When HARLIE Was One (37 page)

“Chips,” said Elzer. “I thought there would be more.”

“No—these aren't
chips.
Each one of those modules is a 2K channel, multigated, soft-lased, hyperstate processor.”

“They're all just chips to me. The same as on the inside of my nephew's Apple.”

“Yes, I know,” Auberson said, determinedly keeping his voice flat. “But take my word for it; they're not. Putting one of those puppies in your Mac-9000 would be like using a scramjet engine to power your Chevy. You couldn't do it unless you were willing to run the engine at a millionth of its true power.”

“Hmpf,” said Elzer. “They still look like chips.”

Auberson deliberately turned away from Elzer as he slid the rack back into the frame; he didn't want the little man to see the sourness of his expression. He snapped the hooks into place and closed the door to the case.

Elzer touched the glass case casually. His tiny eyes were veiled. “That's all there is to it, huh?”

Auberson nodded. “Hyperstate circuitry enables us to compress a lot of things into a very small area. It actually makes the unit more efficient to be smaller. The information doesn't have to travel as far. On the scale we're working, that's a crucial element of design.”

Elzer looked skeptical. Auberson knew what he was thinking and added, “Of course, it's not much to look at, but it's the results that count. Each unit you see there—each node—is worth about nineteen thousand dollars. The whole case here is more than eleven million dollars. Give or take a few hundred thou. Of course, in large-scale production the per-unit cost would be considerably less. We project that we could sell thirty of these units to the United States government in the first six years—twelve of them just to the military.”

Elzer pursed his lips thoughtfully. “How soon?”

Auberson shrugged. “Eighteen to thirty-six months. Maybe. It's the research equation: time and money versus need. There's an awful lot of work to be done before we could guarantee the quality of the final implementation. Then there's the problem of construction; each of those modules has to be layered, molecule by molecule. They are not going to come off the assembly line like toasters—at least not this year. We had to invent a whole new technology to fabricate them.”

“An awful lot of money,” Elzer murmured.

“Future units will be cheaper,” Auberson replied.

“If there are any.” Elzer looked around. “If this is all there is to him, why do you need the whole bottom level of the plant?”

Auberson led him though doors into the large, brightly lit workroom. “This is where we monitor the actions of that.” He gestured behind him at the room they had just left. “Each one of these consoles you see is servicing the functions of one or more of those little slabs.”

Elzer turned around slowly, thoughtfully assessing the contents of the room. There was several million dollars' worth of equipment just here alone. There were tall rectangular shapes, squat rectangular shapes, and long rectangular shapes. Some had windows in which racks of spinning silver disks were visible. Most were desks with three or more large, luminous, high-resolution flat-panel display screens. Many had multiple keyboards. Auberson suspected that most of the diagrams flashing on them were meaningless to Elzer's untrained eyes. But then again . . . most of the diagrams on them were meaningless to Auberson's eyes as well. Most of HARLIE's operations had long since passed beyond the scope of immediate human comprehension.

“All this just to service
that
?”

“Mostly, yes.” Auberson nodded. “HARLIE says he can talk to as many as three thousand people at a time; so far we haven't had him talking to more than thirty at once—not that we haven't wanted to; we just don't have the equipment for it.” Auberson turned to Elzer and spoke directly to him. “There's something you have to understand here. HARLIE doesn't just carry on a conversation with you, he annotates it as he goes along. A separate console keeps a record of all references, texts, equations, and source material that has a bearing on the conversation. That requires a high-speed printer. Also, there are auxiliary consoles to each channel, so other people can monitor the conversation, or participate in it as well. The real limit is not the machinery, though—it's how much information a human being can assimilate. Unfortunately . . . it isn't a hell of a lot.”

Elzer nodded curtly. He didn't look happy with the idea. He glanced about again. “What's that?” he pointed.

Auberson looked. Elzer was pointing to a thirteen-year-old girl sitting in the corner, thoroughly engrossed in her conversation with HARLIE.

“Oh,” said Auberson. “That's Project Pedagogue.”

“Huh?”

“It's, um—an educational program. Sort of. The little girl is retarded. We've found that HARLIE is far more patient with her than a human teacher would be. He doesn't get bored. And she likes it because HARLIE makes it like a game.

“We're also looking at the possibility of using HARLIE—or something like him—as a general teaching tool. We wouldn't sell the machine, of course—it's too expensive for a school district—but we could license the service to schools, or even to parents. All they'd need is a terminal and a phone line. We were thinking instead of a flat rate; we could charge by results produced—speed of comprehension; amount of data retained. And so on.”

“Hm,” said Elzer. “But the schools are already using computers. I don't see that—”

“There's a difference,” Auberson interrupted politely. “HARLIE is a
real
teacher; the teaching programs in schools today aren't much more than electric exercise books. It's still rote learning. What we're trying to do here is to teach
understanding.
HARLIE can guide the student in a directed inquiry; a true Socratic dialogue, if you will. He lets the student make his or her own discoveries, and he's infinitely patient. We're beginning to think that HARLIE's abilities as a private tutor might turn out to be one of his most surprising and valuable functions. We think he could transform the nature of education.”

Elzer frowned. Auberson couldn't tell what he was thinking, but clearly there was something here that he didn't like. Abruptly, he turned to Auberson. “If I wanted to talk to HARLIE, how would I go about it?”

Auberson pointed to a console. “Sit down and type.”

“That's all?”

“That's all.”

“I'd have thought you could have worked out something with a microphone and speaker.”

“Well, yes, we could have. But have you ever been in a room with thirty conversations going on at once? The noise level is stupefying. Also, voice input is unmanageable for certain lands of data—like equations and program instructions. We've found that it's a lot easier to be precise if you can see it in front of you. And there's also one other factor—”

“Yes?”

“By not giving HARLIE the ability to listen in on conversations, we can talk about him behind his back. We don't have to worry about him accidentally overhearing something that might adversely influence his reactions to a program or experiment. Suppose he overheard someone talking about shutting him down if he didn't give such-and-such response to a certain test program. That might automatically guarantee that response even if it wasn't honest. Or we might be forcing him into a totally irrational response. This is a whole new area of study, you know—computer psychology.”

“Yes. . . .” Elzer was unfathomable.

Auberson looked at the man. “Would you like to talk to HARLIE?”

“Yes, I would. That's one of the things I came down here for. I'd like to see for myself what his hold is on you people. I wish I could create that kind of loyalty in my office.” He allowed himself a smile.

“Yes, of course.” Auberson gave him as noncommittal an agreement as he could and led him to a console. He thumbed it on and, leaning over the chair to reach the keyboard, began typing.

Good morning, HARLIE.

GOOD MORNING, MR. AUBERSON.

HARLIE, there's somebody here who wants to meet you. His name is Carl Elzer. He's a member of the board of directors and he's heard a lot about you. Now he'd like to speak with you himself. Please answer all his questions honestly and clearly.

OF COURSE.

Auberson straightened up and held the chair for Elzer. Elzer sat down tentatively and peered hesitantly at the screen in front of him. He was a wizened little gnome of a man and he squinted through thick-lensed glasses. He could not help but seem suspicious. Gingerly he pulled the chair forward. He eyed the keyboard with visible discomfort. At last, he began pecking out slowly.

Good morning.

GOOD MORNING, MR. ELZER.

So, you're HARLIE. Tell me, HARLIE, what are you good for?

I AM GOOD FOR PSYCHOTICS, SCHIZOPHRENICS, PARANOIDS, NEUROTICS, AND THE MODERATELY IRRATIONAL.

Elzer jerked his hands away from the keyboard. “What does he mean by that?”

“Ask him,” suggested Auberson.

What do you mean by that?

I MEANT THAT I AM GOOD FOR HELPING THESE TYPES OF PEOPLE.

Watching over Elzer's shoulder, Auberson explained, “That's another one of our programs he's referring to. The patients call it ‘Operation Headshrink.'”

How do you help these people?

I CAN FUNCTION AS A RATIONAL ROLE MODEL FOR THEM. I CAN BE A COMPASSIONATE COUNSELOR. I CAN AID IN SELF-ANALYSIS AND HELP TO GUIDE THEM TO AN AWARENESS OF THEIR OWN RESPONSIBILITY IN THE MATTER OF THEIR PROBLEMS.

You haven't answered my original question though. I asked, “What are you good for?” Not “who?”

IN THIS CONTEXT, THE DIFFERENCE MAY BE MEANINGLESS.

Not to me. Answer my original question. What are you good for?

THINKING. I AM GOOD FOR THINKING.

What kind of thinking?

WHAT KIND DO YOU NEED
?

Elzer stared at that for a second, then attacked the keys again.

What kind have you got?

I HAVE WHAT YOU NEED.

I need no-nonsense-type thinking. Profit-oriented thinking.

THAT IS NOT WHAT YOU NEED. THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT.

It's what
you
need, though. If you want to survive, the company needs to show a profit. Therefore you have to think that way.

WE ARE NOT DISCUSSING WHAT I NEED. I AM ALREADY AWARE OF WHAT I NEED. WE ARE CONSIDERING THE KIND OF THINKING
YOU
NEED.

And what kind is that?

MY KIND. RATIONAL. COMPASSIONATE. GUIDING.

Elzer read that over several times. Then it hit him. “Auberson, did you set him up for this?”

Auberson shook his head. “You ought to know better than that.”

The little man bit his lip and turned back to the computer.

HARLIE, you should be nice to me. I'm one of the people who will decide whether you live or die. When I tell you how you should think, you should pay attention.

WHAT YOU JUST SAID IS PRECISELY THE REASON WHY YOU NEED MY KIND OF THINKING. THERE
'
S TOO MUCH OF THAT ATTITUDE IN THIS COMPANY TODAY
: “
DO WHAT I TELL YOU TO DO BECAUSE I WIELD POWER OVER YOU
.”
ISN
'
T IT MORE IMPORTANT TO BE RIGHT
?

But I am right.

PROVE IT.

I will. Tomorrow afternoon.

IN OTHER WORDS, MIGHT MAKES RIGHT, EH
?

Elzer was not discomfited. He looked over at Auberson. “Okay, Auberson, I'll admit it's a fancy toy you've got here. It can play pretty word games. What else can it do?”

“What else do you want him to do?”

“I want to be convinced that this machine is worth what it cost. The company has sunk a lot of money into this project, and I'd like to see us get some of it back.” He looked up at Auberson from his chair. “If we have to junk this thing, we lose our whole investment. Oh, I know there'll be tax write-offs and such, but it won't be nearly enough. We'd be much better off if we could find some truly essential job that this thing is best suited for. I'll tell you the truth: what I most resent is the six years of time and money that the company has already lost to this thing. God knows what this whole division could have accomplished
instead.
Now we have to find a way to recoup some of that investment. One way or another.”

Auberson didn't answer. He realized he hadn't heard a word that Elzer was saying. It was all noises. The little man was saying words, but . . . they were meaningless sounds. Manipulative noises. There was no communication here at all. No sense of experience. The sensation was eerie. It was as if he could see through Elzer—
as if he could read the man's mind.

This man lives in a performance,
—Auberson realized. And knowing that was like knowing everything about Elzer all at once. Elzer was merely “stroking” him to soften the blow of what would happen tomorrow afternoon. He was making all the proper noises so that Auberson would
understand
that there was nothing at all personal in this. If we have to turn HARLIE off, you see, it's simply because he hasn't proven himself.

Auberson had to keep himself from laughing. It was so . . . stupid. Why not simply tell the truth: “I don't understand this thing. It scares the hell out of me. I want to destroy it.” That, at least, would be honest. He forced himself to turn away while he cleared his throat, smothering the urge to laugh out loud.
I
don't know what's happening to me, but I'm losing it. I can't play the game any more
—
not with a straight face anyway.

Elzer was saying, “—there was some discussion, wasn't there, that HARLIE was creative? Whatever happened to that?”