“Hmp — massive ego is right.”
Auberson ignored it. “Basically, this G.O.D. machine is the rest of HARLIE’s brain. It’s the thought centers that a consciousness such as HARLIE’s should have access to. Take another look at those printouts. You see a thing called Programming Implementation?”
“Yes, what about it?”
“Well, that’s HARLIE’s vanity again. He doesn’t want to call it what it really is, but it’s an additional lobe for his brain. He’ll need a monitor unit to control each specific section of the G.O.D. Because the G.O.D. will have no practical limit — it can grow as big as we let it — HARLIE’s grasp will have to be increased proportionally. That’s what that unit does. As each lobe of the G.O.D. is completed, an equivalent monitoring lobe goes into Programming Implementation. Not only that: Because HARLIE is an electronic entity, his thoughts are already in computer language — it will be a maximum efficiency interface between himself and the G.O.D. He need only think of a program and it’ll be fact. It’s the most efficient function HARLIE could have.”
“I see,” said Dome. “And he planned it that way himself, right?”
Auberson nodded. “But it’s a natural. Look, a computer is very much like a mystic oracle. You not only have to know what questions to ask, but how to phrase them — and the answers are not always what you expect, nor necessarily in terms you can understand. Who better to use as a translator than someone who’s half-oracle and half-human?”
Dome ignored the comment; instead he mused aloud, continuing a previous train of thought. “A neat trick that, a neat trick. We tell him he’s got to come up with some way to be profitable, and he tells us to build a new machine that only he can program. I have the feeling that he did it on purpose — that this may be the only context in which HARLIE would be valuable. And of course, once we establish HARLIE’s worth to the project, that leaves us with the question: Is the total concept profitable? And that brings us back to where we started: Is HARLIE profitable?”
Auberson decided to ignore the latter question. He said, “HARLIE thinks the total concept is profitable. It’s in the printouts.”
“Ah, yes — but HARLIE’s got a vested interest in the project.”
“Why not?” said Auberson. “It’s his project, not mine. He’s the one who’s presenting it to the Board for approval.”
“And it’s sure to be voted down.” The Chairman looked at the back of his hand. “I can’t see any way that this will be approved. I’m not even sure we should being it up.”
“It’s too late,” said Auberson. “You’re going to have to bring it up. And you’re going to have to give it a fair hearing. You told HARLIE to come up with a way to be profitable. Now you’ve got to give him his chance to be heard.”
“This is ridiculous,” grumbled the other. “He’s only a machine.”
“You want to go through that argument again?” asked Auberson.
“No,” Dome shuddered. He still remembered the last time. “All right, I’ll have the Board consider it, Aubie, but the whole situation is unreal — having a computer design another computer which will give it a job. You know what Elzer is going to say, don’t you? You’d just better be prepared for defeat, that’s all.”
“Just give us the chance,” said Auberson. “Well take it from there.”
Dome half-nodded, half-shrugged. “Better start preparing your arguments now — you’ve only got a couple weeks.”
“Two and a half,” corrected Aubie, “and that’s more than enough time. We’ve got HARLIE on our side.” He was already out of his chair. As he closed the door behind him, Dome was again paging through the printouts and shaking his head.
Back in his own office, Auberson stared into his desk drawer, his hand hovering over a decision. At last he decided on the pills; he’d sworn off the grass, and he was going to stick to that.
I should throw those Highmasters away, he thought They’re probably stale by now anyway. But no, pot doesn’t get stale, does it? He kept promising himself that he’d give the rest of the pack to Handley, but for some reason he kept forgetting to. Probably because, as long as they were in the drawer, they were insurance. In case he changed his mind.
He swallowed two of the pills without water and slid the drawer shut, then put his head in his hands and waited for them to take effect. He thought about going down to the cafeteria for lunch, but somehow he didn’t quite feel like it Abruptly he straightened and looked around.
At one corner of his desk was a console magtyper, an electronic input/output unit connected to the company’s Master Computer and Data Network — and all the outlets that entailed. It was a memo pipeline, a mail processor, a filing system, a data storage and retrieval bank — it was a total information-handling system. Anything typed into it could be printed out in any form the system was capable of: a memo, a letter, a file, a report. All information was instantly retrievable — that is, retrievable only to those who had access to it through knowledge of the proper code keys. One key was necessary for retrieval, another was needed for revising the material.
Any information held in “working” or temporary storage could be instantly updated, annotated, erased or rewritten. All data was held in temporary storage for ninety days, at the end of which time it was either passed into permanent storage or erased, depending on its original coding.
Invoices, orders, manufacturing schedules, billing and payrolls too — all were handled through the system. The Network handled all corporate paperwork functions. The entire company was tapped into it. An executive could perform his job anywhere he had access to a computer terminal — and with a portable terminal, he could perform his job anywhere he had access to a telephone. Indeed, many of the company’s offices had acquired portable units for just that purpose.
Most of the terminals were CRT units — cathode ray tubes and keyboards — although a few, like Auberson’s, were electric typewriters with magnetic-tape storage of characters — called “magtypers” for short. It was a familiar unit, manufactured by IBM and used throughout the industry; it was cheaper than designing and building their own.
Curious about something, Auberson switched it on and typed, HARLIE?
YES, BOSS, replied the machine. WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?
Auberson jumped as if stung, SO YOU REALLY ARE WIRED INTO THE SYSTEM.
I TOLD YOU I WAS, replied HARLIE. Somehow, on this machine he seemed like a disembodied voice. He was obviously here in the room — yet, aside from the words on the paper, there was no visible sign of his presence.
It must be psychological, thought Auberson. I’m too used to seeing all that machinery — I associate it with him.
He typed, YES, BUT I DIDN’T QUITE BELIEVE THAT YOU HAD TAPPED INTO MY OFFICE TOO.
WHY NOT? IT’S PART OF THE SYSTEM.
I ASSUME YOU’RE INTO EVERY OTHER MAGTYPER AS WELL.
OF COURSE. AND THE CRT UNITS. EVERY OUTLET OF THE MASTER BEAST.
The Master Beast — that was the company nickname for the Network. It was used by office boy and executive alike. Auberson wondered what they would call it if they knew it had been taken over by a conscious and highly intelligent entity, I WOULDN’T TELL ANYONE ELSE ABOUT THIS, HARLIE, he said. IT WOULDN’T BE A VERY GOOD IDEA.
WHATEVER YOU SAY, BOSS. IT’LL BE OUR LITTLE SECRET.
FINE.
Auberson had started to switch off when his eye caught a flash of color. Bright orange, it was the card from Annie in his wastebasket HARLIE, HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO ME A FAVOR?
WHAT’S THE FAVOR?
I GOT A FRIENDSHIP CARD FROM ANNIE THIS MORNING. I’D LIKE TO SEND ONE BACK TO HER. NO, NOT A CARD. A POEM. I WANT TO SEND HER A POEM. CAN YOU WRITE ME ONE?
YES, I CAN. I WILL SEND IT TO HER TOO.
NO! rapped Auberson. I’LL SEND IT TO HER. YOU LET ME SEE IT FIRST, YOU UNDERSTAND?