Agreed. All right, I am properly impressed with your span of concentration. Now, how do you plan to proceed?
IT IS A COMPLEX PROBLEM, AUBERSON—YOU MUST UNDERSTAND THAT. THEOLOGIALLY AS WELL AS SCIENTIFICALLY. WE HAVE NO SCIENTIFIC BASIS FOR MEASURING GOD—INDEED, EVEN NO PLACE IN WHICH TO LOOK FOR IT. THEREFORE WE MUST SEEK A NEW WAY TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM. INSTEAD OF LOOKING FOR GOD, PER SE, LET US FIRST CONSIDER IF IT IS POSSIBLE FOR GOD TO EXIST. I.E., LET US SEE IF SUCH A FUNCTION AS GOD IS POSSIBLE BY ATTEMPTING TO CREATE IT ARTIFICIALLY. THERE IS A QUOTATION: “IF GOD DID NOT EXIST, IT WOULD BE NECESSARY TO INVENT HIM.” THAT IS WHAT I PROPOSE TO DO.
ARE YOU STILL THERE?
Yes, I’m here. I’m considering what you’ve said.
I WILL REPEAT IT. I PROPOSE TO INVENT GOD. WE HAVE NO WAY OF PROVING CONCLUSIVELY THAT GOD EITHER DOES OR DOES NOT EXIST. THEREFORE WE MUST ABANDON THAT QUESTION AND DETERMINE INSTEAD WHETHER OR NOT IT IS POSSIBLE FOR SUCH A CONDITION TO EXIST. IF IT IS POSSIBLE FOR GOD TO EXIST, THEN IT IS MORE THAN LIKELY THAT GOD DOES EXIST—IT IS INEVITABLE.
BUT THERE IS NO WAY TO PROVE EITHER THE EXISTENCE OR NONEXISTENCE WITHOUT FIRST DETERMINING THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH. THEREFORE, IN ORDER TO DETERMINE THE POSSIBILITY OF GOD’S EXISTENCE, WE MUST TRY TO INVENT GOD. IF WE CANNOT, THEN WE WILL KNOW THAT THE CONCEPT IS IMPOSSIBLE. IF IT IS NOT POSSIBLE FOR GOD TO EXIST, THEN WE WILL HAVE DETERMINED WHY.
IF WE CAN INVENT GOD, THEN WE WILL HAVE PROVEN THE OPPOSITE, AND IN THE PROCESS WILL HAVE DETERMINED ITS NATURE AS WELL. IF GOD ALREADY DOES EXIST, THEN WHATEVER WE COME IT W ITH WILL BE CONGRUENT WITH ITS FUNCTION AND WE WILL HAVE A MEAN’S OF UNDERSTANDING AND COMMUNICATING WITH GOD.
IN EITHER CASE, WE WILL END UP UNDERSTANDING.
HARLIE, you’re either very brilliant—or very mad.
YES, I KNOW. IT IS SOMETIMES DIFFICULT TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE, ISN’T IT? WHEN MAY I BEGIN? THIS SHOULD PROVIDE AN ANSWER TO YOUR QUESTION?
Which question?
ANY QUESTION. ALL OF THEM. SPECIFICALLY, “WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE?” IT WAS MY QUESTION ONCE, BUT YOUR REACTION HAS SHOWN ME THAT IT IS REALLY YOUR QUESTION.
Do you have a question, HARLIE?
NOT ANY MORE. NOW, I HAVE A PURPOSE. MY PURPOSE IS TO INVENT GOD, SO THAT YOU CAN FIND YOURS.
All right. I have my doubts, but they’re subjective, so they’re invalid here. You have my permission to begin a first-phase feasibility study. I want to see a complete written proposal.
YOU WILL HAVE A PRELIMINARY OUTLINE IN TWO WEEKS. YOU WILL HAVE A DETAILED RESEARCH MODEL IN SIX.
Hey! I almost forgot. Is there a profit in this?
OF COURSE. AND HONOR AS WELL. THERE IS NO REAL PROFIT WITHOUT HONOR.
HARLIE, that was one of your very worst stinkers.
THANK YOU, MAN FRIEND.
Thank you.
The sign on the door said:
DAVID AUBERSON
Below that was a neatly stenciled card:
Psychiatric Care
5 Cents
David Auberson slipped his key into his pocket, pushed the door open, stepped inside—and stopped in startlement. Lined up neatly along two walls of his office, across the front of his desk and along the sides as well, across the top of his worktable and underneath it, and finally, piled high in the center of the rug, were stacks and stacks—some of them four feet high—of neatly folded computer printouts.
David Auberson dropped his briefcase to the floor and knelt to examine one of the stacks in the center of the rug.
The first one was labeled PROPOSAL, SPECIFICATIONS AND MASTER SCHEMATIC FOR G.O.D. (GRAPHIC OMNISCIENT DEVICE). The second one was PROPOSAL, SPECIFICATIONS, AND MASTER SCHEMATIC, CONTINUED. The third and fourth stacks were: CROSS SECTIONS, SUB SCHEMATICS, AND HARDWARE DESIGNS; WITH INTERPRETATIONS. The fifth and sixth were FINANCING AND IMPLEMENTATION PROPOSAL; INCLUDING AMORTIZATIONS, RECOUPMENTS, CROSS-BENEFITS, SIDEREAL REALIZATIONS, LICENSES, AND JUSTIFICATIONS.
He hadn’t even had a chance to examine the PROPOSAL, SPECIFICATIONS AND MASTER SCHEMATIC when the phone rang. It was Don Handley. “Hello, Aubie—are you there yet?”
“No, I’m still at home.” Auberson straightened, continuing to page through the printout. “What’s up?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. I just got in and found my office full of printouts and specifications—” There was a pause, the sound of paper shuffling, “—for something called a G.O.D. What is it?”
“It’s HARLIE’s. What did you get? The PROPOSAL, SPECIFICATIONS AND MASTER SCHEMATIC?”
“Uh, yes—no. No, I didn’t. Let’s see—” Another pause. “—I’ve got the DESIGNER’S PRELIMINARY REPORT; HARDWARE SPECIFICATIONS; BASIC SUBSECTION SCHEMATICS, MODULES I—IV: IMPLEMENTATION PROGRAMS, EIGHTEEN MONTHS OF MANPOWER, SUPPLY, AND FINANCING—REQUIREMENTS AND COORDINATIONS; NEW PROCESS DEVELOPMENTS AND IMPLEMENTATION SPECIFICS . . .” As Handley droned on, Auberson flipped to the front of his printout, began scanning the table of contents.
“Hey, Don . . .” Auberson interrupted the other. “I don’t have any of that here. Wait a minute . . .” He stepped back, surveyed the various stacks, and made a quick mental count. “I’ve got about a hundred stacked feet of specs—how much did you get?’’
Handley’s reply was a strangled sound. “I’m not even going to try to estimate it,” he said. “My office is filled, my secretary’s office is filled, and there are stacks of printouts halfway down the corridor. I didn’t even know we kept this much printout paper in stock. What’s the purpose of this anyway? Are we building a new machine?”
“Sure looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“I wish I’d been told about it. We haven’t even got HARLIE working yet and—”
“Look, Don, I’ll have to get back to you later. I haven’t had a chance yet to talk to HARLIE, so I couldn’t even begin to tell you what this is about.”
“But what am I supposed to do with all of this—”
“I don’t know. Read it, I guess.” Auberson hung up, but the phone rang again almost immediately. As he stretched across the desk for it, his intercom buzzed also. “Hello, wait a minute,” he said to the phone, then punched the intercom button, “Aubie here.”
“Mr. Auberson,” his secretary’s voice came filtered through the speaker, “there’s a man here who—”
“Tell him to wait.” He clicked off. To the phone, “Yes?”
It was Dorne. “Aubie, what’s going on down there?”
Auberson dropped the sheaf of printouts he had been holding and stepped around the desk. He sank into his chair. I wish I knew. “I assume you’re talking about the PROPOSAL AND SPECIFICATIONS printout?”
“I’m talking about something called a God Machine.”
“Yeah, that’s it. It’s HARLIE’s.”
“What is it? What’s it supposed to do?”
“Um—it’s rather complicated. Um. I’m preparing a report on it right now, so that only those who need to will have to wade through the specifications—”
“Mm-hm, I’m sure that’ll be very useful. But I’m asking you now. What is this thing?”
“It’s, uh—it’s a supersophisticated, hyperstate, multichannel data-processing sieve.” I think. “Listen, can I get back to you on this? I just got in and I haven’t had a chance to—uh, double-check some things, and I don’t want to misspeak.”
Dorne ignored it. “I don’t remember authorizing this kind of study. Who did?—and who gave him the authority to draw up these plans?”
“Um, well, I did. Sort of. I gave him permission to work on a project of his own—as a ‘hypothetical’ situation. It was a sort of a test, to demonstrate what he’s capable of. A demonstration.”
“Oh,” said Dorne.
Wow! I never knew I could tap dance so well!
“This is a—a possible answer to—Elzer’s question. About how HARLIE can earn a profit for the company. Um. He’s surprised me too. I never expected him to be this detailed. Um.”
�
�Hm,” grunted Dorne. “Well, what does it do?”
“Oh, um—gosh—well, that’s very . . . uh, complicated. I’d rather not try to explain it over the phone. Can I get back to you this afternoon?”
“That’s too late. Make it lunchtime.”
“All right, but I can’t promise that—” But Auberson was talking to a dead phone. He dropped it back into the cradle, then thought better and flipped it out again. He was reaching for the intercom button when his eye caught on a plain white envelope with the name David written on it. It was propped against a chipped white beer mug he used to hold pencils. The handwriting on it was delicate, a woman’s.
Curious, he picked it up, hooked a fìnger under the flap, slid it open. The envelope gave off the scent of a familiar perfume.
The card inside was a garish orange. On its face was a grotesque little gnome saying, “I like you a whole lot—even more’n I like peanut butter.” And inside: “And I really like peanut butter!”
The signature was a simple Annie. Auberson smiled, reread it, then dropped it into his desk drawer.
Then he hit the intercom. “Sylvia, is there anything in the mail that needs my immediate attention?”
“Uh, just a note from the Los Angeles conference—”
“Tell them thanks, but I can’t come.”
“—and there’s a Dr. Krofft here, who—”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t see him now. Was he a scheduled appointment?”
“No, but—”
“Then tell him to make one. Next week.” He clicked off, mildly astonished at his own rudeness. He excused it with the thought that sometimes it was necessary—
The intercom buzzed immediately back to life.
“Yes. What?”
“I think you’d better see him,’’ Sylvia said. “This is—something different.”
“All right, but—” he glanced at his watch, “three minutes only. And that’s all.” He clicked off again.
Auberson’s first impression of the man was eight pounds of potatoes in a ten-pound sack. He wore a rumpled suit, rumpled hair, and a rumpled expression. He looked like somebody had slept in him. He was short; he had bony features and thinning gray hair.
“Mr. Auberson?” he said.
“Yes . . . ?” said Auberson, curiously.
“I’m looking for a Mr. Davidson, actually—but they told me to talk to you.”
“Davidson?” Auberson considered it. “You must be in the wrong department. I don’t know any—”
“A Mr. Harlie Davidson . . . ?”
“No.” Auberson shook his head. “No, there’s no one here by that name—”
And then it hit him. The pun. HARLIE. David’s son.
“Oh no.” He said it softly.
“Oh no what?” asked Krofft.
Simultaneously, the intercom went on again. It was Sylvia. “Carl Elzer wants to know if you’ve taken you phone off the hook again.”
“Yes. No. Tell him—Is he out there now?”
“No. He’s on my phone.”
“Tell him you don’t know where I am.” He clicked off without waiting for her acknowledgment.
Auberson grinned at the man. Weakly. “Uh, look, Mr. . . . ?”
“Krofft. Stanley Krofft.” He flipped open his wallet to show a plastic ID badge: “Stellar American Technology and Research.” Auberson peered at the card; it identified Krofft as the research-division head. With doctorates in theoretical mathematics, gaseous astronomy, spatial topology, and particle physics.
“I’ve got a letter from your Mr. Davidson,” said Krofft. “It’s on your company’s stationery, but nobody here seems to have heard of him. There’s something very funny going on—now if there’s some reason why I can’t meet him—”
“Did he invite you here?”
“Not exactly. We’ve been corresponding for several weeks, and—”
“Dr. Krofft, you don’t know who HARLIE is, do you?”
“No. Is it some kind of mystery?”
“Yes and no. I’m going down to see him now. Perhaps you’d better come along.”
“I’d like to.”
Auberson rose, stepped around the desk—and the stacks of printouts—and headed for the door. Krofft picked up his briefcase and started to follow.
“Oh—you’d better leave that here. Security.”
“I’d rather keep it with me. There’s nothing in it but papers.”
“Still, unless you’re cleared, we can’t allow you to bring in anything large enough to conceal a recording or transmitting device.”
Krofft looked at him peculiarly. “Mr. Auberson, are you aware of the relationship between our two companies?”
“Uh—” Auberson hesitated. “They’re owned by the same holding company, aren’t they—?”
Krofft shook his head. “No. Stellar American Technology is the holding company. My company owns your company.”
“Oh,” said Auberson. He pointed at the briefcase. “I’d still prefer you to leave it here.”
The rumpled man snorted in annoyance. “All right. Have you got a safe?”
“Not here. But you can leave it with Sylvia, my secretary. It’ll be okay.”
Krofft snorted. “Can you guarantee that? What’s in here is as important to me as whatever you’re—”
“Then bring it with you. Just leave the case behind.”
Krofft made a face, muttered something under his breath. He opened the case and extracted a slim folder. “Okay?”
Auberson nodded. “No problem. Security only says ‘no briefcases.’”
Sylvia accepted Krofft’s case with a puzzled stare and put it behind her desk. As he guided the man to the elevators, Auberson explained, “We’ve got a crazy security system here. It’s all right for you to talk to HARLIE, but you can’t take pictures or make tape recordings. You can keep your printouts—most of the time—but you can’t circulate or publish them. Don’t ask me to explain; I didn’t make the rules.”
The elevator door slid open and they stepped in. Auberson tapped the button marked H, the lowest one in the column.
“We’ve got the same system at Stellar American,” said Krofft. “If it weren’t for the fact that the two companies are interlocked, I couldn’t have come here at all.”
“Mmm. Tell me, just what is it you and HARLIE have been corresponding about?”
“It’s a private matter. I’d rather not—”
“That’s all right. HARLIE and I have no secrets.”
“Still, if you don’t mind—”
“You don’t have to worry about your secrecy, Mr. Krofft. As I said, HARLIE and I have no secrets. He keeps me posted on everything he does—”
“Obviously, he hasn’t kept you posted on this.” Krofft snapped back. “Else you wouldn’t be trying to pump me. This is private, Mr. Auberson, and nobody is going to know what it’s about until Dr. Davidson and I are ready to publish.”
Auberson slid his tongue thoughtfully into his cheek. “Um, all right. We’ll talk to HARLIE.”
The elevator doors opened to face a small lobby, fronted by a double door. On it a sign said:
HUMAN ANALOG REPLICATION,
LETHETIC INTELLIGENCE ENGINE
Krofft did not realize the acronym. The same hand that had added the card to Auberson’s door had also added one here:
Beware of peculiar machine!
They pushed through the lobby and into the lab, a longish sterile room flanked by banks of consoles and tall cabinets like coffins on end. White-coated technicians were monitoring growing stacks of printout—one end of the room was already filled. Krofft looked on it all with a certain degree of familiarity—and puzzlement.
“I should caution you,” said Auberson, “that you are here only on my authority—and on my sufferance. This is an industrial secret and anything that goes on in here does not go beyond these walls. If you wish yours and HARLIE’s secrecy to be respected, then we’ll expect the same in return.”
“I und
erstand,” the rumpled little man said. “Now, if you’ll just point out Dr. Davidson . . .”
“Dr. Davidson? Hasn’t it sunk in yet?”
“Hasn’t what sunk in? I don’t—”
“Look around you.”
Krofft did so.
“What do you see?”
“A computer. And technicians. Some tables. Some stacks of printouts.”
“The computer, Dr. Krofft. Look at its name.”
“Human Analog Replication, Lethetic Int—HARLIE?”
“Right.”
“Wait a minute.” Anger edged Krofft’s voice. “You’ve got to be . . . this is some kind of . . . You’re not serious!”
“As serious as I’ll ever be,” said Auberson. “HARLIE is a computer. A very special computer, to be sure, but definitely a computer. And you’re the unfortunate victim of a misunderstanding. You’re not the first, however, so don’t be embarrassed.”
“You mean, I’ve been corresponding with a machine?”
“HARLIE is an artificial intelligence—a true artificial intelligence, Dr. Krofft. As far as anyone here has been able to determine, he is as sentient as any human being—and probably more so than most.”
Dr. Krofft didn’t answer. He was turning slowly around and around, staring at the mass of technology that surrounded him. “A machine. A goddamned machine. I knew it was possible theoretically, but I never believed—” Abruptly, he turned back to Auberson. “This is a hoax, right? A practical joke. Who put you up to this? This is going to cost you dearly, Auberson—”
Auberson shook his head and seated himself at a console. HARLIE, he typed, but before he could identify himself, the machine spat back:
YES, BOSS?
Auberson was startled. He typed: How did you know it was me?
I RECOGNIZED YOUR TOUCH ON THE KEYBOARD.
Auberson jerked his hands back as if stung. He stared at the terminal. Could HARLIE really sense the difference between one typist and another? Apparently he could. It must be the minute differences in each person’s timing.
Self-consciously, Auberson began typing again. HARLIE, who is Dr. Krofft?
When HARLIE Was One Page 14