Harry Harrison: The Turing Option

The Managing Director looked around at the emptiness, remembered the last time he had been here, at this spot.

“Brian Delaney! This is the lab, where he works. His equipment, experiments — they’re all gone! Get on your radio at once! Get some officers to his home. Make sure that they are heavily armed, or whatever you do, because the people who did this will be going there too.”

“Sergeant! Over here!” one of the policemen shouted. “I’ve found something!”

“There,” he said, pointing. “That’s fresh blood on the tiles, right in front of the door.”

“And on the jamb of the door as well,” the Sergeant said. He turned to Rohart. “What is this thing? A safe of some kind?”

“Sort of. Backup records are stored in it.” He pulled out his wallet. “I have the combination here.”

His fingers shook as he worked the combination, turned and pulled the handles, threw open the door. Brian’s body, soaked with blood, slumped forward at his feet.

“Get the medics!” the Sergeant roared, pushing his fingers into the sticky blood of the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse, trying not to look at the ruined skull.

“I don’t know, can’t tell — yes!, he’s still alive! Where’s those paramedics?”

Rohart stepped aside to let them by, could only blink at the shouting organized confusion of the medical teams. He recognized the intravenous drips, the emergency aid, little else. He waited in silence until Brian had been hurried out to the waiting ambulance and the remaining medic was repacking his bag.

“Is he going to be — can you tell me anything?”

The man shook his head gloomily, snapped the bag shut and rose. “He’s still alive, barely. Shot in the back, bounced off his ribs, nothing serious. But the second bullet, it went through his arm, then… there has been massive destruction in the brain, trauma, bone fragments. All I could do was add paravene to the IV solution. It reduces the extent of injury in brain trauma cases, reduces the cerebral metabolic rate so cells don’t die quickly of anoxia. If he lives, well, he will probably never gain consciousness. It’s too early to tell anything more than that. He’s going by helicopter now to a hospital in San Diego.”

“I’m looking for a Mr. Rohart,” a policeman said, coming into the room.

“Over here.”

“I was told to tell you that your tip was right. Only too late. The premises in question, the property of a Mr. Delaney. It was cleared out completely a couple of hours ago. A rental van was spotted at the scene. We’re trying to track it. The investigating officer said to tell you all the computers, files and records were gone.”

“Thank you, thank you for telling me.” Rohart clamped his lips shut, aware of the tremor in his voice. Cordoba was still there, listening.

“Delaney was working on an artificial intelligence project,” he said.

“The AI project. And he had it — we had it. A machine with almost human abilities.”

“And now?”

“Someone else has it. Someone ruthless. Smart and ruthless. To plan a thing like this and get away with it. They have it.”

“But they’ll be found. They can’t get away with it.”

“Of course they can. They are not going to make the theft public. Or announce their new AI tomorrow. It will happen — but not right away. Don’t forget that a number of research people are working on AI. You’ll see, it will happen one day, apparently and logically, with no relation to what happened tonight, and there will be nothing that can be proved. Some other company will have AI. And as certain as that is — it is equally certain that it won’t be Megalobe. As far as anyone will be able to tell, Brian died and his work died with him.”

Cordoba had a sudden, ghastly thought. “Why does it have to be another company? Who else is interested in artificial intelligence?”

“Who indeed! Only every other country on the face of the globe. Wouldn’t the Japanese just love to get their hands on real, working AI? Or the Germans, Iranians — or anyone.”

“What about the Russians — or anyone else trying a power play? I don’t think I would like to see an invading army of tanks driven by machine intelligences without fear or fatigue, attacking nonstop. Or torpedoes and mines with eyes and brains that just bob up and down in the ocean until our ships go by.”

Rohart shook his head. “That kind of worry is out of date. Tanks and torpedoes aren’t what count anymore. The new name of the game is productivity. With real AI a country could run rings around us, put us in the economic poorhouse.”

He looked around with distaste at the ruined laboratory.

“They have it now, whoever they are.”

The Learjet was flying at 47,000 feet, well above the seething cumulus clouds. Even at this altitude there was still the occasional clear air turbulence, reminder of the storm below. There was only a single passenger, a solidly built man in his late forties, working steadily through a sheaf of reports.

Benicoff stopped reading long enough to take a swig from his glass of beer. He saw that the receive light on his E-fax was blinking as more messages poured in over the phone link and were stored in memory. Benicoff displayed them on the screen as fast as they arrived, until the exact extent of the disaster at the Megalobe laboratories was made all too clear. The light blinked as more messages arrived but he ignored them. The basic facts were fantastic and terrible beyond belief — and there was nothing he could do about the matter until he got to California. Therefore he went to sleep.

Anyone else in his position would have stayed up all night, worrying and working on possible solutions. That was not Alfred J. Benicoff’s way. He was a man of immense practicality. Worrying now would just be a waste of time. Not only that, he could certainly use the rest, since the future promised to be an exceedingly busy one. He settled the pillow behind his head, let down the back of his seat, closed his eyes and was asleep at once. As the muscles in his tanned face relaxed, the lines of tension eased and he looked even younger than his fifty years. He was a tall, solid man just beginning to add a thickness to his waist that no amount of dieting could take away. He had played football when he was at Yale, line, and had managed to keep in condition ever since. He needed to be in this job where sleep was sometimes at a premium.

Benicoff’s official title was Assistant to the Commissioner of DARPA, but this was a courtesy title with little real meaning, basically a front for his work. In practice he was the top scientific troubleshooter in the country — and reported directly to the President.

Benicoff was called on when research projects got into trouble. To prepare himself for the worst, he made it his job to check on work in progress whenever possible. He visited Megalobe as often as he could because of the extensive research being done there. But that was partly an excuse. Brian’s research was what fascinated him the most and he had come to know and like the young scientist. That was why he took this attack personally.

He woke with the whining thud of the landing gear locking into place. It was just dawn and the rising sun sent red shafts of light through the windows when they turned in their final approach to the runway of the Megalobe airport. Benicoff quickly displayed and ran through the batch of E-fax messages that had come through while he slept; there were updates but no really new information.

Rohart was waiting for him as he came down the steps, haggard and unshaven; it had been a very long night. Benicoff shook his hand and smiled.

“You look like hell, Kyle.”