New Writings in SF 5 - [Anthology] Read online

  “The very thought of mathematics sends me paralytic,” Livingstone confessed, pulling at an ear lobe.

  “Me, too. Anyway, that isn’t the problem; the Department of Mathematics at the University will soon recognize the equations. It’s the implication of the whole thing that has me worried. It’s as if he were in contact with someone —or something. I’d better shut up before I frighten myself to death.”

  “Don’t leave me here by myself, will you?”

  The tension eased a little, but both men apprehensively watched the still-disappearing inked traces, and wondered what it all meant.

  Eight more times during the course of the night, McLean treated them to spates of extremely befuddling mathematics. By morning, they were like wrung-out washing-cloths.

  McLean went away as if nothing had happened.

  Watching him leave, Maxwell hazarded, “I don’t think he’s any the wiser as to what’s happening than we are—at least, not consciously.”

  “But something will bring him back, won’t it?”

  “Yes.” He glanced down at the large box of tapes on the control-room table. “I’ll take these to the University. If there’s anything significant in them, I’ll call you.”

  He made a quick call to the nursing home and was assured that all was well. Then he headed for the University.

  * * * *

  Five

  The Senior Lecturer in Mathematics was very apologetic and even more unhelpful. “Really, Doctor Maxwell, the faith of the lay public in mathematicians is touching,” the undernourished little man, who was as thin as a piano wire, expounded, puffing on a foul-smelling pipe. “But we can’t do the impossible.” He sounded quite cheerful about being such an intellectual drag. “Without a clue as to what the symbols themselves stand for, the equations are meaningless to me. Your tapes don’t give much information.”

  Maxwell felt as if he were being held personally responsible for the contents of the mysterious tapes. Wearily he thanked the man, and went outside, glad to get some fresh air.

  He didn’t feel tired. The previous night’s activities seemed to have squeezed the physical tiredness out of him. He made a call at the nursing home, then decided he might as well give Jason the good news in person.

  Proudly, he told the pretty receptionist at the Computing Centre about his son.

  “What are you going to call him?” she asked, practically.

  Maxwell stopped short. “Do you know,” he admitted blankly, “I haven’t given it a thought!”

  She shook her head, smiling. “You men! Anyway, now I know what colour of wool to get. By the way, tread warily with Doctor Brown. He was routed out at six this morning and he’s not exactly pleased about it. Apparently, there’s something wrong with the computer.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to have a spy in the organization.” He wondered if he’d bring her flowers or chocolates the next time he came. She was very helpful and bright.

  Jason wasn’t in his office and he was directed to Computer Control. I’ll be counting dials and gauges in my sleep, he promised himself. Jason greeted him civilly enough, but Maxwell could see that he had things on his mind. “I won’t keep you-” Maxwell began.

  “Not at all, Edward,” Brown overruled him, taking his arm, “I’m being very rude. A break will do me good.”

  They went into a small office. Outside, the place was in turmoil, people rushing hither and thither. Maxwell could see a group of men and women, in white coats, gathered round a table, like surgeons at an operation, checking stacks of papers and calling off things to an operator at a punched-card machine. Only the banked faces of the computer looked imperturbable.

  “Any news of the baby yet?” Brown kept glancing agitatedly at the group.

  “A boy, seven-thirty last night.”

  “Congratulations! Is your wife well?”

  Maxwell nodded and handed over a cigar. “You and Joan will come round to our place, once the flurry settles down. We’ll arrange it later.” He gestured out to the commotion. “What’s your problem here? My spies told me you were called out at an unearthly hour this morning.”

  “The computer is quietly going nuts and so am I.”

  Maxwell looked suitably puzzled and interested.

  “To put it in a nutshell, Ed, the blasted thing’s giving out more than it’s taking in! It’s like pouring a pint of beer into a pot and drinking out two. I can’t understand it. They’re checking the programme now.”

  Just then, a long-haired girl detached herself from the mêlée and swayed towards them and came into the office. “There’s nothing wrong with the programme, Doctor Brown,” she said, examining Maxwell closely till he blushed, and liking what she saw. He felt like a slave at an auction.

  “Okay, Moira,” he said resignedly, “thanks. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  Moira flashed Maxwell an inviting smile, tossed her long, shining chestnut hair and went out.

  “Nymphomaniac,” Jason said matter-of-factly. “Do you happen to have a gun handy, Ed ?”

  “I’m trying to give them up,” Maxwell said and was rewarded with a smile from Jason.

  The computer chief paced around a bit. “This is an absolute dead-end! When we compile a programme for the computer, we know the limitations and can calculate how much information will be returned. When this thing came up, we automatically checked the programme running at the time for error, as that was the only thing that could produce the results we got. But there is no error. And that leaves us exactly no place to go.”

  He knotted his fingers vexedly.

  Maxwell, who had been listening closely, said suddenly, “Let’s get to the nearest tape-recorder. I’ve something I want you to hear. We might have the answer to both our problems.”

  Without further explanation, Maxwell dragged Jason back to the latter’s office and began to play back the tapes for him. As they progressed, Jason’s excitement grew and grew. When the tapes were finished, all he could say was, “That’s the stuff we’ve been getting back. But how, but how—?” He was thumping his fist into his palm. “You see what this means, don’t you, Ed ? My computer and your subject, McLean, are in telepathic communication! How it started is anyone’s guess, but the computer must broadcast on a special frequency that can be picked up only by a special receiver: and that receiver is McLean’s mind. They’ve been swapping information, and McLean has been helping the computer to do its sums. In turn, the computer, being basically stupid anyway, prints the information on the output tape. We’re getting our answers before we ask our questions.” He put his head in his hands. “When I try to explain this one, I’ll really need that gun.”

  Maxwell’s face resembled putty in colour. “It doesn’t stop there, Jason.” Brown didn’t look up. “If your computer is broadcasting, does it mean that all computers broadcast, all the time they are in operation? Think of it: every computer, everywhere in the world.”

  “I don’t want to, not yet, anyway.”

  Maxwell went on as if he hadn’t heard the interruption.

  “And here’s another thing: do computers communicate with each other?”

  This elicited a groan.

  “As for McLean? Is he unique, or are there more like him, with special types of brain, just waiting to be tapped ? The possibilities are endless!”

  They sat in silence, contemplating those possibilities-

  Brown straightened up and said, “Tell me all you know about McLean.”

  He sat back as Maxwell told him about the visit to Earlton and his meetings with the shop-keeper and the headmaster, and concluded, “So he’s always had an inclination towards figures.”

  “He and Moira would get along famously,” Brown couldn’t help remarking. Then he asked, “Is McLean coming back to the establishment tonight?”

  “I think he will. There seems to be a compulsion in his mind, as if, as I said, he needs the dreams.”

  “I’ll bet he does!” Brown answered. “Look at it this way, Ed. McLean has
had an exceptionally high-level area of his brain tapped by my computer—and the blasted thing has bitten off much more than it can chew, and it serves it right, too—and the interchange with another high-level ‘brain’ is like food to him.”

  “Or an aphrodisiac” Maxwell interjected.

  “Yes, yes, that’s it exactly! It’s not a staple diet. It’s only for kicks, if I’ve got my slang right. He’s hooked and he can’t do without the shots.”

  “The addiction,” Maxwell said, “if I may carry on your analogy, is getting worse. He dreamed almost continuously last night—the point of the pen wore out—and he’ll need more. Tell me, Jason, is the computer ever closed down?”

  Jason said no. “Only in the case of a power failure, when there’s nothing we can do about it, or when there’s a really major fault developed. This type of computer can, for the most part, repair itself. Why?”

  “I want to try something, and I’ll need your cooperation. Here’s what I want to do.”

  * * * *

  His phone was ringing when he reached home. Lifting the receiver, he identified himself. “Dr. Maxwell! Establishment here. There’s a young chap kicking up an awful fuss, demanding to get in. Says he has to get in. Name’s McLean.”

  “Is Nurse Wilson still there? She said she might be until about ten.”

  “She’s just leaving now-”

  “Get her to the phone.”

  He heard the man calling and then Nurse Wilson’s cool voice was there.

  Quickly he explained the situation. “Let him in and tape him up, as he asks. Can you do that and wait till I get there?”

  “But you haven’t had any sleep-”

  “I’ll manage for once, Jan. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”

  Replacing the receiver, he push-buttoned Jason’s number.

  “Jason! Our addict’s back. He almost tore the place down trying to get in. One of my nurses is taping him up and I’m going over there now.”

  “Do you think there’s some sort of crisis?”

  “Probably. We’ll be forced to bring my plan forward, Jason. Will you let me know the most suitable time?”

  Jason agreed. “We’ll need to keep in constant touch.”

  “This might not last as long as we think, if it is a crisis. I’m going away now and I’ll call again from the establishment.”

  Jan Wilson was waiting for him. Even her usual facade of calm was cracked a little.

  “He wouldn’t let me tape him up, Doctor Maxwell,” she began to explain, as they hurried towards the cubicle. “He was in a terrible state when he came, but after I let him in, he changed completely. He said he had no need of machines now. He just needed to be here.”

  They reached the cubicle where McLean lay sleeping, his face composed, his limbs at rest. There was no indication of eye movement.

  Maxwell led the way to the control-room and they found seats. “That fits, Jan. This is where it started for him and he associates this place with his experiences.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you-”

  “Sorry, Jan,” Maxwell was apologetic. “Of course you wouldn’t. I saw Dr. Brown, of the Computing Centre, this morning. His computer and McLean are in some sort of telepathic communication.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “But how—?”

  Maxwell took his eyes away from the still figure of McLean. “I don’t know how it’s being done, but it is. We have conclusive proof of that. The computer is running ahead of itself, giving out more information than it should according to the programme.”

  She sat shaking her head, unable to comprehend it all.

  “That makes two of us,” he said, reading her thoughts.

  He rose and lifted the phone and put Jason in the picture.

  “Methinks our little experiment is going to be dangerous,” Jason predicted gloomily, “and I wouldn’t like the cost of a computer to be stopped out of my pay.”

  “I think there’s tremendous power, here, Jason, but I have a feeling that it isn’t basically destructive. If anything happens, it will not be deliberate.”

  “You tell that to the Inquisition.”

  “Stop trying to see into the future. You’ve been around computers too long, that’s your trouble. Unless anything really unusual happens, I’ll await your call to put the experiment into action.”

  He rejoined Jan, who, having found her composure, went off to make tea. Good old Britain, he thought, awash on an ocean of tea, answer to every ill!

  McLean still slept peacefully and, if the signs were to be believed, he was dreaming continuously. Oh! to know what those dreams were.

  The phone rang and he bounded to the table.

  “This computer’s going crazy!” Jason’s agitated voice almost bawled in his ear. ‘The stuff’s churning out so fast we can hardly clear a space for it. And you should see it! I have a nodding acquaintance with mathematics, but I don’t recognize a fraction of what the infernal thing’s spewing out. I wish I knew what they were cooking up together.”

  “McLean’s the senior partner,” Maxwell said, “I’m sure of that. Even if your computer has become intelligent, as seems likely, McLean is forcing it to function as a computer and not as a thinking entity.”

  There was silence for a brief spell. “It’s funny you should say that. I’ve been watching closely and I’d swear that, once or twice, there was a slight hesitation in the production, as if the computer were fighting back. What a situation!”

  Maxwell had been thinking hard while Jason was talking. “There’s going to be no suitable time for our plan now. Your programmes are shot to bits. So try it now and we’ll see what happens. I’ll hang on here. I can see McLean’s screen.” He covered the mouthpiece and called Jan. “We’re going to try something. Come and watch.”

  “Doing it now,” Jason said.

  McLean started to scream at the pitch of his voice, his face contorted. But he hadn’t wakened up.

  “I can hear the racket from here,” Jason told him.

  “Doctor”—Jan was by his side—”do you notice anything peculiar about that scream?”

  Maxwell said he didn’t.

  “It’s exactly the same as that of a child deprived of something it wants. It isn’t pain. It’s bad temper!”

  Maxwell rubbed his shin, staring at the screen. “You’re right, Jan.” To Jason: “Better turn the juice on again, Jason. Our boy’s having tantrums.”

  Jason sounded ill as he answered, “I hate to tell you this, but the computer has just this minute started working again, of its own accord.”

  “And McLean’s stopped screaming!” Maxwell was almost speechless with excitement. “This means that he reached out with his mind, located the power switch and turned it on. I’m beginning to wonder what we have here.”

  “I’m beginning to wish we’d never found him, or he us, which ever way you like—almighty heaven! The computer’s overloading! There’s smoke pouring out of a dozen places-”

  The conversation ended abruptly and Maxwell heard the receiver being dropped on the table. Vague noises came to him, mostly shouting, unintelligible. The tea, delayed, came in a large mug.

  “What’s happening?”

  Maxwell lifted the mug. “I think McLean’s burned out the computer with an overload.”

  “Oh, dear. Is that serious?”

  Maxwell did a double-take. “About a few hundred thousand pounds worth serious.”

  Just then, Jason came back on the line. He sounded more puzzled than ever, but relief was evident in his voice. “Everything’s all right, the computer’s working again,” he kept repeating in wonderment. “I can’t understand it. The computer was on fire—excuse me, Eddie, I’ll have to go and get something very strong to drink. I’ll call you back.”

  Maxwell walked slowly over to the screen. “I’d give anything to know what happened, what is happening now. There, Jan, you see someone with a fantastic mind. Maybe there are others like him. Perhaps, if they ever manage to
find out what’s on those computer rolls and get McLean to talk—who knows what might be revealed?”

  He fell silent. Together, they gazed at the dreaming youth whose mind might be the greatest the world had ever known.

  * * * *

  Now that the computer was saved—although he no longer needed it—he could go ahead with his plans. The computer had helped him to find the way. Slowly, at first, he let a small portion of the power of his mind filter out into space in the direction the computer had shown him.

  Gradually, he stepped up the output until he was broadcasting at peak strength. He couldn’t maintain his effort for long and he began to weaken. But with practice and experience, he would learn.