtikar Sahib was inside in the committee room. They waited on a sofa beneath a ceiling fan.

  ‘You have been here before?’ It was more a statement than a question. Still, Arul felt like answering.

  ‘Five years ago I came here in April to present myself for an interview on my research work. I had been shortlisted for the INSA Young Scientist Award.’

  ‘Did you get it?’

  ‘I did! But the awards are not given here. They are given by the P.M. or the President at the academy meeting held at the annual congregation of the Science Congress. That year it was in Lucknow … Ah, here is Professor Kirtikar.’

  INSA had been founded in 1934, but it had really come into prominence after independence. It patterned itself on the Royal Society and, with its headquarters moved to Delhi from Calcutta, it served the many official purposes that a national academy is called upon to perform. Kirtikar had come for one of the numerous committees that INSA constituted to conduct its official business.

  ‘Let us go into the committee room—it is air-conditioned’, he led them in as other members of the committee walked out with their papers and briefcases.

  The committee room was very spacious. Small tables had been joined together to make an oval-shaped ring that could easily have sat fifty. The smaller committees occupied only one corner, as was the case today. When the secretary and typist had cleared all the papers and left, Kirtikar motioned to Arul.

  ‘Arul, the floor is yours!’

  ‘Well, Laxman can describe it better than I can … in fact, I myself don’t know most of it.’ At this prompting, Laxman produced a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Sir, today I gave some secret documents to the Minister. They basically contain the blueprint for the computer. Sensational as a photonic computer will be, what I have here is even more so. I need your advice on how to handle such a hot matter.’

  ‘Must be pretty hot if you did not want to part with it even for the Minister!’ Kirtikar commented drily, looking at the sheaf of papers.

  Arul and Laxman looked at each other. Finally, Laxman proceeded further. ‘Sir, unfortunately we have a mole in our midst right in the Science Centre … Navin.’

  ‘Navin Pande?’ exclaimed Kirtikar. ‘A distinguished archaeologist like him? I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Unfortunately it’s true. Major Samant has a big file on him and he has advised us to be cautious. Which is why I had to use the subterfuge I did at the meeting this morning.’ Laxman said. Arul then narrated their encounter with Samant.

  ‘It figures … well Laxman, if I may so address you informally, you did the right thing … but what a shock about Navin! … To come to the business, however. May I read these now?’

  ‘Please do!’ Laxman added.

  As Kirtikar finished the last page his face clearly reflected an internal turmoil. ‘I can’t believe it!’ he added, still holding on to the bundle.

  ‘Nor did I … but then, with this container I have relaxed my bounds of credibility’, Laxman said.

  ‘A von Neumann machine! A blueprint for this fantastic thing right in our hands? Laxman, are you sure it will work?’

  ‘What is a von Neumann machine?’ Arul interjected.

  Laxman clarified: ‘Arul, you have heard of the mathematical genius John von Neumann. Amongst his researches in artificial intelligence during the nineteen-fifties was the notion of a machine—a robot if you like—that can reproduce itself. Von Neumann proved mathematically that such a machine can in principle exist. But from a mathematical construction to technological achievability is a long step. Nobody believes that von Neumann’s construction is achievable in the foreseeable future. Not with our present technology.’

  ‘And now you have evidence that these container people had succeeded in making such robots … unbelievable!’ Professor Kirtikar said.

  ‘But true! These robots can be made once we have the computer. For the logical maze needed for their construction can only be penetrated with the supercomputer … But once we make them, they will prove tremendous assets to our technology. These robots played an important role in the lives of their makers. This much is now clear from whatever account we have about the container people.’

  Kirtikar was silent for a while. Then he spoke, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘You know my views expressed this morning. A photonic supercomputer is bad enough … now this further step of a self-replicating robot! My mind simply boggles.’

  ‘I agree, it is a hot potato … and that’s why you have to tell us how to handle it. More so because Navin and his lot will be after it … We are totally out of our depth’, Laxman added.

  Kirtikar was pacing up and down the long committee room—his habit whenever in deep thought. Arul motioned Laxman to silence as they waited patiently. They could hear the rumble of traffic on Bahadurshah Zafar Marg. What a contrast between that world and the ideas they were grappling with….

  Suddenly Kirtikar stopped. His face had cleared and he now spoke in deci
sive tones: ‘Our strategy, my young friends, must be like this….’

  3 The Client

  The enormous black limousine was conspicuous even in the prosperous residential neighbourhood in Silicon Valley, the capital of California’s computer industry. The chauffeur was impressively dressed with a peaked cap; but more impressive was the sole occupant of the back seat. Had any passer-by managed to look through the darkened window he would have seen the classic, inscrutable oriental face.

  As it was, there were no passers-by on the well laid out footpaths. The car glided through Main Street with its fast-food shops, then went out on to the highway in open country.

  ‘Turn left here.’ The back seat occupant whispered into the speaking tube. They were approaching a minor crossing, where a dirt track intersected the highway.

  ‘Christ!’ Muttered the chauffeur, looking at the sorry state of the track. Hardly suitable for his beautiful vehicle. Fortunately, it did not have to endure the ordeal for long.

  ‘Over there, by that shack with the green roof.’ Yamamoto’s instructions were precise. The shack stood totally isolated, with no other habitation in sight. An ideal place for a secret rendezvous.

  The chauffeur pulled into the small enclosure surrounding the shack. He pressed a button on the dashboard to open a secret drawer from where he pulled out a tiny automatic pistol. Slipping it into his pocket, he got out, went round to the other side and opened the back door.

  ‘I don’t think you will need the toy, Jim.’ A faint smile crossed Yamamoto’s face, but only for an instant.

  ‘Won’t do any harm having it around, sir. You never know’, replied the chauffeur, studying his surroundings with keen professional eyes.

  For James Gibbon had once been a crack FBI agent. He had been slated for quick promotion for his many achievements, but gave it all up to be Yamamoto’s personal companion-cum-bodyguard—at a salary several times more than the Federal Government could have offered him in the foreseeable future.

  As they approached the shack they noticed a powerful motorcycle parked against the side wall. But for it, they might easily be in the frontier days of the last century.

  ‘He is waiting. You’d better remain here since I have to go in alone’, Yamamoto ordered. Jim had already noted movement inside, through the crack in the ramshackled door.

  ‘Sir’, winked Jim as he saw Yamamoto lightly tap his Omega wrist watch.

  Indeed, people who met Yamamoto often wondered why a proud Japanese man like him used a Swiss watch. None except James Gibbon knew of the ultra efficient Japanese transmitter that the watch concealed. It could summon James to his master’s side whenever needed—as two years ago in the seedy Los Angeles suburb. Two ruffians had cornered Yamamoto with demands for whatever cash he had. To those professional muggers this seemingly sedate Japanese man had appeared easy prey. But they were in for a shock. One of them received a painful karate chop while the other had a bullet through his shoulder. How the two events happened simultaneously was a puzzle the two victims were trying to figure out in the hospital subsequently.

  Without knocking, Yamamoto pushed the door and went in.

  He was momentarily blinded by the darkness within. Then he began to make out faint outlines, thanks to some light coming through chinks in the door and the window.

  The room contained two old chairs drawn up near a broken table. Behind stood an enormous man.

  ‘Joseph?’ asked Yamamoto.

  ‘Yes. I know you, Dr Chushiro Yamamoto. Let us sit down.’ The man took the nearest chair.

  ‘Since you don’t care to tell me your family name, let us stick to first names only. Call me Chushiro.’ Yamamoto spoke in even tones as he sat down.

  ‘Sure! Now coming to business, Chushiro, you are proud of this new supercomputer that your multinational is shortly going to bring out….’

  ‘Justly so, I think. We expect to be recognized as Number One.’

  Joseph laughed softly. ‘In the fifties we had hand-operated calculators. Suppose a dealer in those machines were to proclaim himself Number One today, how would he fare?’ he asked. Yamamoto was nettled by this jibe, but his reply did not display this as he spoke. ‘Our technology is not only the latest, it looks to the future.’

  Even as he said this, Yamamoto felt uneasy. Was Joseph playing cat and mouse with him … before pouncing to kill? Nobody had done this to him so far and he did not relish the experience. But Joseph soon put him out of his suspense.

  ‘Chushiro, let me assure you that your company will soon find itself in that state. See for yourself how computer technology has marched streets ahead of where you are now.’ Joseph produced a sheet of paper from one pocket and a small torch from another.

  In the torchlight Yamamoto glanced at the paper and stiffened involuntarily. A Japanese expletive was his response as he completed the reading. Joseph would have been flattered had he known that, for the first time in his life, Yamamoto had panicked, if only momentarily.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Joseph asked as Yamamoto handed the sheet back.

  ‘Joseph, you have got something out of science fiction, I am afraid. A photonic computer of this capability does not exist. Nor is it likely to materialize in the near future.’

  ‘Exactly what a maker of hand-operated calculators would have said in the fifties about the supercomputers of today … But supposing for a moment that this is hard fact rather than fiction?’ Joseph tapped the paper as he spoke.

  ‘That is a very improbable thing to suppose, Joseph. In our corporation we keep tabs on what is happening elsewhere. I am fully aware who our rivals in this game are—what they are up to and what they are capable of. To expect any of them to produce this computer is, well, like supposing that a mouse can kill a tiger.’ Yamamoto paused to think, and then added, ‘This technology lies several decades into the future—it is a dream to which the likes of us cannot aspire. But I have no time right now to waste on dreams. So unless you have something concrete to offer, let us not waste each other’s time.’

  Joseph let out a guffaw. ‘Well spoken Chushiro! But it is not in my interest to put all my cards on the table. It is a game of poker at which, I am sure, you are very adept.’ He watched Yamamoto’s dead-pan face looking surrealistic in that dim light. Then he proceeded further: ‘I may be bluffing, in which case you don’t have to worry. You lose nothing by telling me to beat it. But, on the other hand, if I am sincere, then you lose everything by that action. For I will then go to one of your rivals.’

  ‘But for me to take you seriously you have to disclose something more. None of my rivals will take you seriously either, merely on the basis of this.’ Yamamoto pointed to the paper in his hand.

  Joseph shook his head. ‘Right now, I have nothing more to give. But think: would I have gone to the trouble of coming to this country where I am on the wanted list and meeting you in this god-forsaken spot just for the fun of it? I will provide further proofs, but only in stages.’

  ‘Stages? What do you mean?’ Yamamoto asked, although with his characteristic shrewdness he had guessed the answer.

  Joseph produced a tiny slip with a number written on it. He turned the torchlight on it as he said: ‘Since you are gambling, Chushiro, you have to put some money down on the assumption that I am genuine.’

  ‘A Swiss bank account in Zurich, presumably? How much?’

  ‘The amount is written on the other side.’

  As Yamamoto turned the paper over and read it, the same Japanese expletive came from him again.

  ‘The amount is nothing to what your firm will make once you get hold of this technology.’

  Genuine or not, Joseph was correct on this count. There was no question that whoever could make a computer of these capabilities would call the tune on the world market.

  ‘What do I get in return for this amount?’

  ‘The source of this computer. And, also, if you give me two problems which are beyond the scope of your best computer in the matter of complexity of lo
gic, capacity of storage space and time of computation … I will undertake to have them solved for you.’

  ‘You did ask me to bring two problems … well, here they are.’ Yamamoto handed him two printouts and added, ‘Our experts say that these cannot be solved until the advent of the next generation of computers.’

  ‘You will get the solution within a week of the date you deposit the first instalment’, Joseph replied.

  ‘First instalment?’ Yamamoto asked.

  ‘Of course! Surely you agree that knowledge has its price?’

  Yamamoto pondered a while. Then he spoke with a tone of finality. ‘Joseph, I started earning money by delivering morning papers. It was because I took gambles which paid off that I reached where I am today. I have lost a few gambles … but I don’t recall a case where I was cheated and the person responsible for it got away with it.’

  In spite of his hefty size Joseph felt a momentary twinge of fear at this warning. Pulling himself together, he asked:

  ‘So, your decision, Chushiro?’

  ‘I accept your terms, Joseph.’

  ‘Let’s shake hands over the deal—honour among thieves, eh?’

  If Yamamoto disliked being called a thief, his face did not register it. He shook hands with Joseph.

  It was then that Joseph realized how firm Yamamoto’s grip was.

  Joseph stepped out after Yamamoto’s limousine disappeared from the scene. Having put on his helmet and goggles he set off on his motorcycle. Soon he was racing along Interstate 5 and headed for Los Angeles.

  A half hour’s ride along the freeway brought him to a rest area where he had a quick meal and then approached a call box. His telephone card carried the name Joseph Burridge. As he dialled an international call he looked at his watch and smiled softly. It was getting close to four in the afternoon.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked an irritable voice after the phone had rung several times.