Fulfilment, page 2
The silence inside reminds me not for the first time that my wife has been dead now for a year and a month. I wince involuntarily, then shrug. Her death no longer affects me as strongly as it did. For the first time I see this departure from the village of the Brain as perhaps opening up my emotional life again.
I go into my study and sit down at the typewriter which, when properly activated, synchronises with another typewriter built into the Brain’s new analogue section. As inventor, I am disappointed that I won’t have a chance to take the Brain apart and put it together again, so that it will do all that I have planned for it. But I can already see some basic changes that I would put into a new Brain.
What I want to do with this one is make sure that the recently installed sections do not interfere with the computational accuracy of the older sections. It is these latter which are still carrying the burden of answering the questions given the Brain by scientists, industrial engineers, and commercial buyers of its time.
On to the tape – used for permanent commands – I type: ‘Segment 471A-33-10-10 at 3X-minus.’
Segment 471A is an analogue shaping in a huge wheel. When co-ordinated with a transistor tube (code number 33) an examiner servo-mechanism (10) sets up a reflex which will be activated whenever computations are demanded of 3X (code name for the new section of the Brain). The minus symbol indicates that the older sections of the Brain must examine all data which hereafter derives from the new section.
The extra 10 is the same circuit by another route.
Having protected the organisation – so it seems to me – (as Grannitt) – from engineers who may not realise that the new sections have proved unreliable, I pack the typewriter.
Thereupon I call an authorised trucking firm from the near-by town of Lederton, and give them the job of transporting my belongings.
I drive past Guard Centre at a quarter to six.
There is a curve on the road between the village of the Brain and the town of Lederton where the road comes within a few hundred yards of the cottage which I use as camouflage.
Before Grannitt’s car reaches that curve, I come to a decision.
I do not share Grannitt’s belief that he has effectively cut off the new part of the Brain from the old computing sections. I suspect that the Brain has established circuits of its own to circumvent any interference.
I am also convinced that – if I can manage to set Grannitt to suspect what has happened to the Brain – he will realise what must be done, and try to do it. Only he has the detailed knowledge that will enable him to decide exactly which interoceptors could accomplish the necessary interference.
Just in case the suspicion isn’t immediately strong enough, I also let curiosity creep into his mind about the reason for his discharge.
It is this last that really takes hold. He feels very emotional. He decides to seek an interview with Anne Stewart.
This final decision on his part achieves my purpose. He will stay in the vicinity of the Brain.
I break contact.
I am back on the hill, myself again. I examine what I have learned so far.
The Brain is not – as I first believed – in control of Earth. Its ability to be an individual is so recent that it has not yet developed effector mechanisms.
It has been playing with its powers, going into the future and, presumably, in other ways using its abilities as one would a toy.
Not one individual into whose mind I penetrated knew of the new capacities of the Brain. Even the attorney who ordered me to move from my present location showed by his words and actions that he was not aware of the Brain’s existence as a self-determining entity.
In forty days the Brain has taken no serious action against me. Evidently, it is waiting for me to make the first moves.
I shall do so, but I must be careful – within limits – not to teach it how to gain greater control of its environment. My first step: take over a human being.
It is night again. Through the darkness, a plane soars over and above me. I have seen many planes but have hitherto left them alone. Now, I establish a no-space connection with it. A moment later, I am the pilot.
At first I play the same passive role that I did with Grannitt. The pilot – and I – watch the dark land mass below. We see lights at a distance, pinpricks of brightness in a black world. Far ahead is a glittering island – the town of Lederton, our destination. We are returning from a business trip in a privately owned machine.
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 towards the ground, and, despite my efforts to direct the man’s muscles, I realise 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 utilise 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, savouring 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 realise 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 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 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 exteriorised 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.
The knock is real enough. It hurts her knuckles. She thinks in dull surprise: The door – it’s made of metal.
A minute goes by, then five; and there is no answer. She has time to look around her, time to notice that she cannot see the village of the Brain from where she stands. And clumps of trees bar all view of the highway. She cannot even see her car, where she has left it a quarter of a mile away, on the other side of the creek.
Uncertain now, she walks alongside the cottage to the nearest window. She half expects that it will be a mere façade of a window, and that she will not be able to see inside. But it seems real, and properly transparent. She sees bare walls, a bare floor, and a partly open door leading to an inner room. Unfortunately, from her line of vision, she cannot see into the second room.
“Why,” she thinks, “it’s empty.”
She feels relieved – unnaturally relieved. For even as her anxiety lifts slightly, she is angry at herself for believing that the danger is less than it has been. Nevertheless, she returns to the door and tries the knob. It turns, and the door opens, easily, noiselessly. She pushes it wide with a single thrust, steps back – and waits.
There is silence, no movement, no suggestion of life. Hesitantly, she steps across the threshold.
She finds herself in a room that is larger than she had expected. Though – as she has already observed – it is unfurnished. She starts for the inner door. And stops short.
When she had looked at it through the window, it had appeared partly open. But it is closed. She goes up to it, and listens intently at the panel – which is also of metal. There is no sound from the room beyond. She finds herself wondering if perhaps she shouldn’t go around to the side, and peer into the window of the second room.
Abruptly that seems silly. Her fingers reach down to the knob. She catches hold of it, and pushes. It holds firm. She tugs slightly. It comes towards her effortlessly, and is almost wide open before she can stop it.
There is a doorway, then, and darkness.
She seems to be gazing down into an abyss. Several seconds go by before she sees that there are bright points in that blackness. Intensely bright points with here and there blurs of fainter light.
It seems vaguely familiar, and she has the feeling that she ought to recognise it. Even as the sensation begins, the recognition comes.
Stars.
She is gazing at a segment of the starry universe, as it might appear from space.
A scream catches in her throat. She draws back and tries to close the door. It won’t close. With a gasp, she turns towards the door through which she entered the house.
It is closed. And yet she left it open a moment before. She runs towards it, almost blinded by the fear that mists her eyes. It is at this moment of terror that I – as myself – take control of her. I realise that it is dangerous for me to do so. But the visit has become progressively unsatisfactory to me. My consciousness – being one with that of Anne Stewart – could not simultaneously be in my own perception centre. So she saw my – body – a as I had left it set up for chance human callers, responsive to certain automatic relays: doors opening and closing, various categories manifesting.
I compute that in her terror she will not be aware of my inner action. In this I am correct. And I successfully direct her outside – and let her take over again.
Awareness of being outside shocks her. But she has no memory of actually going out.
She begins to run. She scrambles safely over the fence and a few minutes later jumps the creek at the narrow point, breathless now, but beginning to feel that she is going to get away.
Later, in her car, roaring along the highway, her mind opens even more. And she has the clear, coherent realisation: There is something here … stranger and more dangerous – because it is different – than the Brain.
Having observed Anne Stewart’s reactions to what has happened, I break contact. My big problem remains: How shall I dispose of the Brain which – in its computational ability – is either completely or nearly my equal?
Would the best solution be to make it a part of myself? I send an interspace message to the Brain, suggesting that it place its units at my disposal and allow me to destroy its perception centre.
The answer is prompt: “Why not let me control you and destroy your perception centre?”
I disdain to answer so egotistical a suggestion. It is obvious that the Brain will not accept a rational solution.
I have no alternative but to proceed with a devious approach for which I have already taken the preliminary steps.
By mid-afternoon, I find myself worrying about William Grannitt. I want to make sure that he remains near the Brain – at least until I have gotten information from him about the structure of the Brain.
To my relief, I find that he has taken a furnished house at the outskirts of Lederton. He is, as before, unaware when I insert myself into his consciousness.
He has an early dinner and towards evening – feeling restless – drives to a hill which overlooks the village of the Brain. By parking just off the road at the edge of a valley, he can watch the trickle of traffic that moves to and from the village, without himself being observed.
He has no particular purpose. He wants – now that he has come – to get a mind picture of what is going on. Strange, to have been there eleven years and not know more than a few details.
To his right is an almost untouched wilderness. A stream winds through a wooded valley that stretches off as far as the eye can see. He has heard that it, like the Brain itself, is Anne Stewart’s property, but that fact hadn’t hitherto made an impression on him.
The extent of the possessions she has inherited from her father startles him and his mind goes back to their first meeting. He was already chief research engineer, while she was a gawky, anxious-looking girl just home from college. Somehow, afterwards, he’d always thought of her as she had been then, scarcely noticing the transformation into womanhood.
