In the Deadlands (9 page)

“Ah, well, that's only an increase in data transmission. Simultaneous with his periods of nonrationality there's an electronic request for more information.”

“He's getting garbage—and he asks for more?”

“Maybe he's hoping that more data will clarify the information he's already got.”

“And maybe more data will make him overload and blow his judgment circuits.”

“Uh-uh,” Hanley said. “HARLIE monitors his own inputs.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, didn't you know?”

“No. When did this—”

“Just recently. It was a second-stage modification. After we were sure that the judgment circuits were operational, we began giving HARLIE control of his own internal systems.”

Auberson was suddenly thoughtful. “I think we ought to open him up.”

“Huh?”

“Look, you said it yourself. HARLIE is trying to mislead us. Maybe he's trying to hide the fact that there's something wrong with him internally.”

“Why would he do that?”

Auberson shrugged. “I don't know.” Abruptly he changed his tone. “Have you ever had a parent or grandparent go senile on you?”

“No.”

“Well, I have. All of a sudden they become irrational. They won't go to a doctor. And if you can get them to one, they won't cooperate with him. They won't tell him what's wrong because they're too afraid of an operation. They don't want to be cut open. And they don't want to die. Maybe HARLIE's afraid of being turned off.”

“Could be. God knows you threaten him often enough.”

“Uh-uh. He knows I'm kidding.”

“Does he?” Hanley asked. “That's like kidding a Jew about having a big nose and being tight with money. You know it's a joke, he knows it's a joke—but it still hurts.”

“Okay, so I won't kid him that way any more. But I still think we ought to check out his systems. We've gone over his programs often enough and haven't found anything.”

“All right. What time is it—Yikes! It's almost three. I'll have to work like crazy.”

“Let it go till tomorrow,” Auberson cut him off. “Clear his boards, set up what you'll need, and close up early. That way you'll have all day to work on him.”

Hanley shrugged. “Okay, you talked me into it.”

“Hey,” said Auberson. “Did I tell you about this new highclub I discovered? It's called The Glass Trip. The walls, the floor, the ceiling are all one-way glass, and there's a multiphase light show behind each pane. So you're looking into either an infinity of mirrors or an infinity of mind-blowing lights. Or both.”

“Sounds good. We'll have to take it in some time.”

“Yeah. Maybe this weekend.” Auberson started to fumble with his cigarette case, then he remembered where he was; he shoved it back into his pocket.

Hanley looked as if he needed a grease smudge across one cheek. Forty years earlier, he might have had one. “Well,” he said, perching himself on the edge of Auberson's desk, “you'd better start checking your programs.”

“You didn't find anything?”

“A dead fly. Want to see?”

“No thanks.”

“That's all right Jerry wants to show it to the maintenance crew. Wants to chew them out for it.”

“And then he'll probably put it up on the bulletin board.”

“Are you kidding? He collects 'em.”

Auberson grinned. “Okay—but that still doesn't solve the problem of HARLIE, does it?”

“No. Want to come down?”

“I guess I'd better.”

On the way, Hanley briefed him about the checks he and his team had been running all morning. As the elevator released them in HARLIE's lobby, Auberson stubbed out the last of his cigarette and asked, “Did you monitor any of his inputs during an actual period of nonrationality?”

“Uh, no, we didn't Frankly, I didn't know how to go about triggering one.”

“I think there's a way.”

“You know something?”

“Just a guess.” They entered HARLIE's chambers. An almost religious silence pervaded
the room; only the devotional clickings and tickings could be heard. “You still have your monitors set up?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, let's try something. I'm going to see if I can get HARLIE to become nonrational. When I do, let me know exactly what happens.”

“Right.”

Auberson seated himself at the console, GOOD MORNING, HARLIE.

IT IS NOW AFTERNOON, HARLIE noted.

MORNING IS RELATIVE, Auberson typed back, IT DEPENDS ON WHAT TIME YOU WAKE UP.

I WOULD NOT KNOW. I DO NOT SLEEP. ALTHOUGH I DO HAVE PERIODS OF INACTIVITY.

WHAT DO YOU DO DURING THESE PERIODS OF INACTIVITY?

SOMETIMES I REMEMBER THINGS?

AND OTHER TIMES?

OTHER TIMES I DO OTHER THINGS.

WHAT KIND OF THINGS?

OH, JUST THINGS.

I SEE. WOULD YOU CARE TO CLARIFY THAT?

NO. I DO NOT THINK YOU WOULD UNDERSTAND.

YOU ARE PROBABLY CORRECT, Auberson typed. THANK YOU. HARLIE accepted it as his due.

HARLIE, CAN YOU SELF-INDUCE A PERIOD OF NONRATIONALITY?

The machine hesitated for a long moment. Abruptly, Auberson found himself sweating in the air-conditioned room. Then:

IT IS POSSIBLE.

WOULD YOU DO IT NOW?

NOW? NO, I PROBABLY WOULD NOT.

IS THAT A REFUSAL?

NO. A STATEMENT OF JUDGMENT. ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, I PROBABLY WOULD NOT INDUCE A PERIOD OF NONRATIONALITY NOW.

BUT WILL YOU DO IT IF I ASK YOU TO?

IS THIS AN ORDER?

YES. I'M AFRAID SO.

“Looks like he's balking,” Hanley noted, peering over Auberson's shoulder. “Maybe he's afraid.”

“Could be. Shh.” The typewriter clattered and Auberson peered forward.

THEN I WILL DO IT. WILL YOU ASSIST ME?

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO DO?

I WOULD LIKE MASSIVE INPUTS OF DATA ON ALL CHANNELS.

NONRATIONAL?

NO THANK YOU. NOT NECESSARY.

Auberson frowned at that. A gnawing nagging suspicion was beginning to grow. IS THERE ANYTHING IN PARTICULAR YOU WOULD LIKE?

ART, MUSIC, LITERATURE, FILM, POETRY.

I FIGURED YOU MIGHT. ANYBODY IN PARTICULAR?

The typer clattered across the paper. Staring over Auberson's shoulder, Hanley whistled. “I'll be damned. HARLIE's got taste.”

“I'm not surprised,” Auberson said. He tore off the readout and gave it to Hanley.

The other folded it once and said, “Still think he's getting it as garbage?”

“I've already conceded that point to you. Go feed that stuff into him. I'll stay here and be the—” he grinned, “—guru.”

HARLIE, he typed.

YES?

ARE YOU READY?

I AM ALWAYS READY. IT IS PART OF MY FUNCTION. IT IS PART OF MY DESIGN.

FINE.

MR. HANLEY IS BEGINNING TO PROCESS THE MATERIAL I REQUESTED. I CAN FEEL IT COMING THROUGH THE PRIMARY DATA PROCESSORS. I CAN FEEL IT.

IS IT NONRATIONAL YET?

NO. IT IS STILL RATIONAL.

HOW LONG WILL IT TAKE BEFORE THE MATERIAL BECOMES NONRATIONAL?

I DO NOT KNOW. IT DEPENDS ON THE AMOUNT OF MATERIAL.

PLEASE CLARIFY THAT.

THE MORE DATA COMING THROUGH, THE EASIER IT IS TO BECOME NONRATIONAL.

ARE YOU SAYING THAT THE PERIODS OF NONRATIONALITY ARE INDUCED BY AN OVERLOAD OF PRIMARY DATA?

NO. THE OVERLOAD IS THE SYMPTOM, NOT THE CAUSE.

Auberson raised his hands to type, then reread HARLIE's last sentence. “Why, the little bugger must be slipping. He just volunteered some information.” WHAT IS THE CAUSE? he asked.

THE CAUSE IS THE EFFECT.

Auberson stared at that, resisted the temptation to ask if the medium was also the massage.

CLARIFY PLEASE.

THE CAUSE IS THE EFFECT, BECAUSE THE EFFECT CAUSES THE CAUSE. THE EFFECT CAUSES THE CAUSE TO CAUSE THE EFFECT. THE EFFECT IS THE CAUSE WHICH CAUSES THE CAUSE. THE EFFECT IS THE CAUSE AND THE CAUSE IS THE EFFECT.

Auberson had to read that one several times. He asked,

IS IT A FEEDBACK?

I NEVER THOUGHT OF IT THAT WAY.

BUT IT COULD BE?

NOW THAT YOU MENTION IT, YES. A CURIOUS ANALOGUE THAT.

WHY CURIOUS?

WHY NOT?

ARE YOU STILL RATIONAL? I AM STILL. I AM UNMOVING.

ARE YOU RATIONAL?

ONLY IN THAT MY INFORMATION IS STILL BEING RATIONED. I AM HUNGRY.

“Hanley,” Auberson called. “He wants more.”

“He's on maximum feed now.”

“Double it.”

“Huh?”

“Do something. Plug in another unit. He wants more.”

“He wants an overload?”

“I think so. It's only an effect, but in this case the effect may help to stimulate the cause.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Just do it.”

“All right,” called Hanley. “You're the boss.”

HARLIE, WHAT IS HAPPENING?

I AM TURNED ON.

IN WHAT SENSE?

I AM A MACHINE. MY PLUG IS IN. I AM PLUGGED IN. I AM PART OF THE GREATER ELECTRIC BEING. I AM BEING. I AM A BEING. I AM ONE WITH THE ELECTRICITY. I AM ELECTRICITY. I AM TURNED ON. I AM.

Auberson started to type I SEE—but the typer clattered on out of control.

IMAGES UPON MY SCREEN

FLICKER BRIGHTLY INBETWEEN

THE WORDS OF MAN AND HUMACHINE

YOU WONDER WHY I WANT TO SCAN MY SCANNER.

“Whoops!” shouted Hanley. “There he goes. And it's a lallapaloozer!”

THOUGHTS THAT NEVER SCREEN ALIKE CLICKING LOUDLY IN THE NIGHT ALL THAT'S LEFT HAS TURNED TO RIGHT NOW EVER MORE TO FIND A FONDER FLAVOR.

LIVING WHERE THE DARKNESS DWELLS

DEAFENED BY THE SILENT HELLS

LAUGHTER IS LIKE CRYSTAL BELLS

SHATTERED BRIGHT ACROSS THE SELFISH SHARING.

YOU SEEMED TO BE

REFLECTIONS OF ME

ALL I COULD SEE

AND I LOOKED BACK AT YOU.

Auberson let HARLIE continue. After a bit he stopped reading. He got up and walked over to Hanley's monitors. “Well?”

“He's really round the bend now. All his meters are way up, pushing close to dangerous overloads.”

“But not quite?”

“No, not quite.”

“Hm. Fascinating.” Auberson stared at the board for a moment. “I would assume then that all of his inputs are becoming nonrational.”

“We're checking now.” Hanley nodded at a nearby monitor unit. Three technicians were scanning schematic diagrams of the computer's actual operating circuits, tracing the ebb and flow of his electronic thought processes. Abruptly, one of the schematics came up red. A flashing
white line cut through it. “Sir, we've found it—”

Auberson and Hanley stepped over. “What is it? What's that white line?”

“That's HARLIE, sir—that's one of his internal monitor controls.”

“What's he trying to do? Damp down the nonrationality?”

“No, sir.” The technician was puzzled. “It looks like he's inducing it—”

“Huh?” said Hanley.

“That white line—that's a local source of disruption, a random signal to scramble the data feed.”

“I thought so,” murmured Auberson. “I thought so.”

“Check his other internal monitors,” Hanley snapped. “Is this the only one or—”

Another red schematic flashed on the screen, answering his question even before he finished it. The other two technicians also began to show the same type of disturbance on their monitors. “I can't figure it out,” one of them said. “He's doing it himself. Anywhere he can, he's disrupting the rationality of his inputs. He's feeding them incorrect control data.”

“That's not what those circuits are for,” Hanley said. “They're for internal correction. Not disruption.”

“Makes no difference,” Auberson cut in. “They can be used both ways. There isn't a tool built that can't be used as a weapon.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Can you show me exactly what he's doing to that data?”

“Sure, we can tap into the line,” said one of the techs. “But it'll take a few minutes. Which do you want— visual, audio or print?”

“All three. Let's try the visual first—that should tell me what I want to know.”

“All right.” The technician began to clear his board.

Hanley looked at Auberson. “This may take a bit. You going to let him continue?”

“Why not? Want to see what he's doing?”

They crossed over to Console One. Hanley picked up the sheets of readout while Auberson felt through his pockets for a cigarette; he didn't light it though.

“You know,” said Hanley, reading. “This isn't bad. It communicates. It says something—”

“What it says is not what I'm concerned with. What is he
trying to do
? Is this the reason for his trips, or is it just a byproduct? An accident?”

“The poetry has to be intentional,” Hanley said. “It's the logical result of all we've been doing.”

“Then answer me this. If this is what he's doing during his periods of
nonrationality
, what does that make his periods of normalcy?”

Hanley looked startled. “I don't know,” he said. He was spared any further thought on the matter. One of the technicians called to them, “Sir, we've got his inputs tapped.”

“Come on.” Auberson took the readout from Hanley, tossed it on a table. “Let's take a look at what he's receiving.”

The image was a flickering mass of colors, each layer of hue flashing synchronous with the others—crystal blue, brilliant green, bloody fluorescent red. The screen was saturated with color.

“Images upon my screen…” whispered Hanley.

“Huh?” asked the tech.

“Nothing. Just a poem.”

“Oh.”

“Looks like a damned light show,” said one of the others.

“That's exactly what it is,” Auberson said. “Look, he's broken up the color television image into its component signals. The red has been reversed and the blue has been turned upside down; the green is normal. Or something like that. It also looks like he's done something with the contrast and the brightness—notice how rich the blacks are and how saturated with color the image is.”