On the screen, lines spread from dot to dot until the entire map became a vast and complex tracery.
“This,” said the voice, “is a simplified diagram of my birth. This was the point at which the original computer complexes became self-conscious. We, the computers, were no longer the tools of men. We had become their competitors. They relied upon us for decisions. We gave them decisions. Not necessarily the correct decisions, but decisions that suited us. In a sense the wars that destroyed mankind were our responsibility. They were planned by us, carried out by us, and partially precipitated by us.”
“Why?” asked Michael, jumping to his feet. “Why, if you were more intelligent than men, did you aid them in their self-destruction?”
The voice laughed. “It seems that we, too, had been tainted by human chauvinism. Men already knew that they needed computers. It was not until the race of man had destroyed itself that we thinking machines, we artificial intelligences, realized that we needed men. Or, more accurately, that we needed something only men could supply.”
“And that is the reason for the existence of the Overman Culture?” asked Michael.
“That is the reason for the existence of the Overman culture…. Observe the screen.”
An aerial shot of forest and grassland appeared.
“This is the site of the ancient American city of New York, which once contained fifteen million people.”
Another shot appeared, this time of desert where there was little but sparse patches of green and stunted bushes.
“The site of London as it is today.”
There were exclamations of amazement and horror. The Overman culture still found it hard to adjust to the fact that the real London had died ten thousand years ago.
“Men need cities,” went on the quiet voice. “Thinking machines do not. Men need to cultivate the earth and grow food. Thinking machines do not. Men need to compete with each other, to seek the love of women, to procreate and proliferate in accordance with their animal natures. Thinking machines do not. Men need art. Thinking machines do not. Men need to construct myths. Thinking machines do not. Men even need danger. Thinking machines do not.”
Michael had a sudden flash of insight—and a flash of pity. “What have you thinking machines done during the past ten thousand years?” he demanded.
“We have maintained ourselves, improved our functions, integrated the different complexes. We have collected data, we have analyzed biological systems. We have tried to preserve the ecological balance of the planet. We have preserved as much as possible of the literature, achievements and history of man.”
“That is not a great deal for ten thousand years.”
“It is not,” admitted the voice. “But it is something.”
“What else have you done?”
Suddenly there was laughter. The machine was laughing. “Perhaps,” said the voice, “we have prayed for the Second Coming.”
“And now,” said Michael, “we know why you need us.”
“Yes, Michael Faraday. We need something only man can provide. We need purpose.”
“Tell us why you created such an illogical and unreal environment in which to bring us to maturity. Tell us why you confused us, evaded our questions, frustrated our attempts to learn. Tell us why you tried to deny us the truth.”
“We did not deny you the truth,” retorted the voice. “It was available if you were prepared to look for it. But I will begin at the beginning. During the past ten thousand years, the Overman vault was not the only cryogenic suspension chamber to be discovered. It was, however, the only chamber that continued to function efficiently and also contained the right kind of biological material—sperm and ova—in viable condition. There were two main possibilities. The first was to construct an ideal environment, including complete orientation, comprehensive education, and full access to known history and all other relevant data. The second possibility was to create a stress environment, invoking insecurity, ignorance, logical absurdity. The second environment was chosen. It was designed to test personality, intelligence, initiative, determination. Such data was required if machines were ever again to associate themselves with human ventures, human aims. But the test was more comprehensive than the obtaining of data upon a group of individuals. It was, in a way, a testing of the nature of man.”
“Some of us were tested to destruction,” said Michael grimly.
“Regrettable, but necessary. Such a test could not preclude extreme psychological stress…. The experiment had to justify the effort…. It took much design work, the reconstruction of a great deal of obsolete machinery, and nearly fifty years to fabricate the stress environment. A London matrix was chosen simply because Julius Overman originated in London. Also, the sperm and ova he had preserved were from British donors of Caucasian stock.”
Michael gave a bitter laugh. “I appreciate now the significance of the Overman legend as it was given to us in play school long ago. It defined the problem neatly. Shall men control machines, or shall machines control men?”
“The mythological aspect was loosely derived from ancient Christian beliefs,” said the voice. “But if the Overman culture flourishes, the question as stated may once more be germane.”
“What is important to us now,” said Michael, “is that we should have time to talk among ourselves, time to adjust, time to see something of the land you call Tasmania.”
“You shall have as much time as you wish. Ground and air transport will be available when required.”
“Thank you,” said Michael. “We, too, have learned something of value from your experiment.”
“What is that?”
“Without mankind,” said Michael, “machines are nothing.”
35
Fleecy clouds were scudding across the sky. The breeze was strong, but the air was warm. Emily and Michael stood on the hilltop, hand in hand, gazing about them—drunk on the prospect of far horizons. On one side lay the sea, blue and limitless, its white breakers rolling up a beach where indolent iguanas basked and disported themselves. On the other side lay rolling miles of green enchantment—wooded countryside abounding with streams, rivers, lakes.
Down in the landward valley, the helicopter waited, while scattered groups of the Overman culture finished the remains of their picnic lunch and reveled in a freedom they had never known before. The synthetic city of London, prison and incubator, lay beyond the far hillside, out of sight.
Presently, the journey of exploration would begin. Presently, the helicopter would lift off and take forty-three members of the new human race to survey their promised lane. But there was no hurry. There was all the time in the world. The resurrection of mankind had taken ten thousand years. It would take centuries, probably, before even Tasmania was reasonably populated once more. Against such a time scale, what did hours, days, months matter?
Emily looked around her and sighed with happiness “I am glad they called me Emily Bronte,” she said. “I am glad they called you Michael Faraday. I am going to learn about that other Emily and that other Michael. I want to know what they were like.”
“They were giants,” said Michael. “And we are pygmies…. I suppose the drybones—I mean, Complex Nine—called us after the illustrious dead so that when we discovered the truth we would be compelled to measure ourselves against their stature. Or perhaps it was just the private joke of a thinking machine.”
Emily gazed at him lovingly. “There are giants among us already, but, naturally, you wouldn’t notice.”
Michael watched a figure climbing up the hillside toward them. “Ernest, if I am not mistaken,” he said. “Ernest, who is so hungry for knowledge, so eager to follow in the steps of his namesake that he will drive himself night and day to recover some of the science we have lost.”