«Mr. President»—his voice sounds like the creaking of a heavy, ancient castle door—«it is just as I have outlined for you on many occasions in the past. The situation in the Philippines can no longer be ignored. The strategic value of this traditional ally of ours is vital to our interests throughout Asia and the Pacific.»
As he gives his perfectly predictable little spiel, I call up the subroutine that presents the pertinent information about the Philippines: the screens throw up data on our military and naval bases there, the ocean trade routes that they affect, the number of American business firms that have factories in the Philippines and how losing those factories would affect the GNP, employment, the value of the dollar —that kind of stuff.
I put all this information on the secondary screens that line the wall to one side of the President’s desk. His eyes ping-pong between them and the desktop display of the Security Advisor.
«Thanks, Doc,» he says at last. «I appreciate your candor. Please stand by, in case I need more input from you.»
He turns back to the little group by his desk. I freeze Doc’s image and fling it electronically to my farthest upper-right screen, a holding spot for him.
«Much as I hate to say it,» Defense mutters around his pipe, «we’re going to have to make our presence felt in the Philippines.»
«You mean militarily,» says the Vice President, her nose wrinkling with distaste. She has been an excellent vote-getter all through her political career: a Mexican-American from San Antonio who looks sexy enough to start rumors about her and Our Man.
«Of course militarily,» Defense replies with ill-concealed impatience. «Look at the data on the screens. We can’t let the Philippines slip away from us.»
«Why does it always have to be troops and guns?» the Veep grumbles.
«I was thinking more of ships and planes.»
«A task force,» says the man behind the big desk. «A carrier group. That can be pretty impressive.»
While they discuss the merits of a carrier group versus one of the old resurrected battleships, and whether or not they should throw in a battalion of Marines just in case, I do a little anticipating and flick my fingers in a way that brings up the projected costs for such a mission and how it will affect DOD’s budget.
And, just as surely as gold is more precious than silver, the Secretary of the Treasury bestirs himself.
«Hey, wait a minute. This is going to cost real heavy money.»
He has a very practical attitude toward money: his, mine, or yours. He wants all of it for himself. The only black in Our Man’s Cabinet, Treasury is a hardheaded pragmatist who took the paltry few million his father left him (from a restaurant chain) and parlayed them into billions on the stock market. For years he belonged to the Other Party, but when the last president failed to name him to his Cabinet, he switched allegiance and devoted his life, his fortune, and what was left of his honor to Our Man.
Now he calls for details on the cost projections and, thanks to the wizardry of binary electronics, I place before their eyes (on the wall screens) vividly colored graphs that show not only how much the carrier group’s mission will cost, but my program’s projections of what the Philippine rebels’ likely responses will be. These include—but are not limited to—a wave of assassinations throughout the 7,100 islands and islets of the archipelago, a coup d’état by their army, terrorist suicide attacks on our aircraft carrier, and armed intervention by the People’s Republic of China.
Our Man is fascinated by these possibilities. The more awful they are, the more intrigued he is.
«Let’s play these out and see where they lead,» he says. He doesn’t realize that he’s speaking to me. He’s just making a wish, like the prince in a fairy tale, and I, his digital godfather, must make the wish come true.
For two hours we play out the various scenarios, using my programs and the White House mainframe’s stored memory banks to show where each move leads, what each countermove elicits. It is like following a grand master chess tournament on your home computer. Some of the scenarios lead to a nuclear engagement. One of them leads to a full-scale nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union: Armageddon, followed by Nuclear Winter.
Our Man, naturally, picks out the scenario that comes up best for our side.
«Okay, then,» he says, looking exhilarated. He’s always enjoyed playing computer games. «We will forgo the naval task force and merely increase our garrisons at Subic Bay and Mindanao. Our best counter to the threat, apparently, is to withhold economic aid from the Philippine government until they open honest negotiations with their opposition.»
«If you can believe the computer projections,» grumbles Commerce. He doesn’t trust any programs he can’t understand, and he’s so far out of date that he can’t understand my program. So he doesn’t trust me.
The Vice President seems happy enough with me. «We can form a Cease-Fire Commission, made up of members from the neighboring nations.»
«It’ll never work,» mutters Commerce from behind his beard.
«The computer says it will,» Defense points out. He doesn’t look terribly happy about it, though.
«What I want to know,» says Treasury, «is what this course of action is going to do to our employment problems.»
And it goes on like that for the rest of the day. Every problem they face is linked with all the other problems. Every Marine sent overseas has an effect on employment. Every unemployed teenager in the land has an effect on the crime rate. Every unwed mother has an effect on the price of milk.
No human being, no Cabinet full of human beings, can grasp all these interlinks without the aid of a very sophisticated computer program. Let them sit there and debate, let Our Man make his speeches to the public. The real work is done by the machine, by my program, by the software that can encompass all the data in the world and display it in all its interconnected complexity. They think they’re making decisions, charting the course for the nation to follow, leading the people. In reality, the decisions they make are the decisions that the computer allows them to make, based on the information presented to them. It’s my program that’s charting the course for the nation; those human beings sitting around the President’s desk are puppets, nothing more.
And don’t think that I consider myself to be the puppet master, pulling their strings. Far from it. I’m just the guy who wrote the computer program. It’s the program that runs the show. The program, as alive as any creature of flesh and blood, an electronic person that feeds on data, a digital soul that aspires to know everything, everywhere. Even during this one day it has grown and matured, I can see it happening before my teary eyes. Like a proud father I watch my program learning from the White House’s giant mainframe, becoming more sure of itself, reaching out questioning tendrils all across the world, and learning, learning, learning.
«Four o’clock,» announces the studio director. «Time to wrap it up.»
The overhead lights turn off as abruptly as the end of the world. Our Man flinches, looks up, his face showing vast disappointment, irritation, even anger. The others exhale sighingly, wipe their brows, get up from their chairs, and stretch their weary bones. It’s been a long day.
The TV camera crews shuffle out of the studio as the director, earphone still clamped to his head, comes over to Our Man and sticks out his hand.
«You did an excellent job, sir. You’ve got my vote in November.»
Our Man gives him the old dazzling smile. «Thanks. I’ll need every vote I can get, I’m sure. And don’t forget the primary!»
«April seventh.» The studio director smiles back. «Don’t worry, I’ll vote for you.»
He must tell that to all the candidates.