Complete Short Fiction, page 45
Dr. Perry got to his feet, brushed back his lank hair, and reached out to shake Dr. Gower’s hand. “You’re early, Frank.” he said in a mild voice.
Dr. Gower sat down in a chair next to Perry and gave a terse nod. “I wanted to bring you the bad news before the rest of them show up. The committee voted two to one yesterday to include our resident creative genius, Robert Roy lance Roberts, specifically to help judge your project. He’s an ex officio member so he can’t vote, but he can sure talk and write opinions.”
Professor Perry’s already vague expression became even more confused. “Whaa . . .? But Triple-R will be drunk by now, Frank!” he said. “Also, he hates this project worse than he hates that Times guy who cut up his last poetry collection. Jesus, what the hell is happening . . .?”
Gower placed a firm and cautionary hand on his younger colleague’s arm. “Right on both counts, but the committee took Roberts to lunch at the faculty club and I think we held him to four whiskeys—unless he got there earlier than usual. He wasn’t too bad when I left them, and Millie was ordering them a second cup of coffee.”
The young man stared at the floor in dismay. “Millicent Hull hates this idea too. That’s for certain! Do you think I have a chance, Frank?”
The older man rubbed his cold hands briskly together in the warm room, then shrugged. “You know how tough this Snodgrass business has gotten, Charlie. The federal grants are cut to hell and the state is broke. Old Snodgrass may have been a pirate, but he left the university millions to pay for these fellowships. The way the market and the interest rates have gone, the damn grants are now practically at the Nobel dollar level—and since they’re restricted to untenured, assistant professors, just about everyone in that group cranks out a proposal twice a year.”
“But I was a runner-up last year, Frank,” said Dr. Perry in a thin and plaintive voice. “I got Snodgrass seed money. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
The chairman’s voice was icy and quiet. “You know very well what that means. It means you’ve got to show plenty more than the first-shot proposals do. Furthermore, there’s only four of these little treasure troves, two in January and two in September. And for this round . . .”
“The Chinaman in Biology is certain of one,” finished Dr. Perry in a firmer and very bitter voice.
“Correct,” said the older man. “The Chinaman has perhaps found a supposed cure for a suspected cancer. Health and Human Services is willing to doublematch the Snodgrass money if we make the award. The Snodgrass Foundation lawyers agreed, as you know from the fuss it caused, in this single case to waive the will’s provision that no Snodgrass Fellowship be based on additional funding or outside evaluations. The committee has two letters in support of the Chinaman from an assistant secretary of HHS.”
The chairman shook his head and his expression was sombre. “Nobody votes for cancer, Charlie,” he said simply. “It has no constituency.”
“So I’m in the hopper with thirty-seven other research proposals for one gold medal and I’ve got to start out by being better than most, or all. of them since I got that pittance last year. Is that it? I don’t have a prayer!” said Perry. “What about the robot people at the engineering school?”
Dr. Gower shrugged again. “We’ve cut them down to about four, actually. Half the things are written so quickly they’re mostly unintelligible, and in most cases the Snodgrass requirement of total originality was totally lacking. As to the robot engineers, let me say in strictest confidence that yesterday their stair-climbing wheelchair got the wrong command from the control computer, flipped over backwards several steps before the top, and broke the plaster head of the dummy they had strapped to the thing into about fifty pieces. The chair suffered even worse damage.” Professor Gower smiled for the first time since he had come into the room. “Back to the old drawing board with that gadget, I guess.”
“So maybe I do have hope?” muttered the young man, though his tone showed little enthusiasm.
“Definitely, Charlie, but you’d have more hope if you’d sent along a sample of the sort of things you were getting with the proposal. Millie complained about that at lunch, and our famous poet suggested the stuff was probably so awful you didn’t dare include it.”
Dr. Perry threw his palms out and up in dismay. “But I discussed that in the proposal, Frank.” he almost whimpered. “I explained that if the fiction I included was bad they would immediately judge the idea a failure, while if the story seemed good they would just assume I wrote it myself. I mean, there’s just no real substitute for seeing the computer write the stuff before your eyes.”
Gower shrugged once again and his expression seemed almost uninterested. “Proposals aren’t read all that carefully. Charlie. The point is. you’re going to sink or swim on the basis of what this thing . . .” he gestured at the computing hardware spread around them, “produces in this next hour. If it outdoes our own Robert Roberts with even more obscure and impenetrable stuff, you’ve—we’ve—lost the Snodgrass money.”
“And then I don’t have a prayer for tenure—right?” said the young man bitterly. “But the computer’s getting better and better, Frank. I’ve gotten five stories out of it now, and each one is better than the last.”
“Let’s hope,” said the expressionless chairman, looking around as the door opened and two heavily bundled people stepped in. The leading figure was Dr. Millicent Hull, a full professor of philosophy in her mid-forties, grants committee member, and president of the faculty senate. She shucked her heavy coat quickly and strode with vigor and assurance to a seat on the other side of Dr. Perry, pausing to take his soft and diffident hand in her own firm grip. Professor Hull, though a large and imposing woman with an iron-gray bun of hair on top of her big head, had retained an unlikely prettiness of facial expression that seemed to belie her otherwise sturdy and businesslike character. Her eyes were large and wide and her mouth full, though this was now turned sourly downward as she surveyed the expensive, high-tech interior of the Computing Center’s latest acquisition.
“Okay, Charlie,” she said in a brisk voice, “how soon until you start Total Access with this toy?”
The young man gave her back a faint smile. “At two-thirty. Dr. Hull,” he said. “About twenty minutes.”
“Where’s Roberts?” asked Frank Gower.
The second arrival was old Dr. Melvin Fitzhugh, a professor of physics and one of only three named professors in the entire university. Years ago, Fitzhugh had pioneered a method of pottery dating involving the phenomenon of thermoluminescence; and though the method remained of questionable accuracy, Fitzhugh’s lab managed to stay in the newspapers with its dating of various archeological sites throughout the world. A small, pudgy man with thin white hair, Dr. Fitzhugh would retire in a year, and his eyes were already drooping over the lack of his customary afternoon nap.
“He’s on the way, Frank,” said the old physicist. “Had to go to the johnnie, he said.”
“One more drink!” said Millicent Hull in a very hard tone. “Let’s get started on this, Charlie. It’s snowing.”
The young man gulped and nodded, his protuberant Adam’s apple shuttling rapidly up and down. “Okay,” he responded. “Well, as I said in the proposal, this fiction-writing program requires the Total Access capability. I mean, it can only be used when the entire main-frame is dedicated to it for some fixed length of time. Since that costs a bomb and isn’t possible very often, I’ve only managed to get five complete fictions out of the program to date.” He paused to indicate a folder lying on the desk in front of him.
“Do we ever get to see those five—uh—fictions?” said Dr. Hull in a suspicious voice. “And why do you call them fictions instead of stories, Charlie?” Her voice had become sharper and more impatient.
“Now, Millie,” said Frank Gower calmly, “we call them fictions for the same reason that you call the study of learning epistemology; so the slobs won’t know what in hell we’re talking about.”
“I’ve made copies of the five stories for the committee,” said Dr. Perry. “But I really thought it would be better if you saw the thing actually write one before you read these.” His voice was soft and plaintive, and Dr. Hull gave him a sudden reassuring smile.
“Look,” she said, swiveling her head to include them all. “I’m not against this computer or what you’re doing with it. Certainly if the computer can write a story that humans will read, enjoy, and assume another human wrote—well, that might be a big deal and not just in English Lit. But, damn it, I think they’ve got to be real narratives, real stories, and not just some weird, arty string of incomprehensible junk. So. what’s the best one of those?” and she indicated the folder.
Dr. Perry gulped again and quickly opened it. “The best story, at least as far as I’m concerned, was this one it called ‘Hour Test.’ It starts with a quite explicit love scene at the library back entrance and ends with the girl having a total breakdown in a sociology hour test because she’s pregnant and the boy’s flunked out. It’s pretty fevered and maybe a little overwritten but the ending is nice. The machine intercuts the girl’s fragmenting thoughts with typically inhuman sociology jargon from the test questions. It’s not James Joyce, but it’s probably publishable.”
Dr. Hull’s large, clear eyes had grown wider at this and her face was set in lines of doubt. “How could a computer write an explicit love scene. Charlie, unless it just copied it from some book you stuck into its memory?”
Dr. Perry took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Well, Dr. Hull, that all comes out of the use of T.A.—you know. Total Access. The system originally was brought in here as a kind of monitor of all university functions and operations, you remember? T.A. was supposed to keep track of everything: every memo, every academic statistic, every business-office transaction, details of grants, stuff off word processors, the whole bit. The idea was that with T.A. the computer could make predictions and suggestions about the entire range of university operations.” Millicent Hull shook her head. “Charlie, that may all be true, but if there is one single thing this place does not involve itself with in any sense, it is love, explicit or otherwise.”
The young man nodded cheerfully. “You’d think so, but after those rapes around the library last year, they installed hidden mikes to pick up screams in the area, sent the output through the speech-recognition section, and then, into the main frame. When I ran the program the last time, the only T.A. time I could get was at two in the morning. When the machine started to compose, it had probably been listening to a couple of kids in that grove of trees just back of the library. The first part of the story is almost entirely conversation but it’s still quite steamy.”
“Then,” said Dr. Fitzhugh, somewhat roused from his sleepy state, “it sounds like the program is pretty well restricted to the university, where it has, let’s say. some contacts?”
“At the moment, that’s true,” said Dr. Perry, “but if T.A. goes nationwide, which means involving this computer with masses of library materials and God knows what other functions all over, I think its repertoire will be much broader.”
“No computer that writes sexy stories can be all bad,” came a slurred, boisterous voice behind them, and they all turned to see a huge, ruddy-faced man attempting to unwind a thick, ten-foot-long scarf from around his neck. Since half the scarf was stuffed down his back under his coat, it was obvious that he would never get it off without help. Frank Gower immediately rose and went to remove the poet’s vast tweed sport coat, thus revealing a vaster belly partly covered by a ragged red and black hunting shirt, too shrunken to stay tucked in.
Robert Roberts picked his way past some imaginary obstacles and dropped with a great sigh of relief into the empty chair. “Cold out there, Millie,” he boomed, and without pausing turned to Dr. Perry, “and how the hell do we know that the cute little goodies this thing farts out weren’t put there yesterday by you, huh?” He said it all in a rush, having been repeating it to himself during his shambling walk from the Faculty Club.
The poet’s drunken yet total hostility broke like surf over the young man. He gulped several times, then finally spoke out. “Because you people are going to give it the topic . . .”
“Magic tricks . . . give it the topic . . . bullshit,” the poet muttered on to himself, momentarily overcome by the heat of the room.
“Professor Roberts,” said Dr. Hull sternly, “I think it might be better if you made your complaints and accusations after the demonstration. Otherwise. you prejudice your position as a creative consultant. Fairness demands—”
“It’s not a fair world. Millie,” slurred the poet, slowly adjusting to the temperature change. “Okay, how does the magic work. Professor?” he said with a snarl at Dr. Perry.
“What sort of cues did you give the machine to compose the story about the girl and her breakdown. Charlie?” suggested Dr. Hull in a warm and slightly guilty tone, for she was mainly responsible for the poet’s disturbing presence.
Dr. Perry gestured at the open folder. “The story before that one was about two old janitors who both wanted to transfer to the same building where they knew they could sleep the day away. It was okay but I thought the machine had problems differentiating the two old men so as to sharpen up the conflict. So I wrote to it: ‘Compose a story concerning a male and a female college student and integrate their classroom and private lives. The story should be serious and contemporary and the overall effect should be sobering as regards university life.’ ”
The poet gave a part belch, part laugh and rubbed his vein-mapped, sagging cheek. “He practically wrote the story for the thing, sounds like to me. Millie. . . .” and his voice trailed off as his eyes drooped shut.
“We have only ten minutes,” said Frank Gower in an urgent voice. “I think the committee should decide now on how a topic can be fairly selected to test the program.”
The poet’s bloodshot eyes snapped open and his voice was firmer. “I move the following method,” he said. “I will pick a member of the committee to select the topic—namely. Dr. Fitzhugh. You. Millie, will tell him how or from where to find the topic. And you. Frank,” the poet turned narrowed eyes on the chairman of his department, “since you have a certain special interest in the outcome of this demonstration, will accept or reject the first suggestion. Does that sound fair. Professor?” and the poet now turned his large head toward the young man.
“Sure,” said Dr. Perry hastily. “Anything that’s a short paragraph in length. That sounds fine.”
The others also agreed, and the poet rubbed his large, puffy nose. “Well, Millie?” he said softly.
Dr. Hull looked over at Dr. Fitzhugh and pursed her lips in thought. “Fitz. let’s see what it can do with something scientific. Open that text you carried in and find something in the stuff you were preparing this morning, okay?”
Old Dr. Fitzhugh. usually the least-consulted member of the Grants Committee, beamed at them and open his thick textbook. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll be doing reflective and refractive optics when they come back. Let me see . . . ah, how about this where the authors discuss reflection in facing mirrors. Good literary stuff, right?” and he sent a smile at Frank Gower, who grimly nodded back.
The young man swiveled his chair around. “Okay, read it slowly and I’ll type it in. We’re not on T.A. yet, but my program is on standby and ready for input.”
“ ‘A highly reflecting smooth surface is called a mirror,’ ” read Dr. Fitzhugh in a thin, clear voice. “ ‘When two mirrors are set to face each other directly, two visual phenomena are evident: First, the images of an object placed between the mirrors grow smaller and smaller as they are reflected and rereflected between the two mirror planes. Second, the smaller images also grow darker. The size decrease can be explained by the laws of geometrical optics, which govern—”
“Enough, enough, Fitz,” said Dr. Hull impatiently. “Give the thing a break, for heaven’s sake.”
Dr. Perry looked up from the keyboard. “Then can we end it with the sentence, ‘Second, the smaller images also grow darker’ ?” he asked them.
The three committee members agreed immediately, while the poet slouched lower in his chair muttering, “Too easy. Too easy,” poking out a large lower lip to show his continued annoyance.
Dr. Perry turned to the next keyboard at his right and began entering instructions. ENTER FICTION WRITING PROGRAM. INSTRUCTIONS ARE: COMPOSE ORIGINAL STORY BASED ON INPUT QUOTE 34X/2000. QUERY: DO YOU UNDERSTAND ALL WORDS?
The machine immediately responded with ALL WORDS UNDERSTOOD. END.
Dr. Perry then wrote, query: DO YOU UNDERSTAND CONTEXT OF WORDS? CONTEXT UNDERSTOOD. QUOTE IS FROM “UNIVERSITY PHYSICS. P.J. FRANK AND L.R. WHITTINGTON, MCGRAW-HILL NEW YORK, 1981, P. 654. FICTIONAL COMPOSITION BASED ON QUOTE WILL COMMENCE WHEN T.A. PROVIDED. GOOD LUCK CHARLIE. END.
The room became very silent, and the poet sat up a bit straighter. “It wouldn’t be impossible to have somebody, or maybe somebodies, out there now starting feverishly to write a passable work based on that passage,” he said and looked around with a dogged and suspicious air.
