There weren’t any helicopters in front of the Lambretanum, and not a single car, not even a private rocket—nothing. “It’s that bad?” flashed the thought. I crossed a vast garden full of dahlias to reach the main entrance. For a long time no one answered. At last the cover over the one-way peephole lifted and an invisible eye scrutinized me, after which the gate opened, just enough for me to squeeze through,
“Mr. Tichy,” the man who let me in said into his pocket microphone. “Upstairs please,” he told me. “The door on the left. They’re waiting for you.”
Upstairs it was pleasantly cool. I entered the lecture hall and found myself in a highly select gathering. Except for two characters behind the conference table whom I’d never seen before, there on velvet upholstered armchairs sat the flower of cosmography. I recognized Professor Gargarragh and his assistants. Nodding to one and all, I took a seat in the back. One of the men behind the conference table, tall and graying at the temples, opened a drawer, pulled out a rubber bell and tinkled it noiselessly. What fantastic precautions, I thought.
“Gentlemen! Rectors, deans, professors, and you, our esteemed Ijon Tichy,” began the man with the gray temples, rising. “As Plenipotentiary and Minister to Matters of the Utmost Gravity and Secrecy, I hereby open this special session convened to consider the case of Cercia. Secret Adviser Xaphirius has the floor.”
In the first row a stout, broad-shouldered man, his hair as white as milk, stood up; he ascended the podium, made a slight bow to the assembly and said without preface:
“Gentlemen! About sixty years ago a Galactic Company freighter, the Jonathan II, set off from the planetary port at Yokohama. This vessel, under the command of one Astrocenty Peapo, a seasoned spacer, was carrying lumber to Areclandria, a planet of the gamma Orion. It was last sighted by a stellar beacon in the vicinity of Cerberon. Then it disappeared without a trace. A year passed, and the insurance people of Securitas Cosmica, SECOS for short, paid over full damages for the loss of the ship. Some two weeks after that a certain amateur radio operator from New Guinea received a telegram with the following text.”
The speaker lifted a card from the table and read:
KEMPOOTAR GUN BZIRCK
ASS HO ASS JUNYJANTU
“At this point, gentlemen, I must make mention of certain facts which are indispensable for a further understanding of the matter. The radio operator in question was practically illiterate and in addition had a speech impediment. By force of habit and due, one may assume, to his total lack of experience, he distorted the message, which, according to the reconstruction made by our experts at Universal Codes, originally read: ‘Computer gone berserk S. O. S. Jonathan II.’ The experts maintained, on the basis of this text, that the rare event of a mutiny in deep space had in fact taken place—we are speaking of the mutiny of the ship’s computer. Now because the insurance payment had been made to the owners and they were therefore no longer in any position to lay claim to the lost ship, for all the property rights to it (including the cargo) had been assumed by SECOS, it was SECOS who engaged the Pinkerton Agency, in the persons of Abstrahazy and Mnemonius Pinkerton, to conduct the appropriate inquiries. The investigation undertaken by these competent professionals revealed that the computer of the Jonathan, a luxury model in its day, but which, by the time of its final voyage, was well along in years, had recently been filing complaints against one of the crew. This was a rocket engineer named Symileon Gitterton, who was supposed to have tormented it in a variety of ways—lowering its output potential, flicking its tubes, taunting it, and even heaping upon the Computer such offensive epithets and slurs as, for example, ‘old screw-loose solderhead’ and ‘uncle frammus.’ Gitterton denied everything, claiming that the Computer was simply hallucinating—which does indeed on occasion happen to our senior automata. At any rate Professor Gargarragh will shortly fill you gentlemen in on this particular aspect of the case.
“All efforts to locate the ship during the next ten years failed. Soon after that time, however, the Pinkerton agents, still tirelessly working on the mysterious disappearance of the Jonathan, learned that there was a half-crazed, sickly beggar who would sit in front of the restaurant of the Hotel Galax and sing the most wondrous tales, professing to be Astrocenty Peapo the former starship commander. This old man, bedraggled and tattered beyond description, did indeed answer to the name of Astrocenty Peapo, yet not only was his reason dimmed, but he had lost the power of speech—and could only sing. When questioned patiently by the Pinkerton men, he chanted an incredible tale: how something terrible had taken place on deck, as a result of which he was thrown overboard with only the spacesuit on his back, and how with a handful of loyal rocketeers he had to return to Earth on foot from the murky regions of Andromeda, which took a good two hundred years. He wandered, so he sang, sometimes on meteors heading in the right direction, or sometimes hopped a passing barge—it was only a small part of the journey that he spent on the Lumeon, an unmanned cosmic probe which happened to be flying towards Earth at a velocity just under the velocity of light. This ride astraddle the back of the Lumeon he paid for (as he put it) with the loss of speech, though he also grew younger by many years, thanks to the well-known phenomenon of the contraction of time on bodies traveling at speeds approaching c.
“So went the story, or rather, the swan song of the old man. But of the events that had occurred aboard the Jonathan he stubbornly refused to croon a single note. Only after they placed recording devices around the hotel entrance where he often sat were the Pinkerton men able to tape the old beggar’s tunes; in several of these he let loose a volley of the most dreadful imprecations—against a common calculator that proclaimed itself Sublime Arch-imperator of the Macropanopticontinuum. Pinkerton concluded, from this, that the reading of the message had been correct, that the Computer, having gone mad, did indeed dispose of all persons on the ship.
“The investigation took on new life with the discovery, made five years later by a cruiser of the Metagalactological Institute, the Astromeg, of a rusty hulk drifting in orbit around the unexplored planet of Procyon and similar in profile to the lost Jonathan. The Astromeg, nearly out of fuel, turned back without landing on the planet, but it notified Earth by radio. A small patrolship, the Deucron, was dispatched at once, searched the regions surrounding Procyon and finally came upon a wreck. This was in fact the Jonathan, or rather, what remained of that ship. The Deucron reported that it found the abandoned vessel in frightful condition—the machines had been removed, the bulkheads, decks, partitions, hatches—everything down to the last screw, so that all that was circling the planet was an empty, gutted hull. Further probes conducted by the crew of the Deucron revealed that the mutinous Computer of the Jonathan had decided, afterwards, to settle on Procyon, and plundered the ship of its contents so as to install itself more comfortably on that planet. As a result of which information, a file was accordingly set up in our division, under the code name of CERCIA, which stands for: Cargo and Effects Repossession—Caution, Insubordinate Autopilot.
“The Computer—as subsequent research showed—had established itself on the planet and multiplied, producing numerous progeny in the form of robots, over which it enjoyed absolute power and dominion. Since however Cercia lies well within the sphere of influence, political-gravitational, of Procyon and its Melmanites, with which intelligent race it is in Earth's interest to maintain friendly relations, we had no wish to intervene militarily and so for a certain period of time left Cercia and the robot colony founded there by the Computer—in our division files bearing the code name ROBCOL—in peace. But SECOS petitioned for repossession, on the grounds that the Computer and all its robots were by law the property of the Insurance Company. We approached the Melmanites in this matter; their reply was that to their knowledge the Computer had created not a colony, but an independent state, called by its inhabitants Magnifica, and that the Melmanite government, although it had not recognized the existence of this state de jure, nor indeed had there even been an
exchange of diplomatic representatives, nonetheless accepted the presence of that social organism de facto and did not feel it had justification or, for that matter, the authority to initiate any change in the situation. So far the robots in question had conducted themselves peacefully, vegetating on the planet, and gave no sign of any aggressive or destructive tendencies. But obviously our department could not simply drop the matter there, the general feeling being that such an action would smack of frivolity; thus we sent several of our men to Cercia, disguising them first as robots, for the youthful nationalism of the Robcol had taken the form of an unreasonable hatred of all things human. The Cercian press never tires of repeating that we are abominable slaveowners, who illegally exploit and prey upon innocent robots. And so all the negotiations which we had attempted to conduct on behalf of the SECOS organization, in the spirit of mutual respect and understanding, came to naught, since even our most modest demands—namely, that the Computer turn itself and its robots over to the insurance company—were rewarded with an insulting silence.
“Gentlemen,” the speaker said, raising his voice, “events did not, unfortunately, proceed as we had anticipated. After a few radio reports we lost all contact with our people on Cercia. We sent replacements, with analogous results. After the first coded communication informing us that they had landed without incident, they gave no further sign of life. Since that time, over a period of nine years, we have sent a total of two thousand seven hundred and eighty-six agents to Cercia, and not one has returned, not one has responded! This evidence of the perfection of the robots’ counterespionage is accompanied by other, perhaps even more alarming facts. Note that the Cercian press is attacking us more violently than ever in its editorials. The robots’ printing houses are turning out, on a mass basis, leaflets and fliers addressed to the robots of Earth and in which men, portrayed as grasping voltsuckers and villains, are called injurious names—thus, for example, in the official pronouncements we are referred to as mucilids, and the whole human race—as gook. Once more we appealed, in an aide memoire, to the government of Procyon, but it repeated its previous declaration of nonintervention and all our efforts to point out the dangers inherent in that neutralist position (which is in reality the most craven isolationism) were to no avail. We were given to understand that the robots were our product, ergo we were responsible for all their acts. On the other hand Procyon was categorically opposed to any sort of punitive expedition, including the forced expropriation of the Computer and its subjects. That, gentlemen, is how the situation stands today, and the reason for the calling of this meeting. To give you some idea of how volatile the situation is, I shall only add that last month the Electron Courier, the official organ of the Computer, ran an article in which it cast mud upon the entire evolutionary tree of man and called for the annexation of Earth to Cercia, on the grounds that robots—according to all the best authorities—were a more advanced form than living creatures. On which note I conclude, and yield the floor to Professor Gargarragh.”
Bent beneath the weight of many years, the famed specialist in mechanical psychiatry ascended, not without difficulty, to the lectern.
“Gentlemen!” he said in a quavering yet still resonant voice. “For some time now it has been known that electronic brains must be not only constructed, but educated as well. The lot of an electronic brain is hard. Constant, unremitting labor, complex calculations, the abuse and rough humor of attendants—this is what an apparatus, by its nature extremely delicate, must endure. Little wonder then, that there are breakdowns, and short circuits, which not infrequently represent attempts at suicide. Not long ago I had, in my clinic, such a case. A split personality—dichotomia profunda psychogenes electrocutiva alternans. This particular brain addressed love letters to itself, employing such endearing terms as ‘relay baby,’ ‘spoolie,’ ‘little digit drum-dump’—clear proof of how badly the thing needed affection, a kind word, some warm and tender relationship. A series of electroshock treatments and a long rest restored it to health. Or take, for example, tremor electricus frigoris oscillativus. An electronic brain, gentlemen, is not a sewing machine, not something one can use to drive nails into a wall. It is a conscious being, aware of everything that takes place around it, and this is why in moments of cosmic danger it may begin to quake, setting the entire ship atremble, so that those on board can hardly keep their feet.
“There are certain insensitive natures who have no sympathy for this. They provoke the brains out of all patience. An electronic brain, gentlemen, wishes us nothing but good; however the endurance of coils and tubes has its limits too. It was only as a result of endless persecution from its captain, who turned out to be a notorious drunkard, that the electronic calculator of Grenobi, designed to make in-flight course corrections, announced in a sudden fit of madness that it was the remote-control child of the Great Andromeda and therefore hereditary emperor of all Murglandria. Treated at our most exclusive institution, the patient finally quieted down, came to its senses, and is now almost completely normal. There are, of course, more serious cases. Such for example was a certain university brain, which, having fallen in love with the wife of a mathematics professor, began out of jealousy to falsify all the calculations, till the poor mathematician grew despondent, convinced that he could no longer add. But in that brain’s defense it must be stated that the mathematician’s wife had methodically seduced it, asking it to total up the bills for her most intimate undergarments. The case we are considering here brings to mind another—that of the great spacebrain of the Pancratius. As a result of defective wiring it became connected with the ship’s other brains and, in an uncontrollable impulse to expand (which we call electrodynamic gigantophilia) pillaged the stockroom of its spare parts, deposited the crew on craggy Mizzeron, then dived into the ocean of Alantropia and proclaimed itself Patriarch of the lizards there. Before we were able to reach the planet with sedative equipment, the thing blew out its tubes in a fit of rage, for the lizards wouldn’t listen. It’s true that in this instance too there were extenuating circumstances: we learned later that the second mate of the Pancratius, a known cosmic cardsharp, had cleaned out the unfortunate brain to the last rivet—with the aid of a marked deck. But the case of the Computer, gentlemen, is exceptional. We have here the clear symptoms of such disorders as gigantomania ferrogenes acuta, as paranoia misantropica persecutoria, as polyplasia panelectropsychica debilitativa gravissima, not to mention necrofilia, thanatofilia and necromantia. Gentlemen! I must bring to your attention certain facts which are fundamental for an understanding of the case. The Jonathan II had in its hold, besides the lumber destined for the shipbuilders of Procyon, a number of receptacles carrying mercury-based synthetic memory, which was to have been delivered to the Galactic University in Fomalhaut. These contained two kinds of information: one in the field of psychopathology, the other—in archaic lexicology. We must assume that the Computer, in expanding, consumed the contents of those receptacles, and thereby absorbed into itself a comprehensive knowledge of such matters as the history of Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler, the Strangler of Gloomspick, also the biography of Sacher-Masoch, the memoirs of the Marquis de Sade, and the records of the flagellant sect of Pirpinact, and a first edition of Murmuropoulos’s Impalement through the Centuries, as well as that famous collector’s item from the Abercrombie library—Stabbing, in manuscript, by one Hapsodor, beheaded in the year 1673 in London and better known under the alias of ‘the Baby Butcher.’ In addition, an original work of Janick Pidwa, A Concise Torturatorium, and by the same author, Rack, Strap and Garrote: Prolegomena to the Gentle Art of Execution, plus the only extant copy of The Boil-in-oil Cookbook, written by Father Galvinari of Amagonia on his deathbed. Those fatal receptacles also included the minutes, deciphered from stone slabs, of the meetings of the cannibal section of the Federation of Neanderthal Literati, as well as Reflections on the Gibbet by the Vicomte de Crampfousse, and if I add that the list contained, moreover, such entries as The Perfect Crime, The Blac
k Corpse Mystery and The ABC Murders of Agatha Christie, then you can well imagine, gentlemen, what terrible influence this must have had on the otherwise innocent mind of the Computer.
“For indeed, we seek as much as possible to keep our electrobrains in ignorance about this dreadful side to human nature. But now that the regions of Procyon are inhabited by the metallic brood of a machine filled with the history of Earth’s degeneracy, perversion and crime, I must confess—alas—that mechanical psychiatry is in this particular instance absolutely helpless. I have nothing more to say.”
And the broken old man left the podium and tottered to his seat, accompanied by a deathly silence. I raised my hand. The chairman looked at me with surprise, but after a moment’s hesitation gave me the floor.
“Gentlemen!” I said, rising to my feet. “The matter, I see, is grave. Its full ramifications I was able to appreciate only upon listening to the cogent words of Professor Gargarragh. And therefore I should like to submit to this respected assembly the following proposal. I am prepared to set off, alone, for Procyon, in order to take stock of the situation there, solve the mystery of the disappearance of thousands of your people, and in the process do what I can to bring about a peaceful settlement to the growing conflict. I am fully aware that this task is far more difficult than any I have ever undertaken, but there are times, gentlemen, when one must act without regard to the chances of success or the risks involved. And so, gentlemen…”
My words were lost in a burst of applause. I shall pass over what transpired afterwards in the course of the meeting, since it would sound too much like a mass ovation in my honor. The commission and the assembly conferred upon me every conceivable sort of power. The following day I met with the director of the Procyon division and the chief of Cosmic Reconnaissance, both in the person of a Counselor Malingraut.
The Star Diaries Page 6