“Here’s the answer, if you please.”
Farfurkis read it.
“ ‘Insade, I have a neon … hum … a neonette.’ What’s a neonette?”
“Eine Sekunde!” the inventor cried, grabbed the paper, and scurried back to the typewriter.
The affair went on. The machine gave an illiterate explanation of a neon bulb, then answered Farfurkis by telling him it spelled “in-sade” according to the rules of grammar, and then:
Farfurkis: “What grammar?”
Machine: “Why our own Russian grmr.”
Khlebowodov: “Do you know Eduard Petrovich Babkin?”
Machine: “No how.”
Lavr Fedotovich: “Harrrumph. What motions are there?”
Machine: “To acknowledge me as a scientific fact.”
The old man ran back and forth and typed with unbelievable speed. The commandant jumped up and down excitedly in his chair and kept giving us a thumbs-up sign. Eddie slowly regained his psychic balance.
Khlebowodov (irritably): “I cannot work under these conditions. Why is he racing back and forth like a tincan in the wind?”
Machine: “Because of my eagerness.”
Khlebowodov: “Will you get that paper away from me? Can’t you see that I am not asking you anything?”
Machine: “Yes, I can.”
The Troika finally understood that if they ever wanted to end that day’s meeting they would have to stop asking questions, even rhetorical ones. Silence reigned. The old man, who was quite worn out by then, perched on the edge of a chair, and panted, mopping himself with his handkerchief. Vybegallo looked around proudly.
“There is a motion,” said Farfurkis, carefully choosing his words. “Let the scientific consultant make an expert judgment and report on his decision.”
Lavr Fedotovich looked at Vybegallo and regally bowed his head. Vybegallo rose. Vybegallo smiled politely. Vybegallo pressed his right hand to his heart. Vybegallo spoke.
“C’est …” he said. “It’s not right, Lavr Fedotovich. Be it as it may, but j’ai recommended ce noble vieux. There will be talk, that this is nepotism, favoritism. And nevertheless this is a rare event and an obvious case, perfectly valuable, rationalization is called for. C’est clear from the experiment. I would not like to end a bright beginning, nip initiative in the bud. What would be better? It would be better if some other expert gave his opinion, someone impartial, it would be better. Here among the representatives from below I see Comrade Alexander Ivanovich Privalov (I shuddered). A comrade specializing in computers. And impartial. Let him. I feel that it would be of value.”
Lavr Fedotovich raised his opera glasses and examined each of us in turn. Eddie had come to life and was whispering: “Alex, you must! Give it to them! This is our chance!”
“There is a motion,” said Farfurkis, “to ask comrade representative from below to collaborate with the work of the Troika.”
Lavr Fedotovich put down his opera glasses and gave his consent. Now everyone looked at me. I, of course, would not have become involved in this affair at all if it had not been for the old man. Ce noble vieux was batting his reddened lids at me so pathetically and his whole appearance screamed that he would pray for me for the rest of his life. I couldn’t resist. I reluctantly rose and went over to the typewriter. The old man smiled at me. I looked over the apparatus.
“Well, all right. By heuristic programming we mean the attempt to imitate human thought processes in digital computer. Here we have a Remington typewriter, made in 1906, in fairly good condition. The type is prerevolutionary and also in good condition.” I caught the old man’s pleading look, sighed, and turned on the switch. “In short, the typing construction contains nothing new. Only the very old.”
“Insade!” the old man whispered. “Look insade, where there’s an analyzer and a thinker.”
“The analyzer,” I said. “There’s no analyzer here. There is a serial rectifier, also ancient. A plain neon bulb. A switch. A good switch, it’s new. There is also a cord, brand new. That, I guess, is that.”
“And your conclusion?” Farfurkis inquired in a lively tone.
Eddie was nodding at me approvingly, and I let him know that I would try.
“My conclusion,” I said. “The described Remington typewriter, in conjunction with a rectifier, neon bulb, switch, and cord does not represent anything unexplainable.”
“What about me?” the old man shouted.
Eddie showed me that it was time for a left hook, but I just couldn’t.
“Well, of course,” I mumbled. “This evinces a lot of work. (Eddie grabbed his hair.) I, of course, understand … the good intentions. (Eddie looked at me with contempt.) But really, the man tried his best, you can’t just …”
“Have fear of God,” Eddie said clearly.
“Why not? Let the man keep on working, if it interests him. I’m only saying that there is nothing inexplicable about this. But it’s actually quite clever.”
“Are there any questions for our scientific consultant pro tern?” asked Lavr Fedotovich.
Hearing an interrogative intonation, the old man made a dash for the machine, but I stopped him by grabbing him round the waist.
“That’s right,” said Khlebovvodov. “Hold on to him. It’s hard to work otherwise. This isn’t an evening of twenty questions, you know. Why don’t you unplug it for now, anyway? I don’t like it eavesdropping.”
I freed a hand and clicked off the switch. The light went out and old man quieted down.
“But I still have a question,” Khlebovvodov went on. “How does it answer?”
I looked at him flabbergasted. Eddie was himself again and was glaring at the Troika. Vybegallo was pleased. He pulled out a long twig from his beard and stuck it between his teeth.
“Rectorizers and switches,” said Khlebovvodov. “Comrade pro tem explained all that rather well. But he did not explain one thing: he did not explain the facts. And the incontrovertible fact is that when you ask a question, you get an answer. In written form. And even when you ask someone else a question, you get an answer. In written form. And you say, comrade pro tem, that there is nothing inexplicable here. The ends do not meet. We do not understand what science has to say on the subject.”
Science as embodied by me had lost its power of speech. Khlebovvodov had cut me, stabbed me in the back, killed and buried me. But Vybegallo reacted in time.
“C’est,” he said. “That’s what I said, a valuable beginning! There is an element of the unexplained, that’s why I recommended it. C’est,” he turned to the old man. “Mon cher, explain what is what to our comrades.”
The old man exploded.
“The highest achievements of neutron megaloplasm!” he thundered. “The rotor of the field of divergence gradates along the back and there, insade, turns the matter of the question into spiritual electrical whirlwinds, from which the synecdoche of the answering arises …”
I was beginning to see spots before my eyes, bile was rising, and my teeth ached, and the damned noble vieux went on talking. His speech was smooth—it was a cleverly rehearsed and often repeated speech, in which every adjective, every intonation was quivering with an emotional charge. It was a true work of art. The old man was no inventor, but he was an artist, a genius of an orator, a worthy successor to Demosthenes, Cicero, and John Chrysostom. Reeling, I stepped to the side and leaned my forehead on the cool wall.