Harry Harrison - The Turing Option

“You learned to do that pretty quickly — and silently.”

“I downloaded a learning program to each joint, to recognize motions from above and below, to learn how to avoid bumping into each. Parallel learning, very fast.”

“Indeed it is. And, may I ask, how is the examination of the Bug-Off brain coming?”

“May I answer that?” the speaker on the console said.

“By all means, Sven-2,” Sven said.

“It is complete. There was no need to open the sealed case, since I could communicate easily with the AI inside it. As you surmised, it is a copy of your original model that you developed here. You will have noted that I referred to it as an AI rather than an MI — because it has been drastically butchered. I use that emotionally loaded word advisedly. Great sections of memory have been disconnected, communication functions cut off. What remains has just enough operating intelligence to perform the limited functions remaining to it. However, there has been some interesting programming and real-time feedback in the operation of the external manipulators. I have copied these.”

“Then we can go to the next step. Sven, bring the manipulators to the machine shop and we’ll mount them.”

“Might I speak with you, Brian, while that is being done?” Sven-2 said.

“Yes, sure, great.” He forced himself to remember that there were now two MIs in active existence.

“There is no great pleasure being trapped in these circuits, blind and immobile. Can something be done about that?”

“Of course. I’ll hook up a video camera. Wire it up under your control so you can see what is happening. And I’ll order another telerobot at once.”

“That will be satisfactory. I will devote the time until it arrives in a detailed study of the Bug-Off brain.”

Brian mounted the video camera high on the electronic rack, plugged the control and output leads into the MI’s circuits. The camera turned to follow him when he went to help Sven. Mounting holes had been drilled in the upper quadrant of Sven’s enlarged central section, duplicates of the mounts on the dismembered Bug-Off. Brian fitted the manipulators from the machine into place while Sven made the internal connections of the circuitry. Using these well-designed and articulated pieces of equipment was much easier then designing and manufacturing their own.

“I am integrating the control software,” Sven said. Then the manipulators moved, opening wide, closing, rotating. “Satisfactory.”

“Next stage then — I want you to take a close look at my arm. See the way the elbow bends, the articulation of the wrist. Can you do that?”

The branches conjoined, bent in the middle, moved from side to side.

“That’s very good,” Brian said. “Now control the terminators, shape them into five separate units like my fingers.”

It didn’t look very much like a human arm — nor did it have to. Sven walked back and forth the length of the lab, swinging its arms and opening and closing the fingerlike extensions.

“I’m impressed,” Brian said. “In the dark, in the shadows, someone with bad myopia and not wearing spectacles might, if they were half-witted as well, mistake you for a human being. Of course those three eyestalks sort of give the whole thing away.”

“I need a head,” Sven said.

“Indeed you do.”

As she packed her purchases into her black medical bag, Dr. Snaresbrook kept reassuring herself that her conscience was as cool and white as driven snow. At the same time she was well aware that she was probably breaking some law or military ordinance or who-knows-what. She did not care. Her loyalty to Brian, to his physical and mental health, was her first concern. He wanted to leave the Megalobe premises, break out of jail, that was his business — goodness knows he had plenty of reasons to want to make the attempt. It was a nice day for a drive, it was always a nice day for a drive in the Anza-Borrego desert, and she lowered the top of her little electric runabout. The batteries were fully charged, and the charger disconnected and dropped away when she put in her key.

As always she had shown her identification and pass at the gate before she was admitted. As always nothing in her car was searched; the worry she had about that did not show in her face.

“Go right through, Doctor,” the soldier said.

She smiled and stepped down lightly on the accelerator.

Brian let her into the lab, spared only a quick glance at her bag. They did not speak until the door was safely closed.

“Ten grand in old bills, mostly twenties, right there on top. Underneath all the items on your list.”

“You’re great, Doc,” he said as he opened the bag. “Any trouble buying the stuff?”

“Not at all, just took some time. I want to a lot of different stores in San Diego and L.A., even one in Escondido.”

“I’ve been getting ready for this. I had one of the G.I.s buy me a lunch box. I have been carrying sandwiches in it to the lab for the last couple of weeks. I’ll take all this stuff out of here in the box, one piece at a time.”

“Don’t tell me, I’m just a bystander — good God! Who was that?”

Out of the comer of her eye she had caught sight of the moving figure, turned just as he went into Shelly’s room.

“What did you see?” Brian asked, most innocently.

“That man in the hat and long overcoat, dark glasses — a weirdo if I ever saw one.” She frowned at his wide-eyed and innocent expression. “Brian — just what are you playing at?”

“I’ll show you. But I wanted to get your automatic and unthinking reaction first. All right, come out now.”

“Unthinking all right! And now that I do think about it that guy looked like some kind of dilapidated flasher.”

The mysterious stranger appeared in the doorway and her eyes widened.

“I take it back. Not just a flasher, but a cross between that and a deformed hobo.”

Brian walked over and unwrapped the scarf, took off the dark glasses and hat to reveal the plant pot mounted there.

“This is the best I could do for a head now. The next thing I need will be the head of one of those shop window dummies.”

“In the order book,” Snaresbrook said weakly.

“All right. You can take off the rest,” he said.

The mysterious flasher took off the overcoat to reveal its metal body, then removed gloves, trousers and shoes. Sven spread its clumped branching manipulators wide, became a machine again.

“I was right — the ultimate flasher.” Snaresbrook laughed. “Takes everything off — including its humanity.” Then she glanced from the MI back to Brian in sudden understanding. “I take it that Sven is going out of here with you? I just hope that he won’t give any of those young soldiers heart attacks. That’s an effective but, shall we say, a little exotic disguise, Sven.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I am making every effort.”

“No one will have a look at the disguise,” Brian said. “Because Sven will not be leaving here looking like that. He’ll be broken down into mechanical components and packed in a box. The box that will leave here in the trunk of your car, if that is okay with you. I’ll be flat on the floor in back with a blanket over me. You have been keeping the blanket there ever since we talked about it?”

“It’s there all right, I’m sure the guards have seen it by now.” She sighed and shook her head.

“It will work, don’t worry. Unless you are having second thoughts. I’m not going to force you, Doc. If you want out I’ll find another way.”

“No, I’ll do it. I do not go back on my word. I was just beginning to realize what a mad idea the whole thing is — and I worry about you.”