When HARLIE Was One (19 page)

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
,