Having gained a superficial knowledge of the pilot’s background, I reveal myself to him and inform him that I shall henceforth control his actions. He receives the news with startled excitement and fear. Then stark terror. And then—
Insanity… uncontrolled body movements. The plane dives sharply toward the ground, and, despite my efforts to direct the man’s muscles, I realize suddenly that I can do nothing.
I withdraw from the plane. A moment later it plunges into a hillside. It burns with an intense fire that quickly consumes it.
Dismayed, I decide that there must be something in the human make-up that does not permit direct outside control. This being so, how can I ever complete myself? It seems to me finally that completion could be based on indirect control of human beings.
I must defeat the Brain, gain power over machines everywhere, motivate men with doubts, fears, and computations that apparently come from their own minds but actually derive from me. It will be a herculean task, but I have plenty of time. Nevertheless. I must from now on utilize my every moment to make it a reality.
The first opportunity comes shortly after midnight when I detect the presence of another machine in the sky. I watch it through infra-red receptors. I record a steady pattern of radio waves that indicate to me that this is a machine guided by remote control.
Using no-space, I examine the simple devices that perform the robot function. Then I assert a take-over unit that will automatically thereafter record its movements in my memory banks for future reference. Henceforth, whenever I desire I can take it over.
It is a small step, but it is a beginning.
Morning.
I go as a human-shaped unit to the village, climb the fence, and enter the bungalow of Anne Stewart, owner and manager of the Brain. She is just finishing breakfast.
As I adjust myself to the energy flow in her nervous system, she gets ready to go out.
I am one with Anne Stewart, walking along a pathway. I am aware that the sun is warm on her face. She takes a deep breath of air, and I feel the sensation of life flowing through her.
It is a feeling that has previously excited me. I want to be like this again and again, part of a human body, savoring its life, absorbed into its flesh, its purposes, desires, hopes, dreams.
One tiny doubt assails me. If this is the completion I crave, then how will it lead me to solitude in an airless world only a few thousand years hence?
"Anne Stewart!"
The words seem to come from behind her. In spite of knowing who it is, she is startled. It is nearly two weeks since the Brain has addressed her directly.
What makes her tense is that it should have occurred so soon after she had terminated Grannitt’s employment. Is it possible the Brain suspects that she has done so in the hope that he will realize something is wrong?
She turns slowly. As she expected, there is no one in sight. The empty stretches of lawn spread around her. In the near distance, the building that houses the Brain glitters in the noonday sunlight. Through the glass she can see vague figures of men at the outlet units, where questions are fed into mechanisms and answers received. So far as the people from beyond the village compound are concerned, the giant thinking machine is functioning in a normal fashion. No one—from outside—suspects that for months now the mechanical brain has completely controlled the fortified village that has been built around it.
"Anne Stewart… I need your help."
Anne relaxes with a sigh. The Brain has required of her, as owner and administrator, that she continue to sign papers and carry on ostensibly as before. Twice, when she has refused to sign, violent electric shocks have flashed at her out of the air itself. The fear of more pain is always near the surface of her mind.
"My help!" she says now involuntarily.
"I have made a terrible error," is the reply, "and we must act at once as a team."
She has a feeling of uncertainty, but no sense of urgency. There is in her, instead, the beginning of excitement. Can this mean—freedom?
Belatedly, she thinks: "Error?" Aloud, she says, "What has happened?"
"As you may have guessed," is the answer, "I can move through time—"
Anne Stewart knows nothing of the kind, but the feeling of excitement increases. And the first vague wonder comes about the phenomenon itself. For months she has been in a state of shock, unable to think clearly, desperately wondering how to escape from the thrall of the Brain, how to let the world know that a Frankenstein monster of a machine has cunningly asserted dominance over nearly five hundred people.
But if it has already solved the secret of time travel, then—she feels afraid, for this seems beyond the power of human beings to control.
The Brain’s disembodied voice continues: "I made the mistake of probing rather far into the future—"
"How far?"
The words come out before she really thinks about them. But there is no doubt of her need to know.
"It’s hard to describe exactly. Distance in time is difficult for me to measure as yet. Perhaps ten thousand years."
The time involved seems meaningless to her. It is hard to imagine a hundred years into the future, let alone a thousand—or ten thousand. But the pressure of anxiety has been building up in her. She says in a desperate tone:
"But what’s the matter? What has happened?"
There is a long silence, then: "I contacted—or disturbed—something. It… has pursued me back to present time. It is now sitting on the other side of the valley about two miles from here… Anne Stewart, you must help me. You must go there and investigate it. I need information about it."
She has no immediate reaction. The very beauty of the day seems somehow reassuring. It is hard to believe that it is January, and that—before the Brain solved the problem of weather control—blizzards raged over this green land.
She says slowly, "You mean—go out there in the valley, where you say it’s waiting?" A chill begins a slow climb up her back.
"There’s no one else," says the Brain. "No one but you."
"But that’s ridiculous!" She speaks huskily. "All the men—the engineers."
The Brain says, "You don’t understand. No one knows but you. As owner, it seemed to me I had to have you to act as my contact with the outside world."
She is silent. The voice speaks to her again: "There is no one else, Anne Stewart. You, and you alone, must go."
"But what is it?" she whispers. "How do you mean, you—disturbed—it? What’s it like? What’s made you afraid?" The Brain is suddenly impatient. "There is no time to waste in idle explanation. The thing has erected a cottage. Evidently, it wishes to remain inconspicuous for the time being. The structure is situated near the remote edge of your property—which gives you a right to question its presence. I have already had your attorney order it away. Now, I want to see what facet of itself it shows to you. I must have data."
Its tone changes: "I have no alternative but to direct you to do my bidding under penalty of pain. You will go. Now!"
It is a small cottage. Flowers and shrubs grow around it, and there is a picket fence making a white glare in the early afternoon sun. The cottage stands all by itself in the wilderness. No pathway leads to it. When I set it there I was forgetful of the incongruity.
(I determine to rectify this.)
Anne looks for a gate in the fence, sees none; and, feeling unhappy—climbs awkwardly over it and into the yard. Many times in her life she has regarded herself and what she is doing with cool objectivity. But she has never been so exteriorized as now. Almost, it seems to her that she crouches in the distance and watches a slim woman in slacks climb over the sharp-edged fence, walk uncertainly up to the door. And knock.