With computers it was not quite as bad as with the Hangman, though, because you could always argue that no matter how elaborate the program, it was basically an extension of the programmer's will and the operations of causal machines merely represented functions of intelligence, rather than intelligence in its own right backed by a will of its own. And there was always Godel for a theoretical cordon sanitaire, with his demonstration of the true but mechanically improvable proposition.
But the Hangman was quite different. It had been designed along the lines of a brain and at least partly educated in a human fashion; and to further muddy the issue with respect to anything like vitalism, it had been in direct contact with human minds from which it might have acquired almost anything, including the spark that set it on the road to whatever selfhood it may have found. What did that make it? Its own creature? A fractured mirror reflecting a fractured humanity? Both? Or neither? I certainly could not say, but I wondered how much of its self had been truly its own. It had obviously acquired a great number of functions, but was it capable of having real feelings? Could it, for example, feel something like love? If not, then it was still only a collection of complex abilities, and not a thing with all the tagalong associations of the non-physical sort which made the word "intelligence" such a prickly item in AI discussions; and if it were capable of, say, something like love, and if I were Dave, I would not feel guilty about having helped to bring it into being. I would feel proud, though not in the fashion he was concerned about, and I would also feel humble…Offhand though, I do not know how intelligent I would feel, because I am still not sure what the hell intelligence is.
The day's-end sky was clear when we landed. I was into town before the sun had finished setting, and on Philip Burns' doorstep just a little while later.
My ring was answered by a girl, maybe seven or eight years old. She fixed me with large brown eyes and did not say a word.
"I would like to speak with Mister Burns," I said. She turned and retreated around a comer. A heavyset man, slacked and undershirted, bald about halfway back and very pink, padded into the hall moments later and peered at me. He bore a folded newssheet in his left hand.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"It's about your brother," I answered.
"Yeah?"
"Well, I wonder if I could come in? It's kind of complicated."
He opened the door. But instead of letting me in, he came out.
"Tell me about it out here," he said.
"Okay, I'll be quick. I just wanted to find out whether he ever spoke with you about a piece of equipment he once worked with called the Hangman."
"Are you a cop?"
"No."
"Then what's your interest?"
"I am working for a private investigation agency trying to track down some equipment once associated with the project. It has apparently turned up in this area and it could be rather dangerous."
"Let's see some identification."
"I don't carry any."
"What's your name?"
"John Donne."
"And you think my brother had some stolen equipment when he died? Let me tell you something…"
"No. Not stolen," I said, "and I don't think he had it."
"What then?"
"It was, well, robotic in nature. Because of some special training Manny once received, he might have had a way of detecting it. He might even have attracted it. I just want to find out whether he had said anything about it. We are trying to locate it."
"My brother was a respectable businessman, and I don't like accusations. Especially right after his funeral, I don't. I think I'm going to call the cops and let them ask you a few questions."
"Just a minute. Supposing I told you we had some reason to believe it might have been this piece of equipment that killed your brother?"
His pink turned to bright red and his jaw muscles formed sudden ridges. I was not prepared for the stream of profanities that followed. For a moment, I thought he was going to take a swing at me.
"Wait a second," I said when he paused for breath. "What did I say?"
"You're either making fun of the dead or you're stupider than you look!"
"Say I'm stupid. Then tell me why."
He tore at the paper he carried, folded it back, found an item, thrust it at me.
"Because they've got the guy who did it! That's why," he said.
I read it. Simple, concise, to the point. Today's latest. A suspect had confessed. New evidence had corroborated it. The man was in custody. A surprised robber who had lost his head and hit too hard, hit too many times. I read it over again.
I nodded as I passed it back.
"Look, I'm sorry," I said. "I really didn't know about this."
"Get out of here," he said. "Go on."
"Sure."
"Wait a minute."
"What?"
"That's his little girl who answered the door," he said.
"I'm very sorry."
"So am I. But I know her Daddy didn't take your damned equipment."
I nodded and turned away.
I heard the door slam behind me.
After dinner, I checked into a small hotel, called for a drink, and stepped into the shower.
Things were suddenly a lot less urgent than they had been earlier. Senator Brockden would doubtless be pleased to learn that his initial estimation of events had been incorrect. Leila Thackery would give me an I-told-you-so smile when I called her to pass along the news, a thing I now felt obliged to do. Don might or might not want me to keep looking for the device now that the threat had been lessened. It would depend on the Senator's feelings on the matter, I supposed. If urgency no longer counted for as much, Don might want to switch back to one of his own, fiscally less burdensome operatives. Toweling down, I caught myself whistling. I felt almost off the hook.
Later, drink beside me, I paused before punching out the number he had given me and hit the sequence for my motel in St. Louis instead. Merely a matter of efficiency, in case there was a message worth adding to my report.
A woman's face appeared on the screen and a smile appeared on her face. I wondered whether she would always smile whenever she heard a bell ring, or if the reflex was eventually extinguished in advanced retirement. It must be rough, being afraid to chew gum, yawn, or pick your nose.
"Airport Accommodations," she said. "May I help you?"
"This is Donne. I'm checked into Room 106," I said. "I'm away right now and I wondered whether there had been any messages for me."
"Just a moment," she said, checking something off to her left. Then, "Yes," she continued, consulting a piece of paper she now held. "You have one on tape. But it is a little peculiar. It is for someone else, in care of you."
"Oh? Who is that?"
She told me and I exercised self-control.