I have been spending my lunch hours at the local branch of a national stockbroking firm. Now, I obtain an interview with the manager, and on the basis of my understanding of figures, he gives me a job as bookkeeper.
A great deal of money passes through my hands. I observe the process for a day, and then begin to use some of it in a little private gambling in a brokerage house across the street. Since gambling is a problem in mathematical probabilities, the decisive factor being the speed of computation, in three days I am worth ten thousand dollars.
I board a bus for the nearest air center, and take a plane to New York. I go to the head office of a large electrical firm. After talking to an assistant engineer, I am introduced to the chief engineer, and presently have facilities for developing an electrical device that will turn lights off and on by thought control. Actually, it is done through a simple development of the electro-encephalograph.
For this invention the company pays me exactly one million dollars.
It is now sixteen days since I separated from Grannitt. I am bored. I buy myself a car and an airplane. I drive fast and fly high. I take calculated risks for the purpose of stimulating fear in myself. In a few days this loses its zest.
Through academic agencies, I locate all the mechanical brains in the country. The best one of course is the Brain, as perfected by Grannitt. I buy a good machine and begin to construct analog devices to improve it. What bothers me is, suppose I do construct another Brain? It will require millenniums to furnish the memory banks with the data that are already in existence in the future Brain.
Such a solution seems illogical, and I have been too long associated with automatic good sense for me to start breaking the pattern now.
Nevertheless, as I approach the cottage on the thirtieth day, I have taken certain precautions. Several hired gunmen lie concealed in the brush, ready to fire at Grannitt on my signal.
Grannitt is waiting for me. He says, "The Brain tells me you have come armed."
I shrug this aside. "Grannitt," I say, "what is your plan?"
"This!" he replies.
As he speaks, a force seizes me, holds me helpless. "You’re breaking your promise," I say, "and my men have orders to fire unless I give them periodic cues that all is well."
"I’m showing you something," he says, "and I want to show it quickly. You will be released in a moment."
"Very well, continue."
Instantly, I am part of his nervous system, under his control. Casually, he takes out a notebook and glances through it. His gaze lights on a number: 71823.
Seven one eight two three.
I have already sensed that through his mind I am in contact with the great memory banks and computers of what was formerly my body.
Using their superb integration, I multiply the number, 71823, by itself, compute its square root, its cube root, divide the 182 part of it by 7 one hundred and eighty-two times, divide the whole number 71 times by 8,823 times by the square root of 3, and—stringing all five figures out in series 23 times—multiply that by itself.
I do all this as Grannitt thinks of it, and instantly transmit the answers to his mind. To him, it seems as if he himself is doing the computing, so complete is the union of human mind and mechanical brain.
Grannitt laughs excitedly, and simultaneously the complex force that has been holding me releases me. "We’re like one superhuman individual," he says. And then he adds, "The dream I’ve had can come true. Man and machine, working together, can solve problems no one has more than imagined till now. The planets—even the stars—are ours for the taking, and physical immortality can probably be achieved."
His excitement stimulates me. Here is the kind of feeling that for thirty days I have vainly sought to achieve. I say slowly, "What limitations would be imposed on me if I should agree to embark on such a program of cooperation?"
"The memory banks concerning what has happened here should be drained, or deactivated. I think you should forget the entire experience."
"What else?"
"Under no circumstances can you ever control a human being!"
I consider that and sigh. It is certainly a necessary precaution on his part. Grannitt continues:
"You must agree to allow many human beings to use your abilities simultaneously. In the long run I have in mind that it shall be a good portion of the human race."
Standing there, still part of him, I feel the pulse of his blood in his veins. He breathes, and the sensation of it is a special physical ecstasy. From my own experience, I know that no mechanically created being can ever feel like this. And soon, I shall be in contact with the mind and body of, not just one man, but of many. The thoughts and sensations of a race shall pour through me. Physically, mentally and emotionally, I shall be a part of the only intelligent life on this planet.
My fear leaves me. "Very well," I say, "let us, step by step, and by agreement, do what is necessary."
I shall be, not a slave, but a partner with Man.
(1951)
MAKING THE CONNECTIONS
Barry N. Malzberg
Barry Nathaniel Malzberg (born 1939) graduated from Syracuse University in 1960 and worked as an investigator for the New York City Department of Welfare before returning to college to study creative writing. He couldn’t sell a word. Determined not to be an "unpublished assistant professor of English," he went to work as an agent for the Scott Meredith Literary Agency. He edited Escapade, a men’s magazine in early 1968, took on the editorship of Amazing Stories and Fantastic, and was told to resign as editor of the SFWA Bulletin after he wrote a nasty editorial about the NASA space program. Scenting blood, he sat down to write the novels The Falling Astronauts (1971) and Beyond Apollo (1972), two masterpieces of technological dehumanisation which have won him lasting notoriety. For about seven years Malzberg was extremely prolific, producing twenty sf novels and over 100 short stories. But he hated the science fiction scene and grew so tired of saying so, he finally quit altogether. Malzberg, an accomplished violinist, has premiered work by Thai-American musical composer Somtow Sucharitkul, better known to some as the sf and horror writer S. P. Somtow.
I met a man today. He was one of the usual deteriorated types who roam the countryside, but then again I am in no position to judge deterioration; for all I know he was in excellent condition. "Beast!" he shrieked at me. "Monster! Parody of flesh! Being of my creation, have we prepared the earth to be inherited merely by the likes of you?" And so on. The usual fanatical garbage. More and more in my patrols and travels I meet men, although it is similarly true that my sensor devices are breaking down and many of these forms which I take to be men are merely hallucinative. Who is to say?
"I don’t have to put up with this," I commented and demolished him with a heavy blow to the jaw, breaking him into pieces which sifted to the ground, filtered within. Flesh cracks easily.
Later I thought about the man and what I had done to him and whether it was right or wrong but in no constructive way whatsoever but there is no need to pursue this line of thought.
Central states that they recognize my problem and that they will schedule me for an overhaul as soon as possible. A condition of breakdown is epidemic, however, and Central reminds me that I must await my turn. There are several hundred in even more desperate condition of repair than I am and I must be patient, etc. A few more months and I will be treated; in the meantime Central suggests that I cut down my operating faculties to the minimum, try to stay out of the countryside and operate on low fuse. "You are not the only one," they remind me, "the world does not revolve around you. Unfortunately our creators stupidly arranged for many units to wear down at approximately the same time, confronting us with a crisis in maintenance and repair. However we will deal with this as efficiently and courageously as we have dealt with everything else, and in the meantime it is strongly advised that you perform only necessary tasks and remain otherwise at idle."