The Eye of the Sibyl and Other Classic Strories

by Philip K. Dick

  Incredulous, Stafford said, “You’re joking.”

  “Absolute truth. Man’s name is Herb Sousa. He owns sixty-four machines now in operation and plans expansion.”

  “I mean,” Stafford said thickly, “you’re joking about Genux-B’s response to that datum.”

  “Its response isn’t exactly to that datum per se,” the closest of the FBI men said. “For instance, we checked with both the Israeli and French governments. Nobody named Herb Sousa opened up a penny gum machine route in their countries, and that goes for chocolate-covered peanut vending machines or anything else remotely similar to it. And, contrarily, Herb Sousa maintained such a route in Chile and in the U.K. during the past two decades… without Genux-B taking any interest all those years.” He added, “He’s an elderly man.”

  “A sort of Johnny Apple Gum,” the engineer said, and tittered. “Looping the world, sending those gum machines swooping down in front of every gas—”

  “The triggering stimulus,” the engineer said, as the flapple began to drop toward a vast complex of illuminated public buildings below, “may lie in the ingredients of the merchandise placed in the machines. That’s what our experts have come up with; they studied all material available to Genux-B concerning Sousa’s gum concessions, and we know that all Genux-B has consists of a long, dry chemical analysis of the food product constituents with which Sousa loads his machines. In fact, Genux-B specifically requested more information on that angle. It kept grinding out ‘incomplete ground data’ until we got a thorough PF&D lab analysis.”

  “What did the analysis show?” Stafford asked. The flapple had now berthed on the roof of the installations housing the central component of the computer, and, as it was called these days, Mr. C-in-C of the North American Prosperity Alliance.

  “As regards foodstuffs,” an FBI man near the door said, as he stepped out onto the dimly illuminated landing strip, “nothing but gum base, sugar, corn syrup, softeners, and artificial flavor, all the way down the line. Matter of fact, that’s the only way you can make gum. And those dinky little prizes are vacuum-processed thermoplastics. Six hundred to the dollar will buy them from any of a dozen firms here and in Hong Kong and Japan. We even went so far as to trace the prizes down to the specific jobber, his sources, back to the factory, where a man from State actually stood and watched them making the damn little things. No, nothing there. Nothing at all.”

  “But,” the engineer said, half to himself, “when that data had been supplied to Genux-B—”

  “Then this,” the FBI man said, standing aside so that Stafford could disemflapple. “A Red Alert, the SAC scramble, the missiles up from their silos. Forty minutes away from thermonuclear war—the distance from us of one Phillips head screwdriver wedged in a tape drum of the computer.”

  To Stafford, the engineer said keenly, “Do you pick up anything odd or conceivably misleading in those data? Because if you do, for God’s sake speak up; all we can do this way is to dismantle Genux-B and put it out of action, so that when a genuine threat faces us—”

  “I wonder,” Stafford said slowly, pondering, “what’s meant by ‘artificial’ color.”

  III

  “It means it won’t otherwise look the right color, so a harmless food-coloring dye is added,” the engineer said presently.

  “But that’s the one ingredient,” Stafford said, “that isn’t listed in a way that tells us what it is—only what it does. And how about flavor?” The FBI men glanced at one another.

  “It is a fact,” one of them said, “and I recall this because it always makes me sore—it did specify artificial flavor. But heck—”

  “Artificial color and flavor,” Stafford said, “could mean anything. Anything over and above the color and flavor imparted.” He thought: Isn’t it prussic acid that turns everything a bright clear green? That, for example, could in all honesty be spelled out on a label as “artificial color.” And taste—what really was meant by “artificial taste”? This to him always had a dark, peculiar quality to it, this thought; he decided to shelve it. Time now to go down and take a look at Genux-B, to see what damage had been done to it.—And how much damage, he thought wryly, it still needs. If I’ve been told the truth; if these men are what they show credentials for, not S.A.T.A. saboteurs or an intelligence cadre of one of several major foreign powers.

  From the garrison warrior domain of Northern California, he thought wryly. Or was that absolutely impossible after all? Perhaps something genuine and ominous had burgeoned into life there. And Genux-B had—as designed to do—sniffed it out.

  For now, he could not tell.

  But perhaps by the time he finished examining the computer he would know. In particular, he wanted to see firsthand the authentic, total collection of data tapes currently being processed from the outside universe into the computer’s own inner world. Once he knew that—

  I’ll turn the thing back on, he said grimly to himself. I’ll do the job I was trained for and hired to do.

  Obviously, for him it would be easy. He thoroughly knew the schematics of the computer. No one else had been into it replacing defective components and wiring as had he.

  This explained why these men had come to him. They were right—at least about that.

  “Piece of gum?” one of the FBI agents asked him as they walked to the descy with its phalanx of uniformed guards standing at parade rest before it. The FBI agent, a burly man with a reddish fleshy neck, held out three small brightly colored spheres.

  “From one of Sousa’s machines?” the engineer asked.

  “Sure is.” The agent dropped them into Stafford’s smock pocket, then grinned. “Harmless? Yes-no-maybe, as the college tests say.”

  Retrieving one from his pocket, Stafford examined it in the overhead light of the descy. Sphere, he thought. Egg. Fish egg; they’re round, as in caviar. Also edible; no law against selling brightly colored eggs. Or are they laid this color?

  “Maybe it’ll hatch,” one of the FBI men said casually. He and his companions had become tense now, as they descended into the high-security portion of the building.

  “What do you think would hatch out of it?” Stafford said.

  “A bird,” the shortest of the FBI men said brusquely. “A tiny red bird bringing good tidings of great joy.”

  Both Stafford and the engineer glanced at him.

  “Don’t quote the Bible to me,” Stafford said. “I was raised with it. I can quote you back anytime.” But it was strange, in view of his own immediate thoughts, almost an occurrence of synchronicity between their minds. It made him feel more somber. God knew, he felt somber enough as it was. Something laying eggs, he thought. Fish, he reflected, release thousands of eggs, all identical; only a very few of them survive. Impossible waste—a terrible, primitive method.

  But if eggs were laid and deposited all over the world, in countless public places, even if only a fraction survived—it would be enough. This had been proved. The fish of Terra’s waters had done so. If it worked for terran life, it could work for nonterran, too.

  The thought did not please him.

  “If you wanted to infest Terra,” the engineer said, seeing the expression on his face, “and your species, from God knows what planet in what solar system, reproduced the way our cold-blooded creatures here on Terra reproduce—” He continued to eye Stafford. “In other words, if you spawned thousands, even millions of small hard-shelled eggs, and you didn’t want them noticed, and they were bright in color as eggs generally are—” he hesitated. “One wonders about incubation. How long. And under what circumstances? Fertilized eggs, to hatch, generally have to be kept warm.”

  “In a child’s body,” Stafford said, “it would be very warm.”

  And the thing, the egg, would—insanely—pass Pure Food & Drug standards. There was nothing toxic in an egg. All organic, and very nourishing.

  Except, of course, that if this happened to be so, the outer shell of hard colored “candy” would be immune to the acti
on of normal stomach juices. The egg would not dissolve. But it could be chewed up in the mouth, though. Surely it wouldn’t survive mastication. It would have to be swallowed like a pill: intact.

  With his teeth he bit down on the red ball and cracked it. Retrieving the two hemispheres, he examined the contents.

  “Ordinary gum,” the engineer said. “ ‘Gum base, sugar, corn syrup, softeners—’ ” He grinned tauntingly, and yet in his face a shadow of relief passed briefly across before it was, by an effort of will, removed. “False lead.”

  “False lead, and I’m glad it is,” the shortest of the FBI men said. He stepped from the descy. “Here we are.” He stopped in front of the rank of uniformed and armed guards, showed his papers. “We’re back,” he told the guards.

  “The prizes,” Stafford said.

  “What do you mean?” the engineer glanced at him.

  “It’s not in the gum. So it has to be in the prizes, the charms and knickknacks. That’s all that’s left.”

  “What you’re doing,” the engineer said, “is implicitly maintaining that Genux-B is functioning properly. That it’s somehow right; there is a hostile warlike menace to us. One so great it justifies pacification of Northern California by hard first-line weapons. As I see it, isn’t it easier simply to operate from the fact that the computer is malfunctioning?”

  Stafford, as they walked down the familiar corridors of the vast government building, said, “Genux-B was built to sift a greater amount of data simultaneously than any man or group of men could. It handles more data than we, and it handles them faster. Its response comes in microseconds. If Genux-B, after analyzing all the current data, feels that war is indicated, and we don’t agree, then it may merely show that the computer is functioning as it was intended to function. And the more we disagree with it, the better this is proved. If we could perceive, as it does, the need for immediate, aggressive war on the basis of the data available, then we wouldn’t require Genux-B. It’s precisely in a case like this, where the computer has given out a Red Alert and we see no menace, that the real use of a computer of this class comes into play.”

  After a pause, one of the FBI men said, as if speaking to himself, “He’s right, you know. Absolutely right. The real question is, Do we trust Genux-B more than ourselves? Okay, we built it to analyze faster and more accurately and on a wider scale than we can. If it had been a success, this situation we face now is precisely what could have been predicted. We see no cause for launching an attack; it does.” He grinned harshly. “So what do we do? Start Genux-B up again, have it go ahead and program SAC into a war? Or do we neutralize it—in other words, unmake it?” His eyes were cold and alert on Stafford. “A decision one way or the other has to be made by someone. Now. At once. Someone who can make a good educated guess as to which it is, functioning or malfunctioning.”

  “The President and his cabinet,” Stafford offered tensely. “An ultimate decision like this has to be his. He bears the moral responsibility.”

  “But the decision,” the engineer spoke up, “is not a moral question, Stafford. It only looks like it is. Actually the question is only a technical one. Is Genux-B working properly or has it broken down?”

  And that’s why you rousted me from bed, Stafford realized with a thrill of icy dismal grief. You didn’t bring me here to implement your jerry-built jamming of the computer. Genux-B could be neutralized by one shell from one rocket launcher towed up and parked outside the building. In fact, he realized, in all probability it’s effectively neutralized now. You can keep that Phillips screwdriver wedged in there forever. And you helped design and build the thing. No, he realized, that’s not it. I’m not here to repair or destroy; I’m here to decide. Because I’ve been physically close to Genux-B for fifteen years—it’s supposed to confer some mystic intuitive ability on me to sense whether the thing is functioning or malfunctioning. I’m supposed to hear the difference, like a good garage mechanic who can tell merely by listening to a turbine engine whether it has bearing knock or not, and if so how bad.

  A diagnosis, he realized. That’s all you want. This is a consultation of computer doctors—and one repairman.

  The decision evidently lay with the repairman, because the others had given up.

  He wondered how much time he had. Probably very little. Because if the computer were correct—

  Sidewalk gum machines, he pondered. Penny-operated. For kids. And for that it’s willing to pacify all Northern California. What could it possibly have extrapolated? What, looking ahead, did Genux-B see?

  It amazed him: the power of one small tool to halt the workings of a mammoth constellation of autonomic processes. But the Phillips screwdriver had been inserted expertly.

  “What we must try,” Stafford said, “is introduction of calculated, experimental—and false—data.” He seated himself at one of the typewriters wired directly to the computer. “Let’s start off with this,” he said, and began to type.

  HERB SOUSA, OF SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA, THE GUM MACHINE MAGNATE, DIED SUDDENLY IN HIS SLEEP. A LOCAL DYNASTY HAS COME TO AN UNANTICIPATED END.

  Amused, one of the FBI men said, “You think it’ll believe that?”

  “It always believes its data,” Stafford said. “It has no other source to rely on.”

  “But if the data conflict,” the engineer pointed out, “it’ll analyze everything out and accept the most probable chain.”

  “In this case,” Stafford said, “nothing will conflict with this datum because this is all Genux-B is going to receive.” He fed the punched card to Genux-B then, and stood waiting. “Tap the outgoing signal,” he instructed the engineer. “Watch to see if it cuts off.”

  One of the FBI men said, “We already have a line splice, so that ought to be easy to do.” He glanced at the engineer, who nodded.

  Ten minutes later the engineer, now wearing headphones, said, “No change. The Red Alert is still being emitted; that didn’t affect it.”

  “Then it has nothing to do with Herb Sousa as such,” Stafford said, pondering. “Or else he’s done it—whatever it is—already. Anyhow, his death means nothing to Genux-B. We’ll have to look somewhere else.” Again seating himself at the typewriter, he began on his second spurious fact.

  IT HAS BEEN LEARNED, ON THE ADVICE OF RELIABLE SOURCES IN BANKING AND FINANCIAL CIRCLES IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA, THAT THE CHEWING GUM EMPIRE OF THE LATE HERB SOUSA WILL BE BROKEN UP TO PAY OUTSTANDING DEBTS. ASKED WHAT WOULD BE DONE WITH THE GUM AND TRINKETS CONSTITUTING THE GOODIES WITHIN EACH MACHINE, LAW-ENFORCEMENT OFFICERS HAZARDED THE GUESS THAT THEY WOULD BE DESTROYED AS SOON AS A COURT ORDER, NOW BEING SOUGHT BY THE ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY OF SACRAMENTO, CAN BE PUT INTO EFFECT.

  Ceasing typing, he sat back, waiting. No more Herb Sousa, he said to himself, and no more merchandise. What does that leave? Nothing. The man and his commodities, at least as far as Genux-B was concerned, no longer existed.

  Time passed; the engineer continued to monitor the output signal of the computer. At last, resignedly, he shook his head. “No change.”

  “I have one more spurious datum I want to feed it,” Stafford said. Again he put a card in the typewriter and began to punch.

  IT APPEARS NOW THAT THERE NEVER WAS AN INDIVIDUAL NAMED HERBERT SOUSA; NOR DID THIS MYTHOLOGICAL PERSON EVER GO INTO THE PENNY GUM MACHINE BUSINESS.

  As he rose to his feet, Stafford said, “That should cancel out everything Genux-B knows or ever did know about Sousa and his penny-ante operation.” As far as the computer was concerned, the man had been retroactively expunged.

  In which case, how could the computer initiate war against a man who had never existed, who operated a marginal concession which also never existed?

  A few moments later the engineer, tensely monitoring the output signal of Genux-B, said, “Now there’s been a change.” He studied his oscilloscope, then accepted the reel of tape being voided by the computer and began a close inspection of that, too.

  For a time he remained silent, inten
t on the job of reading the tape; then all at once he glanced up and grinned humorously at the rest of them.

  He said, “It says that the datum is a lie.”

  IV

  “A lie!” Stafford said unbelievingly.

  The engineer said, “It’s discarded the last datum on the grounds that it can’t be true. It contradicts what it knows to be valid. In other words, it still knows that Herb Sousa exists. Don’t ask me how it knows this; probably it’s an evaluation from wide-spectrum data over an extensive period of time.” He hesitated, then said, “Obviously, it knows more about Herb Sousa then we do.”

  “It knows, anyhow, that there is such a person,” Stafford conceded. He felt nettled. Often in the past Genux-B had spotted contradictory or inaccurate data and had expelled them. But it had never mattered this much before.

  He wondered, then, what prior, unassailable body of data existed within the memory-cells of Genux-B against which it had compared his spurious assertion of Sousa’s nonexistence.

  “What it must be doing,” he said to the engineer, “is to go on the assumption if if X is true, that Sousa never existed, then Y must be true—whatever ‘Y’ is. But Y remains untrue. I wish we knew which of all its millions of data units Y is.”

  They were back to their original problem: Who was Herb Sousa and what had he done to alert Genux-B into such violent sine qua non activity?

  “Ask it,” the engineer said to him.

  “Ask what?” He was puzzled.

  “Instruct it to produce its stored data inventory on Herb Sousa. All of it.” The engineer kept his voice deliberately patient. “God knows what it’s sitting on. And once we get it, let’s look it over and see if we can spot what it spotted.”