David Gerrold - When HARLIE Was One

“Well, now that you mention it — there is something. If anything important should come of this gravity and ‘existence’ thing, I’d like HARLIE to get some credit for it.”

“Why Dr. Auberson, that was my intention all along. Are you implying that—”

“Oh, no, no. You misunderstand. I don’t care about public credit, and I don’t think HARLIE does either. No, what I want is credit with the company. Right now, I’m a little bit involved in trying to prove that HARLIE is worth the cost of maintaining him. Anything I can use to support this fight, I will.”

“Oh, I understand.” The other was instantly solicitous. “Yes, yes, I’ll be glad to help in that. Why, HARLIE’s been of inestimable help in my research. To be able to sit and talk with a computer as if he were another research scientist — why, it’s like talking to God.”

“I know the feeling,” Auberson said drily.

Krofft didn’t catch his meaning. He said, “Well, I’ll be glad to do anything I can to help. A letter, a phone call, if you want me to speak to somebody — just name it.”

“Fine. That’s all I want. I’ll have to check back with you later on this.”

“Oh, very good. Then I’ll be talking to you.”

“Fine. Is Hooker still there?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Ask him if he wants to talk to me again.”

A pause, muffled voices. “No, no he doesn’t.”

“Okay, fine, Dr. Krofft. I’ll be seeing you.”

Auberson replaced the phone in the cradle and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t really expect that much out of the little man, but every bit would help. Of course, just offhand, he couldn’t see how he could reveal that Krofft had been talking to HARLIE without also revealing that he had broken plant security — but in this case it was a minor infraction, and he could probably cover it by calling it “necessary to furthering the research program.”

His back hurt, and he stretched his arms out over his head, trying to ease the pain. He was having backaches more and more these days. I must be getting old , he thought, smiling grimly — and then it hit him. In two years, I will be old. Forty is when “old” starts . The sensation was a cold one. He pulled his arms down quickly.

He thought about HARLIE again, wondered exactly what conclusions he and Krofft had come to. No matter; even if HARLIE could explain them, he — with only a psychologist’s training — probably wouldn’t be able to understand. Often he found himself wondering just how he had ended up in charge of the HARLIE project anyway.

Ah, well — the boss didn’t have to know how to run the business. He only needed to know how to run the people who knew.

He leaned forward then and slipped back the silence hood of his typer, curious to see what HARLIE had written. A loose loop of paper sprawled out the back.

Typed on it was:

Auberson read it through, frowning softly. Then he read it again. It was — nice. Very nice. But he wasn’t sure whether he liked it or not. He rolled it out of the machine and carefully tore it off and folded it into his pocket. He’d have to think about this before he sent it to Annie. It almost said — too much.

When she finally did catch up to him, it was two days later. He was walking down the fluorescent-colored hallway to his office when he saw the flash and bob of her red hair. She saw him at the same time and smiled and waved as she quickened her step toward him. Even if he’d wanted to, there was no way to avoid her.

“Hi, what’s up?” he called.

“I should be asking that of you. Where’ve you been all week?”

“Busy,” he said.

“Obviously. I just came from your office. It looks a mess. Sylvia says you haven’t stopped running since Monday.”

“Has it really been only two days? It seems a lot longer.”

“Have you had lunch yet?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Well, then — come on.” He tried to protest, but she took his arm and turned him around, saying, “It’s on me. I’ll put it on my expense account. It’s all part of my campaign to keep a scientist from starving.”

He smiled at that and allowed himself to be led down the hall. “I got your card. I was going to send you one in return, but I haven’t had a chance to go looking.”

“So why not telephone?” She said forwardly. “I’ll even lend you the dime — or call collect if you want.”

He was embarrassed. “Uh, I haven’t even had the chance for that.”

“All right.” She let it go at that.

They decided to avoid the company cafeteria and go to a quiet place in town instead. They paused at the plant gate long enough for Auberson to buzz his office and tell his secretary that he would be gone for at least an hour and a half. While she was waiting, Annie put the convertible top down and pulled a pale blue scarf from his glove compartment. She had put it there precisely for this type of occasion. She was putting it on when he came back.

As he got into the car, she said, “I’m going to have to put a couple more of these things in here. This blue doesn’t go well with this dress.”

He laughed, a genial good-natured sound. But underneath it was an unspoken, half-formed thought: Isn’t that awfully possessive of her? He shrugged it off and put the car into gear. As they rolled easily away from the plant, he asked, “Where’re we going?”

“How about the Tower Room?”

“Uh uh. Too many of the wrong kind of people.” He paused, then added in explanation, “Company people.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay. If not there, where?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll drive into the city proper and see.” He clicked on the stereo and eased the car into the light mid-day traffic.

She looked at him. He was a relaxed driver, not like so many who hunch frightenedly over the steering wheel. Auberson enjoyed driving. The line of his jaw tightened momentarily as he concentrated on the road ahead. With one hand he maneuvered a pair of sunglasses out of his coat pocket and onto his nose. The wind whipped at his hair and his tie.

The feel of the road changed abruptly as they swung onto the freeway — the self-conscious rolling of city-laid concrete became the smooth floating glide of state-sculptured asphalt. The tugging fingers of the wind grew stronger as Auberson gunned the little sports car up to sixty-five miles per hour.

She waited until he had slid into the far left lane before she asked, “What’s wrong with company people?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. I just don’t want to be seen by them, that’s all.” The stereo mumbled softly to itself, something about fixing a hole where the rain comes in. He turned it down to a whisper and added, “It wouldn’t be a good idea. The two of us, I mean.”