Читать книгу Shock Wave - Walt Richmond - Страница 7

THE CAFETERIA was a long room with warm light and a cheerful atmosphere that contrasted strongly with the rather cold formality of the computer’s rooms, the stores area, and the corridors he’d traversed so far. Perhaps the cheerfulness stemmed from the small tables of all sizes and the “chairs” of odd and various shapes that were scattered about; or from the bright colors in which they were variously painted or upholstered (plastic?); or perhaps from the warmth of the light or the pale yellow of three of the walls. The fourth wall was devoted to food dispensing slots, much like an automat, Terry thought, as he and his huge companion—heavy-built, rather than tall, Terry reminded himself; and perhaps his feeling of its hugeness stemmed from the connotations associated in his mind with dinosaurs—made their way towards it.

Terry searched among strange food-names for some time before he found a section seemingly devoted to his kind of . . . of being, he told himself. The food for which he punched came out after only a short interval, and he turned to find that the Saurian was waiting at a table with chairs that would accommodate both their figures; large, rather heavy chairs, and quite comfortable he found as he sat down.

“So I gather you’re trapped, too,” Terry began without preliminary. “What have you done about it?”

He was beginning, he noted, to be able to read Grontunk’s expressions, and it seemed to him that there was a certain edge of terror, thinly concealed, in Grontunk’s reply.

“Nothing. What can one do? As a well-oriented Galactic Citizen . . .” The phrase trailed off as Grontunk sat staring, not at Terry but beyond him at an endless future of imprisonment. And Terry’s own orientation was telling him that the computer knew best, that his urge toward solving the problem should wait on more competent outside aid.

Without even noticing that he had done so, Terry edited that concept out of his head.

“But we can’t just sit here! We should at least apply ourselves to the problem of becoming better educated. The concept of better education seems to be tied in with higher Galactic Citizen rating, and would therefore make us more capable of dealing with the problem ourselves.”

Grontunk’s apathy and detachment were not penetrated. “I have tried, my friend. In order to achieve a higher Galactic Citizen rating, one must, as you say, become better educated. But one cannot become educated beyond one’s resources of access to information. And the computer denies access—certain subjects—on the basis of Galactic Citizen rating.”

Terry grinned. “Every piece of circular logic draws a line around a blank spot. And where I come from, such a line is known as a zero. Which always has a hole in the middle of it.”

Grontunk looked startled.

“If the computer is our problem,” Terry continued, “then of course we must reorient the computer.”

Grontunk’s amazement was succeeded by fear.

“No, no. Without the computer we would die. Neither of us could survive on this planet without it.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“Without the computer, or someone else to run it, there would be no power available, no synthesis of food stuffs, no synthesis of breathable atmosphere, and many other things. This world is a desert, lifeless and devoid of the compatible factors that make life possible. You were comfortable when you arrived on the landing stage?” Grontunk looked up at him. “But the air you were breathing came with you. The landing stage appears open, but it isn’t. Did you notice the green color of the sky beyond? An unusual color for us oxygen-breathers, is it not?”

“Yes. My home world sky is blue.”

“And mine also. But the atmosphere of this planet . . .” Grontunk shuddered. “It is not fit for us.”

“Okay. So we’re dependent on the computer. But I didn’t say that we should destroy it. I said we should reorient it.”

Grontunk sank back into apathy, and did not reply.

But, in his own head, Terry heard the answer. “The orientation of the computer is a technical job accomplished only by a Citizen Class . . .” The numbers were meaningless to Terry. “Access to computer orientation controls,” the voice went on, “is denied common citizens on the basis of their insufficient knowledge of the techniques involved and the consequences of mis-orientation. . . .”

Another zero, Terry decided. But—if there were a sufficiently serious upset in the computer’s operation, it would necessarily call in supervisory help. Now—how serious would that malfunction have to be?

Terry wasn’t sure. Somehow that didn’t seem to be within the realm of a Galactic Citizen’s basic knowledge.

“What would happen if the computer had a malfunction?” Terry inquired.

The instant terror on Grontunk’s face—odd how he was considering it a face now, despite the saurian features—Terry smoothed over by continuing. “Not a basic malfunction that would threaten our survival, but how serious a malfunction would require supervisory attention? Would make the computer call in Galactic help?”

“I wouldn’t know. You must realize, Terry, that we both have approximately the same orientation now. Plus of course whatever our experiences were before we arrived here. My own”—he shrugged in disparagement—“were, to put it mildly, rather limited in Galactic terms. My race, compared to theirs, is not highly advanced.” There was a note of chagrin in his voice. “How the computer mistook me for a Galactic Citizen in the first place, I’ve yet to determine . . . though,” in a softer voice, “it has said that I was such a citizen and had a traumatic experience. And I do seem to have absorbed the training rather readily. Perhaps . . .”

“How did you get here?” Terry asked abruptly.

The Saurian seemed to bring himself back to the conversation with an effort. “It was an accident,” he said slowly. “At our . . .” There was a pause. “. . . school, laboratory—I’m not sure of the referent—but a place where I was studying. We were investigating . . . those properties of energy . . . I am speaking now from my Galactic Citizen’s knowledge rather than from what I knew then—those properties of energy that are of an electrical nature. We had progressed from the point of noticing that friction causes certain objects to attract other objects, to the point where we were producing sparks . . . miniature urgzsplatz.” Grontunk paused again. “Lightning bolts would be the term here.

“And I had such a machine in my possession. I was on my way back to the . . . the homeland, you would call it here. And paused in an out-of-the-way place to check over the machinery. More from curiosity than anything else. I cranked up the machine, and then—my world disappeared. I do not yet understand why. My orientation tells me that a signal of some mysterious nature was caused by the urgzsplatz.”

Terry had been checking his own knowledge against what Grontunk was saying. Sure enough, there were no referents in basic Galactic training to the equations of electromagnetic energy. A curious blank spot there. So Grontunk had remained uninformed as to the basic nature of his experiment even through the extensive Galactic Citizen’s orientation.

There were all sorts of peripheral referents in the orientation to the basic factors of electrical energy equations. The idea of electronic equipment was met with in several contexts; but none of the basics were dealt with here.

“So you created a radio signal?”

“Yes. So I have been told.”

“But you don’t know why or how? Could you describe your machine? Or do you still have it?”

Grontunk shrugged and quoted. “ ‘The illegal possession of electronic devices by lower-grade Galactic Citizens . . .’ I had it, but the computer took it away. And told me it was illogical for a citizen to attempt to contravene measures based on the welfare of himself and others about him.” Suddenly Grontunk broke down completely and howled, “But I want to go home!”

“Home? Where’s home?” A well-modulated electronic voice interrupted and Terry turned to see a glistening metallic individual. “Who is your friend, Friend Grontunk?”

“Oh, hi, Z-9604. Meet our new, uh, meet our new arrival. Basic Citizen Terry Ferman, this is Independent Entity Z-9604.”

“I greet you most cordially, fellow Entity.” The robot raised both “hands,” palms out, in what Terry recognized as a near-universal symbol of a showing of no-weapons. A falsity, he realized in the same instant, since a robot of this class, though not specifically “armed,” was quite capable of bringing force to bear on any opponent it might meet, should the circumstances call for it.

The Citizen Training, which was now assuming almost a separate entity-package in his head, began blandly informing him of the capabilities and restrictions of non-specific robot types such as the one he was dealing with. But what interested Terry more at the moment was the apparent coagulation of the Galactic Citizen training itself, and the separation of his own personality from it. An immunity reaction? he wondered.

“Perhaps,” the robot was saying, “Citizen Terry can inform me. What is this word ‘home’ that my friend Grontunk keeps alluding to? He is a very nice fellow, but he uses some of the weirdest references on occasion. Myself, I am an humble entity, but I have intent of understanding that which I do not.”

“Home,” Terry replied gravely, “is where the heart is.”

“But the heart, in a biochemically housed electronic system, is within the body,” the robot answered just as gravely.

“A colloquialism—common to, I gather, all us biochemically housed electronics systems. Perhaps I can translate,” he continued. “Home is that place where a person feels best oriented, due to familiarity.”

“Oh. But then this is home. Right?” The robot seemed genuinely pleased at having come to a logical conclusion.

“Only for a tin can like you,” Terry said.

“How can it be different for me than for anyone else? This isn’t logical.”

“It is a matter of orientation,” Terry explained. “Grontunk’s point of orientation—and mine, for that matter—and yours as well—are separated by origin and experience. . . .”

“And therefore,” the robot replied, “. . . ah, yes. I see. Orientation is a matter of understanding. Surely any rational being can understand those facts which are presented to him. Therefore home is not where I’m from, but the place about which I have understanding?”

“Yes. Understanding, not just facts.” Terry sat staring at the metalloid figure. There were, perhaps, deductions to be made from the basic symmetries of his structure. Bipedal, as he was; and with dextrous upper limbs as both he and Grontunk had. The robot was slightly taller than Terry.

“How much do you weigh?” Terry inquired, and automatically calculated the return answer into pounds. Approximately two hundred. Very close to Terry’s own weight. “And how many pounds can you lift?”

But this time he didn’t need an answer. The robot was capable of a maximum stress exceeding his own weight by about five times, according to Terry’s own information on the subject.

“But you’re not made of metal, then?” Terry asked.

“No. Of course not.” The robot seemed somewhat surprised. “My metallic appearance serves several useful functions, among which are identification, shielding . . .”

Terry found that he could add the same list himself. The concept of shielding implied without saying so that the robot had an electronic internal organization—and then Terry realized that it implied as well that the tin can must control not only electronic radiation from his own circuits, but his internal heat balance as well. Terry found himself giving way to admiration of the designers of so complex a device, and at the same time wondering who and where they were.

The robot interrupted his thoughts. “Your structure I also find somewhat intriguing. And your designer must have been quite adept, too.”

Terry was about to answer this comment when he realized that he had not spoken, and the thought of designers had not been introduced in the conversation.

“Of course not,” the robot replied. “I apologize for intruding into your thoughts, but your electronic radiations are so much more intelligible than the sound waves you cause to occur with your—mouth?—that I find them far easier to follow. Your designer seems to have skimped a bit on your shielding quotient.”

“If you can read me that well, then the computer can also?” Terry felt himself suddenly as fearful as Grontunk had been.

“Negative.” The reply came promptly. “The computer cannot take into account random signals except those received through special channels such as in the orientation room. I, in my turn, am isolated from the computer by a malfunction in my transmitting equipment.”

The relief that surged through Terry was so great that he felt sure the tin can could not but register it, but that metalloid entity continued as though not registering.

“It was a game of some success on my part to decode your electrical transmissions. But I must admit that I could only do it from a very close proximity. Of course, such intellectual games one plays for amusement, and I am not completely successful, but then I have insufficient reference points. For example, there was an unusual surge a moment ago which I find totally untranslatable.” Terry felt his muscles relax in quick relief, but the robot was continuing, “I also find the name you use for me in these transmissions to be quite intriguing. A metallic food container? Of course, I am neither metallic nor a food container, but . . .”

“I did not mean anything derogatory. . . .” Terry said.

“Of course not. And Tinkan is a much easier form of address than Z-9604. I find the appellation comfortable, and should be delighted if you will use it.”

“Good. It’s much easier.”

“Me too?” asked Grontunk. “It does come more quickly to the tongue. . . .”

The robot bowed, and Terry asked, “Since you read me, do you read Grontunk as well?” Since the matter was under discussion it would be a good idea to find out as much as possible.

“Only superficially, as in your case. There are many recurrent groupings of electronic responses in your individual computers for which I have no satisfactory referents.”

“But if you can receive from us, what is the nature of the difficulty between you and the computer?”

“The signals you emit to your surroundings are of a distinctly different nature than those with which I should be communicating with my . . .” There was a distinct pause. “. . . boss? Of course I have a shielding quotient which you seem to lack which would make it impossible, but even without that, our channel of communication would not even follow the same type of code system you use.”

A binary system? Terry wondered, and found himself working through a binary numeral computation.

“No, no. That would be a formalized version of your own form of code.”

“It is, as far as I know, the simplest possible electronic code,” Terry replied. “Does Grontunk also follow it?”

“No.”

Terry tried again. There were, of course, innumerable other mathematical codes that could be superimposed on an electronic structure. But the simple form of Aristotelian “yes-no” logic. . . .

“Can be complicated,” Tinkan said, “as you say, by innumerable variations. For example, a pulse may be recurrent in time so that the time duration becomes the significant quantity, such as in Grontunk’s case. Or a pulse may be present or absent, as in your own case. An individual pulse may also vary in amplitude thus giving what we would call an analogue quantity of informational referent, which is the case of my own basic computational ability.”

“But an analogue value can run between zero and infinity. Can you also do decimal computation?”

“I find the value of decimal computation restricted by a large number of decimal points,” Tinkan replied, “whereas I can arrive at a much more valid approximate answer with a fewer number of actual manipulations by analogue usage.”

“And,” Terry replied, “with a great deal less precision.”

“But . . .” Tinkan’s answer was interrupted by Grontunk.

“If you gentlemen intend to continue a discussion in which I am not oriented, I must either sit here in puzzlement or withdraw. I do not wish to withdraw, for I am beginning to hope that more shall come of this than I had first thought possible.”

Tinkan turned to include Grontunk in his next remark. “You have misinformed me. This citizen is obviously not of a Basic rating, since there are no referents available to the Basic Galactic Citizen that would make such a conversation logically possible.”

“But he’s oriented to the same class I am! And . . . and I don’t understand!” Grontunk’s voice took a plaintive note. “Without a balancing tail to free his forelimbs, how could a biped have developed to a level of intelligence. . . .”

“Both the biochemical and the metalloid forms lend themselves to a variety of shapes,” Tinkan interrupted cheerfully. “But, Friend Terry, what is your numeric designation?”

Terry proceeded to supply that which his orientation told him was desired. “Which translates out,” he added, “basic citizen orientation.”

“Then you cannot know what you just said!”

“That is your opinion,” said Terry. “How would you classify me?”

“Sorry,” Tinkan answered, “insufficient referents for full classification. But you’re definitely not just a basic citizen.”

“And,” Terry replied, “I’m definitely not happy with that classification. Our problem seems to be to refer the matter of status for Grontunk and myself to a Citizen, Supervisor Class, for clarification. In order to get a Citizen, Supervisor Class here, our problem seems to be to create a signal that will call a Citizen Supervisor Class to this outpost. What emergency would cause a Supervisor to be called here?”

Tinkan replied readily. “Why, anything that constitutes an emergency beyond the capability of the computer to interpret and handle. Anything falling outside its basic orders would bring about such intervention.”

“And how can I get hold of a copy of those orders?”

“That’s simple enough. Ask the computer.”

“You forget. I’m a Basic Citizen. The computer is not required to give me any information of a technical nature beyond my understanding classification. But I was hoping you might have a copy of the orders.”

“Not completely. I do know some of the basics applying to my former job. For example, routine repairs of a predictable nature would be handled by my specific type of entity. However, if the cause of a malfunction is indeterminate so far as the computer is concerned, or if it does not fall within the predictable range of malfunctions, then a Supervisor must be called in to estimate the chances of recurrence and to specifically order any changes required in the computer’s routine to prevent future malfunctions.”

“Any unpredictable malfunction.” Terry sat thoughtfully. Then, “That seems simple enough.” He was already rapidly scanning over the general outline of the base and the various functions, not only those that he had been told of, but those that he could, from his own former knowledge, predict.

He had been told that the computer supplied its own power from several units, and that these were automatically monitored and regulated by the computer. But there was nothing in the General Citizen’s Orientation to indicate the type of operation factors involved in these units.

“Tinkan, are the power units electrical?”

“Yes.”

“Are the power units located close by, within the complex here? Or are they remote?”

“There’s a widespread grid of power collection units. They are located most advantageously around the planet, to make use of solar radiant energy, which is converted into electricity for transmission to this area.”

“And you have access to the repair department—say, to the switchboard unit that controls these stations?”

“Yes. As a nonspecific technical class I have access to any such in the station.”

“And if I give you specific instructions, you will obey them?”

“So long as the computer does not countermand your instructions, certainly.”

“And you are not in communication with the computer?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Then my first instructions are that you bring me a complete schematic diagram of the interconnections and interrelationships of the power collection grid and its termination in this building.”

“Such information is not available to . . .” Tinkan paused. “But then you’re not, are you? I would have to refer the matter to the computer,” he concluded.

“But you are not in communication with the computer. Right?”

“That is correct.”

“Then you don’t know my classification. Right?”

“That, too, is correct.”

“And, in an emergency, your orders read that you will take orders from any rational citizen. Therefore as a rational citizen of indeterminate rank, I order you to bring me this information.”

Tinkan sat silent for several minutes.

“You have shown me no emergency factor. And . . . I don’t like people pulling rank on me. As an Independent Entity, I must nevertheless follow my basic instructions. Therefore, if you will show me an emergency—”

“Rank, shmank,” Terry muttered. “We’ve got a problem to solve. I’m just trying to make it possible to solve it.”

He was thinking fast. There was nothing he could show the robot in the way of an emergency, and it couldn’t act as he wanted it to without an emergency. Tinkan had demonstrated he could “feel” logic, probably much the same feeling as Terry had in emotions. So if he could produce an emergency—it would have to be real. An emergency claimed without proof obviously wouldn’t be logical—wouldn’t work.

Abruptly he stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets to disguise their slight tendency to shake.

“Take me to the power grid control center,” he said. “I’ll show you that emergency.”