It was something he should have realized, he insisted to himself. He had gone on long walks and, during all those hours alone, the delusion had not faded. It had taken the sudden shock of silence and emptiness, where he had expected laughter and warm greeting, to penetrate the haze of delusion in which he’d walked for years. And even now it lurked, a conditioned state of mind, to ambush him at every hidden thicket.
How long would it be before the ability would start to wear away? What might be done to wipe it out entirely? How does one unlearn a thing he’s spent a century in learning? Exactly how dangerous was it—was there necessity of a conscious thought, an absolute command or could a man slip into it simply as an involuntary retreat from drear reality?
He must warn the robots. He must talk it over with them. Some sort of emergency measure must be set up to protect him against the wish or urge, some manner of drastic action be devised to rescue him, should he slip back into the old delusion.
Although, he thought, it would be so fine to walk out of the room and down the stairs and find the others waiting for him, with the drinks all ready and the talk well started…
“Cut it out!” he screamed.
Wipe it from his mind—that was what he must do. He must not even think of it. He must work so hard that he would have no time to think, become so tired from work that he’d fall into bed and go to sleep at once and have no chance to dream.
He ran through his mind all that must be done—the watching of the incubators, preparing the ground for gardens and for crops, servicing the atomic generators, getting in timbers against the need of building, exploring and mapping and surveying the adjacent territory, overhauling the ship for the one-robot return flight to Earth.
He filled his mind with it. He tagged items for further thought and action. He planned the days and months and years ahead. And at last he was satisfied.
He had it under control.
He tied his shoes and finished buttoning his shirt. Then, with a resolute tread, he opened the door and walked out on the landing.
A hum of talk floating up the stairway stopped him in his tracks.
Fear washed over him. Then the fear evaporated. Gladness burst within him and he took a quick step forward.
At the top of the stairs, he halted and reached out a hand to grasp the banister.
Alarm bells were ringing in his brain and the gladness fell away. There was nothing left but sorrow, a terrible, awful grieving.
He could see one corner of the room below and he could see that it was carpeted. He could see the drapes and paintings and one ornate golden chair
With a moan, he turned and fled to his room. He slammed the door and stood with his back against it.
The room was the way it should be, bare and plain and cold.
Thank God, he thought. Thank God!
A shout came up the stairway.
“Winston, what’s wrong with you? Winston, hurry up!”
And another voice: “Winston, we’re celebrating. We have a suckling pig.”
And still another voice: “With an apple in its mouth.”
He didn’t answer.
They’ll go away, he thought. They have to go away.
And even as he thought it, half of him—more than half—longed in sudden agony to open up the door and go down the stairs and know once again the old security and the ancient friendship.
He found that he had both his hands behind his back and that they were clutching the doorknob as if they were frozen there.
He heard steps on the stairway, the sound of many happy, friendly voices, coming up to get him.
Byte Your Tongue!
Having previously evolved the robot Jenkins (of the City series) from a rather impersonal machine-man to something close to humanity, Cliff Simak, in 1980, portrayed a supercomputer that was all too human—one willing to engage in unethical behavior in order to pursue his own desires … to indulge in his own fantasies. That kind of thing often happens to beings who hang around with politicians.
And when an author portrays his creation daydreaming, it’s only natural that he would reuse some of the images that had strong meaning for him, such as the Battle of Gettysburg, or the landscape of a dying Earth.
It was the gossip hour and Fred, one of the six computers assigned to the Senate, put his circuits on automatic and settled back to enjoy the high point of his day. In every group of computers, there was usually one old granny computer who had made herself a self-appointed gossip-monger, selecting from the flood of rumors forever flowing through the electronic population of the capital all the juiciest tidbits that she knew would titillate her circle. Washington had always been a gossip town, but it was even more so now. No human gossip-seeker could worm out the secrets with the sleek and subtle finesse of a computer. For one thing, the computers had greater access to hidden items and could disseminate them with a speed and thoroughness that was impossible for humans.
One thing must be said for the computers—they made an effort to keep these tidbits to themselves. They gossiped only among themselves, or were supposed to only gossip among themselves. The effort, in all fairness to them, had been mainly effective; only now and then had any computer shared some gossip with humans in the district. In general, and far more successfully than might have been supposed, the gossiping computers were discreet and honorable and therefore had no inhibitions in the gathering and spreading of malicious tattling.
So Fred went on automatic and settled back. He let the gossip roll. Truth to tell, half the time Fred was on automatic or simply idling. There was not enough for him to do—a situation common to many computer groups assigned to sensitive and important areas. The Senate was one of the sensitive and vital areas, and in recent years the number of computers assigned it had doubled. The engineers in charge were taking no chances the Senate bank would become so overloaded that sloppiness would show up in the performance of the machines.
All this, of course, reflected the increasing importance the Senate had taken on through the years. In the conflict between the legislative and administrative branches of the government, the legislative branch, especially the Senate, had wrested for itself much control over policy that at one time had been a White House function. Consequently, it became paramount that the Senate and its members be subjected to thorough monitoring, and the only way in which close and attentive monitoring could be achieved was through having computers assigned to the various members. To successfully accomplish this kind of monitoring, no computer could be overloaded; therefore, it was more efficient in terms of the watchdog policy to have a computer idle at times than to have it bogged down by work.
So Fred and his colleagues in the Senate often found themselves with nothing to do, although they all took pains to conceal this situation from the engineers by continuously and automatically spinning their wheels, thus making it appear they were busy all the time.
This made it possible for Fred not only to thoroughly enjoy the recitation of the rumors during gossip hour but also to cogitate on the gossip to his profit and amusement once the gossip hour was over. Other than that, he had considerable time to devote to daydreaming, having reserved one section of himself solely for his daydreams. This did not interfere with his duties, which he performed meticulously. But with his reduced load of senators, he had considerably more capacity than he needed and could well afford to assign a part of it to personal purposes.