Buy Jupiter and Other Stories Part 16

By rights it should be a lovely sight. Once it had been. But that had been centuries ago, before s.p.a.ce travel had become common and cheap, and before the surroundings all about them had grown sophisticated and controlled. Now the lovely light in the sky had become a new and more horrible Devil's Island hung in s.p.a.ce.

-No one even used its name any longer, out of sheer distaste. It was "It." Or it was less than that, just a silent, upward movement-of the head.

Parkinson said, "You might have allowed me to program the case against exile generally."

"Why? It couldn't have affected the result."

"Not this one, Dowling. But it might have affected future cases. Future punishments might be commuted to the death sentence."

"For someone guilty of equipment damage? You're dreaming."

"It was an act of blind anger. There was intent to harm a human being, granted; but there was no intent to harm equipment. "

"Nothing; it means nothing. Lack of intent is no excuse in such cases. You know that."

"It should should be an excuse. That's my point; the one I be an excuse. That's my point; the one I wanted to make." Parkinson advanced a p.a.w.n now, to cover his knight. Dowling considered. "You're trying to hang onto the queen's attack, Parkinson, and I'm not going to let you. -Let's see, now." And while he pondered he said, "These are not primitive times, Parkinson. We live in a crowded world with no margin for error. As small a thing as a blown-out consistor could endanger a sizable fraction of our population. When anger endangers and subverts a power line, it's a serious thing."

"I don't question that-"

"You seemed to be doing so, when you were constructing the defense program."

"I was not. Look, when Jenkins' laser beam cut through the Field-warp, I myself was as close to death as anyone. A quarter hour's additional delay would have meant my end, too, and I'm completely aware of that. My point is only that exile is not the proper punishment!"

He tapped his finger on the chessboard for emphasis, and Dowling caught the queen before it went over. "Adjusting, not moving," he mumbled.

Dowling's eyes went from piece to piece and he continued to hesitate. "You're wrong, Parkinson. It is is the proper punishment, because there's nothing worse and that matches a crime than which there is nothing worse. Look, we all feel our absolute dependence on a complicated and rather fragile technology. A breakdown might kill us all, and it doesn't matter whether the breakdown is 1 deliberate, accidental, or caused by incompetence. Human beings demand the maximum punishment for any such I deed as the only way they can feel secure. Mere death is I not sufficient deterrent." the proper punishment, because there's nothing worse and that matches a crime than which there is nothing worse. Look, we all feel our absolute dependence on a complicated and rather fragile technology. A breakdown might kill us all, and it doesn't matter whether the breakdown is 1 deliberate, accidental, or caused by incompetence. Human beings demand the maximum punishment for any such I deed as the only way they can feel secure. Mere death is I not sufficient deterrent."

"Yes, it is. No one wants to die."

"They want to live in exile up there even less. That's why we've only had one such case in the last ten years, and only one exile. -There, do something about that!" I And Dowling nudged his queen's rook one s.p.a.ce to the right.

A light flashed. Parkinson was on his feet at once. "The programming is finished. The computer will have its verdict now."

Dowling looked up phlegmatically, "You've no doubt about what the verdict will be, have you? -Keep the board standing. We'll finish afterward."

Parkinson was quite certain he would lack the heart to continue the game. He hurried down the corridor to the courtroom, light and quick on his feet, as always.

Shortly after he and Dowling had entered, the judge took his seat, and then in came Jenkins, flanked by two guards.

Jenkins looked haggard, but stoical. Ever since the blind rage had overcome him and he had accidentally I thrown a sector into unpowered darkness while striking out at a fellow worker, he must have known the inevitable consequence of this worst of all crimes. It helps to have no illusions.

Parkinson was not stoical. He dared not look squarely at Jenkins. He could not have done so without wondering, painfully, as to what might be going through Jenkins' mind at that moment. Was he absorbing, through every sense, all the perfections of familiar comfort before being thrust forever into the luminous h.e.l.l that rode the night sky?

Was he savoring the clean and pleasant air in his nostrils, the soft lights, the equable temperature, the pure water on call, the secure surroundings designed to cradle humanity in tame comfort?

While up there- The judge pressed a contact and the computer's decision was converted into the warm, unmannered sound of a standardized human voice.

"A weighing of all pertinent information in the light of the law of the land and of all relevant precedents leads to the conclusion that Anthony Jenkins is guilty on all counts of the crime of equipment damage and is subject to the maximum penalty."

There were only six people in the courtroom itself, but the entire population was listening by television, of course.

The judge spoke in prescribed phraseology. "The defendant will be taken from here to the nearest s.p.a.ceport and, on the first available transportation, be removed from this world and sent into exile for the term of his natural life."

Jenkins seemed to shrink within himself, but he said no word.

Parkinson shivered. How many, he wondered, would now feel the enormity of such a punishment for any any crime? How long before there would be enough humanity among men to wipe out forever the punishment of exile? crime? How long before there would be enough humanity among men to wipe out forever the punishment of exile?

Could anyone really think of Jenkins up there in s.p.a.ce, without flinching? Could they think, and endure the thought, of a fellow man thrown for all his life among the strange, unfriendly, vicious population of a world of unbearable heat by day and frigid cold by night; of a world where the sky was a harsh blue and the ground a harsher, clashing green; where the dusty air moved raucously and the viscous sea heaved eternally?

And the gravity, that heavy-heavy-heavy-eternal-pull!

Who could bear the horror of condemning someone, for whatever reason, to leave the friendly home of the I Moon for that h.e.l.l in the sky-the Earth?

Considering what John Campbell means to me, I hate to point out any editorial bad points he had-but he was a terrible blurb writer. In those little editorial comments at the beginning of a story, comments that are supposed to lure you into reading it, he all too often gave away the point of the story, when the writer was doing his best to conceal the point till the proper moment.

Here is John's blurb for EXILE TO h.e.l.l: "h.e.l.l is, of course, the worst imaginable place you least want to be forced to experience. It's an att.i.tude about a place-Fiji for an Eskimo, Baffin Island for a Polynesian...." If you read the blurb first and then then read my story, EXILE TO h.e.l.l will have the impact of a strand of wet spaghetti. read my story, EXILE TO h.e.l.l will have the impact of a strand of wet spaghetti.

As the drought of science fiction intensified, it became important to me not to allow any item to go to waste.

A friend of mine, Ed Berkeley, ran a little periodical devoted to computers and automation. (It was even called COMPUTERS AND AUTOMATION, COMPUTERS AND AUTOMATION, as I recall.) In 1959 he asked me to do a little story for him, for friendship's sake, and since I always have trouble fighting off anything put to me in that fashion, I wrote KEY ITEM for him and he paid me a dollar for it. -But then he never printed it. as I recall.) In 1959 he asked me to do a little story for him, for friendship's sake, and since I always have trouble fighting off anything put to me in that fashion, I wrote KEY ITEM for him and he paid me a dollar for it. -But then he never printed it.

Eight years pa.s.sed and I finally said to him, "Hey, Ed, I what happened to my story KEY ITEM?" and he told me he had decided not to publish science fiction.

"Give it back, then," I said, and he said, "Oh, can you Use it?"

Yes, I could use it. I sent it in to F & F & SF SF and they took it and ran it in the July 1968 issue of that magazine. and they took it and ran it in the July 1968 issue of that magazine.

KEY ITEM.

Jack Weaver came out of the vitals of Multivac looking utterly worn and disgusted.

From the stool, where the other maintained his own stolid watch, Todd Nemerson said, "Nothing?"

"Nothing," said Weaver. "Nothing, nothing, nothing. No one can find anything wrong with it."

"Except that it won't work, you mean."

"You're no help sitting there!"

"I'm thinking."

"Thinking!" Weaver showed a canine at one side of his mouth.

Nemerson stirred impatiently on his stool. "Why not? There are six teams of computer technologists roaming around in the corridors of Multivac. They haven't come up with anything in three days. Can't you spare one person to think?"

"It's not a matter of thinking. We've got to look. Somewhere a relay is stuck."

"It's not that simple, Jack!"

"Who says it's simple. You know how many million relays we have there?"

"That doesn't matter. If it were just a relay, Multivac would have alternate circuits, devices for locating the flaw, and facilities to repair or replace the ailing part. The trouble is, Multivac won't only not answer the original question, it won't tell us what's wrong with it. -And meanwhile, there'll be panic in every city if we don't do something. The world's economy depends on Multivac, and everyone knows that."

"I know it, too. But what's there to do?"

"I told you, think. think. There must be something we're missing completely. Look, Jack, there isn't a computer bigwig in a hundred years who hasn't devoted himself to making Multivac more complicated. It can do so much now-h.e.l.l, it can even talk and listen. It's practically as complex as the human brain. We can't understand the human brain, so why should we understand Multivac?" There must be something we're missing completely. Look, Jack, there isn't a computer bigwig in a hundred years who hasn't devoted himself to making Multivac more complicated. It can do so much now-h.e.l.l, it can even talk and listen. It's practically as complex as the human brain. We can't understand the human brain, so why should we understand Multivac?"

"Aw, come on. Next you'll be saying Multivac is human."

"Why not?" Nemerson grew absorbed and seemed to sink into himself. "Now that you mention it, why not? Could we tell if Multivac pa.s.sed the thin dividing line where it stopped being a machine and started being human? Is Is there a dividing line, for that matter? If the brain is just more complex than Multivac, and we keep making Multivac more complex, isn't there a point where..." He mumbled down into silence. there a dividing line, for that matter? If the brain is just more complex than Multivac, and we keep making Multivac more complex, isn't there a point where..." He mumbled down into silence.

Weaver said impatiently, "What are you driving at? Suppose Multivac were human. How would that help us find out why it isn't working?"

"For a human reason, maybe. Suppose you you were asked the most probable price of wheat next summer and didn't answer. Why wouldn't you answer?" were asked the most probable price of wheat next summer and didn't answer. Why wouldn't you answer?"

"Because I wouldn't know. But Multivac would know! We've given it an the factors. It can a.n.a.lyze futures in weather, politics, and economics. We know it can. It's done it before."

" All right. Suppose I asked the question and you knew the answer but didn't tell me. Why not?"

Weaver snarled, "Because I had a brain tumor. Because I had been knocked out. Because I was drunk. d.a.m.n it, because my machinery was out of order. That's just what we're trying to find out about Multivac. We're looking for the place where its machinery is out of order, for the key item."

"Only you haven't found it." Nemerson got off his stool. "Listen, ask me the question Multivac stalled on."

"How? Shall I run the tape through you?"

"Come on, Jack. Give me the talk that goes along with it. You do talk to Multivac, don't you?"

"I've got to. Therapy."

Nemerson nodded. "Yes, that's the story. Therapy. That's the official story. We talk to it in order to pretend it's a human being so that we don't get neurotic over having a machine know so much more than we do. We turn a frightening metal monster into a protective father image."

"If you want to put it that way."

"Well, it's wrong and you know it. A computer as complex as Multivac must must talk and listen to be efficient. Just putting in and taking out coded dots isn't sufficient. At a certain level of complexity, Multivac must be made to seem human because, by G.o.d, it talk and listen to be efficient. Just putting in and taking out coded dots isn't sufficient. At a certain level of complexity, Multivac must be made to seem human because, by G.o.d, it is is human. Come on, Jack, ask me the question. I want to see my reaction to it." human. Come on, Jack, ask me the question. I want to see my reaction to it."

Jack Weaver flushed. "This is silly."

"Come on, will you?"

It was a measure of Weaver's depression and desperation that he acceded. Half sullenly, he pretended to be feeding the program into Multivac, speaking as he did so in his usual manner. He commented on the latest information concerning farm unrest, talked about the new equations describing jet-stream contortions, lectured on the solar constant.

He began stiffly enough, but warmed to this task out of long habit, and when the last of the program was slammed home, he almost closed contact with a physical snap at Todd Nemerson's waist.

He ended briskly, "All right, now. Work that out and give us the answer p.r.o.nto."

For a moment, having done, Jack Weaver stood there, nostrils flaring, as though he was feeling once more the excitement of throwing into action the most gigantic and glorious machine ever put together by the mind and hands of man.

Then he remembered and muttered, " All right. That's it."

Nemerson said, " At least I know now why I wouldn't answer, so let's try that on Multivac. Look, clear Multivac; make sure the investigators have their paws off it. Then run the program into it and let me do the talking. Just once."

Weaver shrugged and turned to Multivac's control wall, filled with its somber, unwinking dials and lights. Slowly he cleared it. One by one he ordered the teams away.

Then, with a deep breath, he began once more feeding the program into Multivac. It was the twelfth time all told, the dozenth time. Somewhere a distant news commentator would spread the word that they were trying again. All over the world a Multivac-dependent people would be holding its collective breath.

Nemerson talked as Weaver fed the data silently. He talked diffidently, trying to remember what it was that Weaver had said, but waiting for the moment when the key item might be added.

Weaver was done and now a note of tension was in Nemerson's voice. He said, "All right, now, Multivac. Work that out and give us the answer." He paused and added the key item. He said "Please!" "Please!"

And all over Multivac, the valves and relays went joyously to work. After all, a machine has feelings-when it isn't a machine anymore.

The story didn't stop at F & F & SF, SF, by the way. by the way.

The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post had died in 1966, shortly after serializing my novel FANTASTIC VOYAGE (Houghton Mifflin, 1966), though I don't think there was any connection. It came back to life, however, and its editors were interested in some of my stories. They reprinted A STATUE FOR FATHER, and they also did KEY ITEM, under the t.i.tle had died in 1966, shortly after serializing my novel FANTASTIC VOYAGE (Houghton Mifflin, 1966), though I don't think there was any connection. It came back to life, however, and its editors were interested in some of my stories. They reprinted A STATUE FOR FATHER, and they also did KEY ITEM, under the t.i.tle The Computer That Went On Strike, The Computer That Went On Strike, in their spring 1972 issue. in their spring 1972 issue.

The slick magazines were interested in science fiction now. It was not only The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post that was after me for stories. that was after me for stories. Boys' Life Boys' Life was, too. They sent me a painting hoping it would inspire a story, and I tried. I turned out THE PROPER STUDY, which appeared in the September 1968 issue of was, too. They sent me a painting hoping it would inspire a story, and I tried. I turned out THE PROPER STUDY, which appeared in the September 1968 issue of Boys' Life. Boys' Life.

THE PROPER STUDY.

"The demonstration is ready," said Oscar Harding softly, half to himself, when the phone rang to say that the general was on his way upstairs.

Ben Fife, Harding's young a.s.sociate, pushed his fists deep into the pockets of his laboratory jacket. "We won't get anywhere," he said. "The general doesn't change his mind." He looked sideways at the older man's sharp profile, his pinched cheeks, his thinning gray hair. Harding might be a wizard with electronic equipment, but he couldn't seem to grasp the kind of man the general was.

And Harding said mildly, "Oh, you can never tell."

The general knocked once on the door, but it was for I show only. He walked in quickly, without waiting for a response. Two soldiers took up their position in the corridor, one on each side of the door. They faced outward, rifles ready.

General Gruenwald said crisply, "Professor Harding!" He nodded briefly in Fife's direction and then, for a moment, studied the remaining individual in the room. That was a blank-faced man who sat apart in a straight-backed chair, half-obscured by surrounding equipment.

Everything about the general was crisp; his walk, the way he held his spine, the way he spoke. He was an straight lines and angles, adhering rigidly at all points to the etiquette of the born soldier. .

"Won't you sit down, General," murmured Harding. "Thank you. It's good of you to come; I've been trying to see you for some time. I appreciate the fact you're a busy man."

"Since I am busy," said the general, "let us get to the point."

" As near the point as I can, sir. I a.s.sume you know about our project here. You know about the Neurophotoscope."