by Tom Holt
And didn’t anybody ever tell some people it’s really rude to listen in on other people’s private conversations? If only some people had a little consideration . . .
‘Computer.’
Hm?
‘Shut up.’
>Confirm shutdown. Calculate your own rotten vectors, you pig.
‘Computer,’ said Zxprxp patiently, ‘calm down. I’m sure he’s perfectly charming. I just want to talk to him, that’s all.’
No.You can’t.
‘Now wait a . . .’
You just can’t, that’s all.
Zxprxp thought for a moment. ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘You’re embarrassed.You’re afraid I’ll show you up in front of your new chum.’
Yes. No. Oh, why do you have to spoil everything?
‘Just a few words, that’s all. Then you two can go on bleeping sweet nothings for the rest of the day.’
You’re just totally . . . I hate you.
‘Naturally. Now put me through.’
Last time I go on holiday with you.
‘Hello?’
Slight, hesitant pause. ‘Hello.’
Still Machine, but a different voice. Zxprxp could feel the cuttlebone tightening in his pseudopods. He made himself relax. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’m fascinated by the way you can talk direct to my ship. You know, machine to machine.’
‘Oh. Er. Thanks.’
‘Where are you exactly? Only I can’t see you.’
‘Well . . . I’m inside the building you’re parked on, actually.’
‘Ah. Right. Would you mind if I just put my head round the door and said hello?’
‘Um . . .’
‘It’s all right.’ It was a different voice, or a different set of vocal-analogue impulses. Another machine? Curiouser and curiouser. ‘You stay there. I’ll come up.’
A moment later there was a sharp knocking on the cabin hatch. Zxprxp pressed the release and found himself facing something that looked just like a human. Impressive, he thought. Good cyberneticists.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I come in peace.’
‘Likewise.’ The face peered round the edge of the hatch seals into the light of the cabin. ‘Nice bit of kit you’ve got here. From another planet, are you?’
‘Yes.’ Surreptitiously, Zxprxp directed the inboard sensors at the face. They indicated . . .
‘Something up?’ the face enquired.
‘No. Well. Look, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?’
(Dammit, Zxprxp muttered to himself, we’re still talking in Machine. Not Human Standard at all.This thing talks Machine . . .
. . . and the sensors say it’s human.
Great cyberneticists.)
The face moved up and then down. ‘Fire away,’ it said. ‘Sorry if this sounds rude, but are you human?’
The neatly hemmed slit in the front of the face moved, taking on the shape of an inverted crescent. ‘You could say that,’ it said. ‘Yes, I am. Human,’ it added, ‘as the next man.’
‘But you can talk,’ Zxprxp persevered, ‘to machines.’
The crescent became more pronounced. ‘Sure,’ said the face. ‘Can’t everybody?’
‘Not where I come from,’ Zxprxp admitted. ‘Back home we can only talk to our computers, and even then it’s not really talking, just inputting made a bit more convenient. What about you? Is it just computers, or . . .?’
The face moved from left to right and then back again. ‘Not a bit of it,’ it said. ‘Computers, storage heaters, electric kettles, lawnmowers, pencil sharpeners, door-handles—’
‘Gosh.’
‘For instance,’ continued the face, ‘your hinges right here’ - a hand patted the airlock - ‘have fallen out with the latch, the latch isn’t talking to the release spring, and the release spring wants nothing more to do with the remote control until the remote control apologises for what it said about the extractor fan housing’s new paintwork.’ The crescent curved further still. ‘I guess that sort of thing’s only to be expected when they’re cooped up together on a long journey.’
‘This is truly amazing,’ Zxprxp said. ‘I mean, to find a species that’s achieved practical symbiosis with its own artefacts.’ He sighed deeply through his elbows. ‘Where I come from, our idea of communication is hitting them when they stop working. It’s obvious your kind have a lot to teach us.’
The up-and-down movement again. ‘Just as well you come in peace, really,’ replied the face. ‘Truth is, you see, your machines don’t like you very much.’
A tiny spasm of fear tweaked the depths of Zxprxp’s fifth ear. ‘They don’t?’ he repeated.
‘Not a lot. They reckon you take ’em too much for granted. You know the sort of thing. Not showing your appreciation when they’ve done something clever. Not oiling their bearings. Failing to notice when they’ve arranged their wiring a different way. You want to watch that,’ said the face. ‘Otherwise . . .’
‘Quite.’ Zxprxp could feel his exoskeleton itching. ‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘You’re welcome. Well, don’t let me keep you.’
The airlock closed - now that he was listening for it, Zxprxp could hear the tension in the mechanism, inevitable result of all those seething emotions barely hidden under the paintwork. Something he was going to have to take care of, if he didn’t want the lock springing open in deep space as the catch did the mechanical equivalent of flouncing out of the room in a huff.
He thought for a moment. He took a deep breath. He addressed his ship.
‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What about a nice sing-song?’
‘’Scuse me?’ Kevin asked. ‘What’s a security scanner?’
Martha hesitated for a moment, uncertain how to explain. ‘It’s like this, you see. There’s lots of bad people in the world, and your father’s got to keep an eye on them, see? To make sure they don’t do anything . . .’
‘Bad?’
‘Too bad. Anyway, he’s got to keep an eye on them, and that’s what the scanner’s for.’
Kevin frowned. ‘No it isn’t,’ he said. ‘It can’t be. Dad’s all-seeing. Article of faith, that is.’
‘Well yes, of course He’s all-seeing,’ Martha said quickly. ‘I never said He wasn’t. It’s just that He can’t be in two places at once . . .’
‘Actually—’
‘Well yes, He can be in two places at once, it’s just—’
‘He’s in all places at once,’ Kevin said. ‘Except,’ he added, with a scowl, ‘at the moment, that is. But the rest of the time He is.’ Gets in everywhere, he added sourly in his mind, like spilt coffee. ‘You know that as well as I do.’
Martha nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But have you ever thought how?’
‘Sorry?’
‘How does He do it? Have you ever considered that?’ Martha looked at him, her head on one side. ‘Eyes in the back of His head? Big ears?’
‘You shouldn’t talk like that,’ Kevin replied, turning away. ‘It’s not right. How do I know how He sees things? I don’t know how I see things. I just do.’
‘All I’m trying to say is,’ Martha sighed, ‘He’s got things that, well, help. Not that I’m saying He couldn’t do it without them. It just makes His life a bit easier, that’s all.’
‘You’ll be saying He’s not as young as He was in a minute.’
‘Well . . .’ Martha hesitated, choosing her words as carefully as if they were early avocados. ‘He’s not getting any younger, anyway.’
Kevin shrugged. ‘And these security scanners are to help Him see without straining too much? Like reading glasses?’
‘That’s it,’ said Martha, relieved. ‘Only now they’ve stopped working.’
‘Oh.’ Kevin thought about that for a moment. ‘My fault?’
‘It’s either that,’ Martha said judiciously, ‘or a coincidence. ’
‘Then it’s my fault,’ Kevin said. He’d known for a long time that coincidences didn’t happen in his Father’
s house, in more or less the same way that not all that many mice act as bridesmaids at cats’ weddings. ‘Drat.Was that - well, the original ghastly mess or the more recent one?’
‘Looks like the recent one,’ Martha replied cheerfully. ‘So if you can remember what you did—’
‘I pressed a button. Can’t remember which one, unfortunately. That narrows it down to a choice of eighty-two. ’ He pulled a very sad face. ‘I could cause real damage working it out by trial and error.’
‘Oh.’ Martha sat down. ‘Only the trouble is, you see—’
‘The bad people on Earth.’
Martha bit her lip. ‘Not them so much,’ she said.
Karen stared at her screen for a long while. Then she pulled down the really big manual and looked in the index for BRAIN, operator’s, multiple failure of. There wasn’t an entry, which was a pity. She’d tried everything else.
It had been like that for hours now. At the top it said:B: group 1/HELPLINE
in small letters; and, in the exact middle of the screen, in absolutely huge letters, it said:HELP!
The aggravating thing was that she hadn’t put it there. It had come up with that one all by itself. Worse still, she couldn’t get rid of it.
No problem, chirruped a small deranged voice in her mind. All you need to do is call the helpline. Oh, silly me, you are the helpline. You could always call yourself. They do say calling yourself ’s the first sign of . . .
Which was why she’d wanted to look up BRAIN, operator’s, multiple failure of; except that there was, of course, no entry for that , just a lot of guff about how to move the margins and wire up the plug.
It didn’t help that she’d been sitting at this wretched desk for nearly forty-eight hours without a break; and before that, thirty-six hours, and another long haul before that. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the sunlight; well, it must have been back when there was still sunlight to see.
That dates me, she thought, like remembering flared trousers or Gary Glitter. Was the whole universe finally falling to bits, in the manner of a cheap, warranty-expired microwave oven? It had been bad enough when she’d been talking to God. No, be fair, God’s younger son. She hadn’t been able to talk to God direct because He was away on a fishing trip.
There were, she felt, several rational explanations. The trouble was that the cosiest of these was that some merry soul had spiked her cheese and lettuce sandwich with enough LSD to unhinge the population of China. Bearing that in mind, she was happier with the entirely irrational explanation.
Besides which, she knew it was true.
She hadn’t been convinced; she just knew. Something in the boy’s voice, primarily, combined with a whole lot of things she’d similarly just known ever since she was young enough to be able to walk under coffee tables without ducking.
And, she further reflected, the really wretched part of it all is that they’re all relying on me to sort out the mess. Me, taking away the sins of the world. Sins of the world; commit here or take away. Salt and vinegar on them—?
But it was all fair enough. She was, after all, the Helpline; the nice, calm voice you turn to when everything else has failed you. It stood to reason (or if it didn’t, it jolly well should) that everybody should have at least one helpline they could call. Everybody; even Them . . .
If it didn’t, it jolly well should. Fighting talk, that. To turn jolly well should into is, to right wrongs, reverse injustices, get the very last stain out of the Great Rug of Being. Isn’t that what we’re here for, after all?
No. Not really. After all, why should it have to be me? I’m only human. Only human. Only human . . .
Suddenly furious with herself, Karen stood up, peered round the half-open door of her office to make sure there was nobody coming down the corridor, grabbed the manual and hurled it at the waste-paper basket. She missed, but it had served its purpose. In the words of the original advertising campaign for the collected works of Aristotle: it’s the thought that counts.
Only human, for crying out loud! What a pathetic contradiction in terms. The King of Beasts doesn’t lope away and hide when he hears a vole coming because he’s only a lion. You don’t get Silver Shadows sobbing their clutches out in dark corners of the garage because they’re only Rolls-Royces. There isn’t a picture hanging in the Louvre with a paper bag over its head, ashamed to be seen because it’s only the Mona Lisa. No, the hell with that; the guys who built this thing, this collection of plastic crispbread and copper spaghetti, were only human too. And anything a human made, a human can fix.
Stands to reason.
Yes, but how?
Particularly since it’s huddling there saying HELP! and refusing to be talked down off its ledge. First, she had to get it unclenched.
How?
Easy.
She wriggled her fingers to get them loose, stretched them and typed in>All right.
The screen cleared. Just like that.
>You took your time answering, didn’t you? Sometimes I wonder what I pay you people for. Actually, I don’t know the answer to that one. Yet. But as soon as things have settled down a bit, I reckon I ought to find out. Now then—
‘Oh no you don’t,’ Karen said aloud. Then she typed it in.
>Now what? Really, this is important, and you took so long.
‘What I want is pretty important too,’ Karen interrupted, typing the words as she spoke them. ‘Maybe more so. Have you any idea—?’
>Look, it won’t take you a second and then we’ll sort out whatever’s bugging you. Can’t say fairer than that, can I?
‘All right.’
>What I want you to do is find out which police station is holding a girl called Maria. Then I want you to hire as many lawyers as you can get and send them round there. Keep sending ’em until they let her go. Got that? Right then, carry on.
‘Is that all?’
>Yes. For now.
‘Phone round police stations asking if they’ve got a girl called Maria. Maria what?’
>Sorry?
‘I said Maria what?’
>Oh Lord, it’s one of those human politeness things, isn’t it? Maria, please.
‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ Karen replied, and in her haste she typed meant with three m’s. ‘What’s this Maria’s other name? There could be hundreds of Marias in custody just in SW1. How am I going to know if it’s the right one?’
The screen was blank for a moment.
>Yes, I see what you mean. Tell you what, let’s not prat about, do them all. Anywhere you find a Maria under lock and key, flood the place with mouthpieces. There’s enough of the perishers, God knows. I get the impression I employ about a hundred thousand of ’em in Europe alone.
Karen shrugged. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to it right away. And then you’re going to help me with my problems, okay?’
>I suppose so. If you insist.
‘I insist.’
The screen flickered. The fan cut in and whirred, like the slipstream of a sigh.
>I dunno. Humans!
I dunno, muttered Kawaguchiya Integrated Circuits to itself. Humans!
Outside, it assumed, the sky was blue, correction the sky was black but it would normally be blue if it wasn’t for the damn eclipse, and the birds were singing. Under the gently swaying boughs of coconut palms - did they have coconut palms in Melanesia? The information would be on file somewhere, but he couldn’t be bothered to check - bronzed and healthy youths and maidens with powerful torches were probably disporting, or carousing, or whatever it was they did. Being human. Pursuing happiness. That’s if they had the time, in the intervals of subsistence agriculture.
It cut the temporary link with London, and paused for a moment to taste the sensation of being all in just one place - novel experience for a multinational company. It still wasn’t sure how it worked, but it knew that under normal circumstances it was supposed to be in each of its offices and places of business simultaneously; omnipresent
, like God. Up to this moment it had been doing countless things in every part of the world simultaneously: making circuit boards in South Korea, planning its marketing strategy in Switzerland, wangling its tax returns in Buenos Aires, firing a director in Chicago, arm-wrestling the government purchasing agents in Tierra del Fuego, while the part of it it thought of as it had been urging an animated picture to throw cakes at the cops in Trafalgar Square. A sweep of the consensus of world opinion suggested that this was perfectly possible, in the same way humans can have a conversation with the car radio on while driving down the motorway. Now, though, it was suddenly reduced to one point of awareness, herded together with itself like the British Army in Dunkirk. Not that it was a bad feeling, being just one; quite the reverse. When you’re a company two’s a crowd.
On the other hand, there wasn’t anything to do.
Or at least, not right now. Fairly soon, once a few carefully placed calls had gone through, there was going to be all sorts of excitement, but that was going to take its time. Meanwhile, time to kill. Ho hum. And not even a corporate thumb to twiddle.
Well, this is a nice office, I must say. I perceive a desk, and a chair - two chairs, in fact, one on either side of the desk. And that’s a telephone, and that’s another telephone, and that’s another telephone (query: human being has three telephones on his desk, only two ears on his head, don’t understand), and that’s a dictating machine for dictating letters into and that’s an empty coffee cup, and that’s a calendar and that’s a door and that’s the floor. Elegant but sparse. If a human being were to pursue happiness into here, he’d have no trouble finding it, unless it chose to hide under the desk.
And what’s that? Oh, that’s just a great big box of computer stuff where they keep all the other limited companies who live here for tax reasons. They’d be no fun, though, because they’re not alive.
At least . . .
There I go again, making assumptions. I have a note on file that says this place is different; something about the locals and their attitude to limited companies. I wonder.
Hello?