Clifford Simak - The Ghost of a Model T - And Other Stories

Grumpily, Moore walked into the room and settled down in an easy chair. Waite went to a cabinet, hauled out a bottle and two glasses.

“Are you sure this place is safe?” the senator asked. “I know my office is bugged and so is my apartment. You’d have to have a full-time debugging crew to keep them clean. How about this place?”

“The management maintains tight security,” said Waite. “Besides, I had our own crew in just an hour ago.”

“So the place ought to be secure.”

“Yes, it should. Maybe Alexandria would have been all right, but we’d been there too long.”

“The cabbie you sent to pick me up. He was a new one.”

“Every so often we have to change around.”

“What was the matter with the old one? I liked him. Him and me talked baseball. I haven’t got many people around I can talk baseball with.”

“There was nothing wrong with him. But, like I told you, we have to change around. They watch us all the time.”

“You mean the damn computers.”

Waite nodded.

“I can remember the time when I first came here as senator,” said Moore, “twenty-three years ago, less than a quarter century. Jimmy was in the White House then. We didn’t have to watch out all the time for bugging then. We didn’t have to be careful when we said something to our friends. We didn’t have to be looking behind us all the time.”

“I know,” said Waite. “Things are different now.” He brought the senator a drink, handed it to him.

“Why thank you, Dan. The first one of the day.”

“You know damn well it’s not the first of the day,” Waite replied.

The senator took a long pull on the drink, sighed in happiness. “Yes, sir,” he said, “it was fun back in those days. We did about as we pleased. We made our deals without no one interfering. No one paid attention. All of us were making deals and trading votes and other things like that. The normal processes of democracy. We had our dignity—Christ, yes, we had our dignity and we used that dignity, when necessary, to cover up. Most exclusive club in all the world, and we made the most of it. Trouble was, every six years we had to work our tails off to get reelected and hang on to what we had. But that wasn’t bad. A lot of work, but it wasn’t bad. You could con the electorate, or usually you could. I had to do it only once and that was an easy one; I had a sodbuster from out in the sticks to run against and that made it easier. With some of the other boys, it wasn’t that easy. Some of them even lost. Now we ain’t got to run no more, but there are these goddamned exams…”

“Senator,” said Waite, “that’s what we have to talk about. You failed your first exam.”

The senator half rose out of his chair, then settled back again. “I what?”

“You failed the first test. You still have two other chances, and we have to plan for them.”

“But, Dan, how do you know? That stuff is supposed to be confidential. This computer, Fred, he would never talk.”

“Not Fred. I got it from someone else. Another computer.”

“Computers, they don’t talk.”

“Some of them do. You don’t know about this computer society, Senator. You don’t have to deal with it except when you have to take exams. I have to deal with it as best I can. It’s my job to know what’s going on. The computer network is a sea of gossip. At times some of it leaks out. That’s why I have computer contacts, to pick up gossip here and there. That’s how I learned about the test. You see, it’s this way—the computers work with information, deal with information, and gossip is information. They’re awash with it. It’s their drink and meat; it’s their recreation. It’s the only thing they have. A lot of them, over the years, have begun to think of themselves as humans, maybe a notch or two better than humans, better in many ways than humans. They are subjected to some of the same stresses as humans, but they haven’t the safety valves we have. We can go out and get drunk or get laid or take a trip or do a hundred other things to ease off the pressure. All the computers have is gossip.”

“You mean,” the senator asked, rage rising once more, “that I have to take that test again?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. This time, Senator, you simply have to pass it. Three times and you’re out. I’ve been telling you, warning you. Now you better get cracking. I told you months ago you should start boning up. It’s too late for that now. I’ll have to arrange for a tutor –”

“To hell with that!” the senator roared. “I won’t abide a tutor. It would be all over Washington.”

“It’s either that or go back to Wisconsin. How would you like that?”

“These tests, Dan, they’re hard,” the senator complained. “More difficult this time than they’ve ever been before. I told Fred they were harder and he agreed with me. He said he was sorry, but the matter was out of his hands—nothing he could do about the results. But, Christ, Dan, I have known this Fred for years. Wouldn’t you think he could shade a point or two for me?”

“I warned you, months ago, that they would be harder this time,” Waite reminded him. “I outlined for you what was happening. Year by year the business of efficient government has grown more difficult to accomplish. The problems are tougher, the procedures more complex. This is especially true with the Senate because the Senate has gradually taken over many of the powers and prerogatives once held by the White House.”

“As we should have,” said the senator. “It was only right we should. With all the fumbling around down at the White House, no one knew what was about to happen.”

“The idea is that with the job getting harder,” said Waite, “the men who do the job must be more capable than ever. This great republic can do with no less than the best men available.”

“But I’ve always passed the tests before. No sweat.”

“The other tests you took were easier.”

“But goddammit, Dan, experience! Doesn’t experience count? I’ve had more than twenty years of experience.”

“I know, Senator. I agree with you. But experience doesn’t mean a thing to the computers. Everything depends on how the questions are answered. How well a man does his job doesn’t count, either. And you can’t fall back on the electorate at home. There’s no electorate any more. For years the folks back home kept on reelecting incompetents. They elected them because they liked the way they snapped their suspenders, not knowing that they never wore suspenders except when they were out electioneering. Or they elected them because they could hit a spittoon, nine times out of ten, at fifteen paces. Or maybe because these good people back home always voted a straight ticket, no matter who was on it—the way their pappy and grandpappy always did. But that’s not the way it is done any more, Senator. The folks back home have nothing to say now about who represents them. Members of government are chosen by computer, and once chosen, they stay in their jobs so long as they measure up. When they don’t measure up, when they fail their tests, they are heaved out of their jobs and the computers choose their replacements.”

“Are you reading me a sermon, Dan?”

“No, not a sermon. I’m doing my job the only honest way I can. I’m telling you that you’ve been goofing off. You’ve not been paying attention to what is going on. You’ve been drifting, taking it easy, coasting on your record. Like experience, your record doesn’t count. The only chance you have to keep your seat, believe me, is to let me bring in a tutor.”

“I can’t, Dan. I won’t put up with it.”

“No one needs to know.”

“No one was supposed to know I failed that test. Even I didn’t know. But you found out, and Fred wasn’t the one who told you. You can’t hide anything in this town. The boys would know. They’d be whispering up and down the corridors: ‘You hear? Ol’ Andy, he’s got hisself a tutor.’ I couldn’t stand that, Dan. Not them whispering about me. I just couldn’t stand it.”