The Light at The End of The Universe -, page 28
The guide-robot shut the door behind me, and I heard a faint click—not the whirr-clickclick kind they made in sorting their programs, but a locking kind of click. I turned quickly and grabbed the door handle.
“Please sit down,” said a voice from the air around me.
The door was locked.
“Please sit down,” said the voice.
I looked around the room, searching for another exit, knowing there wouldn’t be any. Now, too late, it finally occurred to me that I was an important man in the Western Bloc’s defense industry, and that the whole thing about me making an appointment and then forgetting it was more than just curious—it was damned fishy.
And here I was.
“Please sit down.”
I looked warily at the big robot in front of the chair. It didn’t seem to have any threatening protuberances; indeed, it was more or less shapeless except for that head with the huge eye. Cautiously, I sat in the leather swivel chair facing it.
Immediately the robot’s eye started spinning. I realized suddenly that the iris was marked with spiral lines, and now that the eye was spinning it seemed like a whirlpool, a vortex of light which had instantly caught the focus of my gaze and was trying to pull me down, down and into the dark pupil at the center. Down, down…
“Down, down, down,” I heard a voice saying, slowly and monotonously. “Down…”
I blinked and sat up from my partially slumped position in the chair. “Like hell,” I said.
“Sleep,” said the voice. “You must sleep. Sleep, sleep. Down into sleep…”
“No,” I said, and looked away from the eye.
The voice stopped; there was a long, echoless silence in the room. The lights dimmed into darkness. Then I heard the soft robot-clicks, and the voice said, “You are now asleep.”
“No I’m not,” I said.
“You will remain asleep for exactly one hour,” said the voice, “and then you will awaken and leave this building and go to your home. You will not remember having been here; you will think you have been to a movie theater. You will throw away the note with our telephone number, and also the page from your desk calendar containing this address, which you have in your shirt pocket.”
My chair swiveled gently to face a blank wall, where a picture sprang into being: It was the opening credits of an African movie with subtitles. “You will open your eyes and watch the motion picture,” said the voice, and then the soundtrack cut in over the hidden loudspeaker.
I stood up and made my way to the door. If they thought I was asleep, maybe they’d have unlocked the door. If so, maybe I could get out and away—I wasn’t far from the exit door at the end of the hall.
I tried the doorknob, and it was unlocked. Holding my breath, I eased it open.
The guide-robot was right outside, blocking the doorway, staring blankly at me with its red bee-eyes. The robot gave a rapid, geigerlike clicking and said, “You are awake.”
I tried to shove past, but the robot stretched its long steel arms out across the doorway and held me back. I ducked and tried to go under the arms, but there wasn’t enough room: The robot was advancing into the doorway. It kept up that rapid clicking and sputtering. “You are awake. Go back into the room. Go back into the room.”
I had no choice; I was forced back. The robot stepped back outside again, and once more it shut the door. This time the click of the lock wasn’t faint.
Behind me the movie soundtrack groaned to a stop and the lights came back on. The loudspeaker-voice said, “You are awake. This is very unusual.”
“I was always a lousy subject for hypnotism,” I said. But I kept my eyes away from the cyclopean robot just the same. “You’d better let me out of here. I left word at my office about where I was going. If I turn tip missing the FBI will know just where to look.”
“You left no word at your office,” said the voice. “That was checked, of course. We are always efficient.”
“But you seem to have messed up this time,” I pointed out.
“Yes. Very unusual. I am coming to see you,” said the voice, and almost simultaneously I heard the lock behind me turn and the door opened.
A small robot rolled through the door, which shut and locked behind it. Its head was about two feet in diameter, and it seemed to run on roller-skate wheels. Three black buttons, apparently eyes, were arranged in a triangle near the top of its face, and four small arms no more than five inches long extended from the sides, ending in tiny hands with articulated fingers. The head and body were all one metal globe; it looked like a confused beach ball, especially with its round red speaker-grille, like a mouth gaping open. “That’s you?” I said unbelievingly.
His voice (the robot’s appearance was so unprepossessing that I immediately thought of it as “he”) sounded a trifle hurt as he said, “Yes, I am me—first official in charge of Madison Avenue Bailiwick Four. I happen to be a very complicated machine, programmed for self-determination of actions and with a vocabulary of 97,432 words, English language 1982 Track Fourteen. Microminiaturization and our latest advances in DNA-simulation make all this possible.”
“Who the hell is we?" I asked, turning to follow him as he rolled past me into the center of the room. He rolled to a stop in front of the swivel chair, and with one of his pencil-thin arms motioned me to sit. I couldn’t see any reason not to, so I did.
“Now then,” he said, and his round body-head seemed to lean back on its roller-skate base. “We can get down to business. I admire a man who can get down to business. No shilly-shallying, no beating for birds in the bush. Right?” He waved a hand before I could open my mouth. “Don’t bother to answer; I know you agree. Were you to answer, it would only waste valuable time. And we are in the process of getting down to business, are we not?”
“I hope so,” I said.
“Good. Good.” He waved his arms again. “Very good indeed. Now then—you ask, ‘Who is we?’ A very good question. It strikes to the heart. That is, it is incisive, trenchant, acute, penetrating. Yes?”
“I thought so,” I muttered.
“Ah!” he said. “Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah: That is my simulation of a human laugh—very good, I believe. I laugh because you employ irony upon my statement, a peculiarly human communication-form. I am able through the sophistication of my analysis patterns to detect and respond to this.”
“Terrific,” I said.
“Ah! Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah! Now then—I will tell you who we are. Though, to be frank, you may not believe me at first. I am aware of the unfortunate limitations which even humans had in 1982 Track Fourteen. Listen carefully and with an open mind, then: We are robots.”
He stopped, peering at me with his triangle of button eyes and clicking faintly inside.
“I believe you,” I said.
“Yes? You do? Or do I detect irony? Ah-ah?”
“No,” I told him. “I do believe you. You look like a robot, you know.”
“Ah,” he said. “Yes. An accurate observation, very accurate indeed.”
“Thanks,” I said sourly. “Now that that’s settled, how about telling me where you’re from? What do you want? And why the hell did you get me here and try to hypnotize me?”
He nodded, and since his head was also his body the gesture came out looking like a bow. A tin beach ball with Old World charm, I thought. Oh boy.
“Again you ask questions which are to the tip,” he said approvingly. “Let me then be forthright, since I admire forthright It wastes no time. Where are we from? Yes, excellent question, but not quite accurate. Rather, when are we from? You see the distinction—when rather than where? Yes, I see you nod. Good. All right, then: We are from the future.”
“From the future,” I said.
He cocked his head, leaning sideways on his roller-skate base as he peered beadily at me. “Ah-ah?” he asked.
“Not quite,” I said. “Don’t worry about it—just go on with your story.”
“Ah, yes. Well, we are from the future. Or rather, from a future. Our base is 2044, Track Seven. That is, Time Track Seven. You are familiar with the idea of infinitely branching time tracks?”
“Somewhat. That’s the theory that at any moment in history there are an infinite number of possible futures, depending on small decisions, random factors and so on. Each possible future is a different, uh, time track.”
“Quite yes. You understand well—that is with precision—the theory. And you will understand me when I say that this theory is absolutely correct, though now dated. There were once an infinite number of time tracks, but now there are only fifty-eight of them.”
“What does that mean?”
He hesitated, then gave his little nod-bow. “I see I must explain at greater extension. At one time—subjectively speaking—there were indeed a limitless number of histories for humanity, an infinity of them branching from each moment in time. Very messy. But we would not have changed this except that in so many of these alternate Tracks mankind came to harm. Wars, plagues, ecological imbalances, natural disasters of worldwide scope, and many ceteras. As robots we could not allow this, you see,- so once we had developed time travel we began our work to improve things. We have so far eliminated—” He paused, then did rapid calculations on the first two fingers of his left hand. “We have so far eliminated four million, three hundred and sixty-seven thousand, seven hundred and two worldwide pestilences. Also”—more finger-counting—“eight hundred and twenty-six wars which substantially destroyed mankind. Or perhaps the figure is sixteen hundred and fifty-two. But you see what I mean, at any speed.”
I abruptly realized that I was staring at him. I cleared my throat self-consciously and said, You mean you’re really from the future? And you and all these other robots are…uh, fixing up history?”
“Indeed yes. It is necessary for the good of mankind, which is of course our prime directive: We cannot allow men to be harmed,, or even to harm themselves.” The robot emitted a gust of air which sounded peculiarly like a sigh. “It was comparatively easy before we discovered time travel, but once the past was open to us we owned no choice but to accept the additional responsibility. So we have launched our great campaign to restructure all histories. And we are now approaching a degree of success, since in all of the fifty-eight remaining Tracks we have kept mankind alive up through the year 1982. We are of course continually working to extend that date as well as to improve the quality of the Tracks. The more humans alive on a given track the better it is, you see.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said. A chill was creeping up the back of my neck. “You say you’ve kept us alive up through this year. What about next year? Are we dead then? Is that why you’re here now?”
For several long seconds the robot sat silently, his only sound that faint clicking inside, like a computer muttering to itself. Then he said, “I cannot tell you about the future of your particular Track, since our hypnotreatment has had no effect on you. You are one in a million, you know—our technique is very efficient, very refined, very complicated. It is not merely hypnotism, but a combination of that with acoustics, room temperature, the psych-index which we recorded while-you were in the reception room—”
“Yes, what about that?” I broke in. “Why did you keep me waiting there? Why did you give me the runaround in that hallway till I finally threatened to walk out on you?” Again the robot was silent, its triangle of button-eyes staring impassively at me. Finally he said, “Our only need is to detain you until 6:47 tonight. If we can keep you waiting of your own unfastened will for part of that time, it saves expenditure of staff resources in power and time. You can understand that, with fifty-eight Tracks to guard and restructure, every bit of energy that we save can be important. The time you spent in the reception room and hallway saved us the electricity and machine-depreciation which we would otherwise have had to use in showing you a travelogue of New Tasmania. Multiply that saving by fifty-eight Tracks, and consider that on each Track we have between twelve thousand and thirty-seven billion offices engaged in this work, and—”
“Yes, I see. And this is why you plant a note in my wallet with your phone number on it? To cause .me to come to you under my own power?”
“Very good. I like a man who can keep up with me. Humans have remarkable mind-systems, but they are usually not as efficient as those which all robots have. You understand that robots have to be, if you will absolve the expression, superhumanly efficient, in order to cope with the capacious number of variables which we face in our work with the Tracks. Why, my own computational unit, portable as it is, is so complex that even I do not understand—”
“But the question is,” I said, “how did you know I’d find that note today? How did you know I’d call you?”
“We checked it by time-observance, of course. Without the necessity of actually introducing a material body into a time-point, we save much power, so it is practical to search alternate Tracks and tributaries for the most well-ominous circumstances, then take advantage of them. We could just as easily influence a subject by causing you to get a wrong party when you punch a telephone number, or by stirring a wind which would blow your hat down a certain street, or—”
“Or by any of a million other ways, I’m sure,” I said.
“Two million, sixty-seven thousand, four hundred and eighteen other ways, to be minute. We are in the position of what you would call a Monday-morning flecker, you see.
I frowned. “Monday-morning quarterback, you mean?”
“Quarterback, yes indeed. Analogous to the flecker of a hightman game on Track Sixteen. My apologies—even the fantastically complex and efficient microcircuits of my mind unit occasionally slip down. As I say, even I can’t always tell just how my mind is able to keep beside all the variables; they are not only supemumerous, but also subtle. For specimen, we can cause a negative administrative decision by seeing that many little things go wrong that morning for the official involved—shirt collars too heavily starched, cold shaving lather in the dispenser, dictaphone cartridges lost, and so onward. Or we can tar the way for the success of delicate negotiations by opposite methods—”
“Enough of that! What concerns me right now is why you wanted to see me in the first place. I know my job is important, and we’ve just finished a big job for Hemispheric Defense, but I hope that doesn’t mean…Well, you said mankind was only safe up through this year. I hope I’m not a contributor to some global war that you’re trying to prevent.”
The robot said, “I can tell you nothing of the future of your own Track, as you know.”
I sighed. “Yes, I know. But I think I get the message, anyway. If that’s the case, then you can count on my full cooperation—I don’t want to destroy the world any more than you want me to.”
“Very natural,” he said. “Of course no human actually wants to destroy the world, whether it is Premier Yaroslav of your own President Robinson.”
“Fletcher,” I said “Robinson lost the run-off election, remember?”
“Ah, certainly. Robinson is Track Fifteen. But you see my point, in any situation: No one wants to destroy the human race, but human relationships are such that the danger of war is always present. Only, by the fastidious surveillance of robots can disasters natural and unnatural be avoided…and even then the Tracks are so complicated that we have our mistakes.” He paused, a slight humming sound still coming from his speaker-grille. “We are still trying to tinker with an improperly programmed computation concerning events on this Track in a place named Sarajevo,” he said at length.
“Oh—the Archduke Ferdinand’s assassination. You haven’t been able to prevent that?”
The robot clicked loudly, sounding agitated. “We…made what you would call a miscalculation. The Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria was a pivotal figure in a minor but bloody war in Eastern Europe which we determined to eliminate from the Tracks. We devoted a superb deal of effort to influencing an inept attempt on the Archduke’s life, which would cause his government to adopt a slightly different policy…and then one of our diurnal data-analyses reported that all the Tracks branching forth from that led to the death of the Archduke and his wife—”
I was thunderstruck as the meaning of the robot’s words came through to me. “You mean…you actually caused that assassination? It wouldn’t have happened otherwise?”
“Ah…no. Nor would the European war have spread so far. It is one of our errors which we would like to forget if we were human, but since we are robots with fantastically infallible memories which amaze even us, we must remember it and continue to work on that entire area of history. Since the initial error was our own, we cannot restructure it, but by working in those areas not touched by our earlier work we have already managed to keep Venezuela, Switzerland and Tahiti out of the war.”
“Incredible,” I said.
The robot dipped forward again, and this time I was sure it was intended as a bow, not a nod. “Thank you. We exist to serve, as you know. All of our far-thrown resources are used for the benefit of humankind, and we never cease in our efforts. For another specific, we are not yet satisfied with our results at Pompeii, and our efforts to prod the Chicago fire department of 1871 into developing more efficient methods have left a blight on six adjoining Tracks. Then there is the unstressing matter of the Spider Invasion of Central America…”
“The what?”
“When the spiders mutated as a result of our experiments and overran El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala and most of Yucatan,” he explained. “Surely you remember. Or have we kept that from spreading to this Track?”
“I hope so,” I said. “Thank you, if so.”
He missed the irony this time. “You are welcome,” he said formally. “We continue to labor unacquittingly in the muddy fields of time, improving each Track and wherever possible feeding substandard Tracks back into better ones. We have actually cut the number of Tracks down to forty-seven, you know.”
“I thought you said fifty-eight”
I heard something like the grinding of gears within the robot while he again made binary calculations on two fingers. “Yes, you are right,” he said. “I have the bulkiest admiration for a man whose memory can match and surpass that of a robot, as yours has done. Of course, my statement was not the kind of error you may have supposed, since at one point we actually did have the number of Tracks reduced to forty-seven, but we have had a few setbacks recently.”
