Fredric Brown - The Second Fredric Brown Megapack

But be that as it may, on the afternoon of February 2, 1963, Ray Carmody was the Operative on duty in the control room. The only Operative, of course; dozens of technicians were required from time to time to service Junior and feed him, but only one Operative at a time fed data into him or asked him questions. So Carmody was alone in the soundproofed control room.

Doing nothing, however, at the moment. He’d just fed into Junior a complicated mess of data on molecular structure in the chromosome mechanism and had asked Junior—for the ten-thousandth time, at least—the sixty-four dollar question bearing on the survival of the human race: Why all children were now females and what could be done about it.

It had been quite a chunk of data, this time, and no doubt Junior would take quite a few minutes to digest it, add it to everything else he’d ever been told and synthesize the whole. No doubt in a few minutes he’d say, “Data insufficient.” At least to this moment that had been his only answer to the sixty-four dollar question.

Carmody sat back and watched Junior’s complicated bank of dials, switches and lights with a bored eye. And because the intake-mike was shut off and Junior couldn’t hear what he was saying anyway, and because the control room was soundproofed so no one else could hear him, either, he spoke freely.

“Junior,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re a washout on this particular deal. We’ve fed you everything that every geneticist, every chemist, every biologist in this half of the world knows, and all you do is come up with that ‘data insufficient’ stuff. What do you want—blood?”

“Oh, you’re pretty good on some things. You’re a whiz on orbits and rocket fuels, but you just can’t understand women, can you? Well, I can’t either; I’ll give you that. And I’ve got to admit you’ve done the human race a good turn on one deal—atomics. You convinced us that if we completed and used H-bombs, both sides would lose the coming war. I mean lose. And we’ve got inside information that the other side got the same answer out of your brothers, the cybernetics machines over there, so they won’t build or use them, either. Winning a war with H-bombs is about like winning a wrestling match with hand grenades; it’s just as unhealthful for you as for your opponent. But we weren’t talking about hand grenades. We were talking about women. Or I was. Listen, Junior—”

A light, not on Junior’s panel but in the ceiling, flashed on and off, the signal for an incoming intercommunicator call. It would be from the Chief Operative, of course; no one else could connect—by intercommunicator or any other method—with this control room.

Carmody threw a switch.

“Busy, Carmody?”

“Not at the moment, Chief. Just fed Junior that stuff on molecular structure of genes and chromosomes. Waiting for him to tell me it’s not enough data, but it’ll take him a few minutes yet.”

“Okay. You’re off duty in fifteen minutes. Will you come to my office as soon as you’re relieved? The President wants to talk to you.”

Carmody said, “Goody. I’ll put on my best pinafore.”

He threw the switch again. Quickly, because a green light was flashing on Junior’s panel.

He reconnected the intake and output-mikes and said, “Well, Junior?”

“Data insufficient,” said Junior’s level mechanical voice.

Carmody sighed and noted the machine’s answer on the report ending in a question which he had fed into the mike. He said, “Junior, I’m ashamed of you. All right, let’s see if there’s anything else I can ask and get an answer to in fifteen minutes.”

He picked up a pile of several files from the table in front of him and leafed through them quickly. None contained fewer than three pages of data.

“Nope,” he said, “not a thing here I can give you in fifteen minutes, and Bob will be here to relieve me then.”

He sat back and relaxed. He wasn’t ducking work; experience had proven that, although an AE7 cybernetics machine could accept verbal data in conformance with whatever vocabulary it had been given, and translate that data into mathematical symbols (as it translated the mathematical symbols of its answer back into words and mechanically spoke the words), it could not adapt itself to a change of voice within a given operation. It could, and did, adjust itself to understanding, as it were, Carmody’s voice or the voice of Bob Dana who would shortly relieve him. But if Carmody started on a given problem, he’d have to finish it himself, or Bob would have to clear the board and start all over again. So there was no use starting something he wouldn’t have time to finish.

He glanced through some of the reports and questions to kill time. The one dealing with the space station interested him most, but he found it too technical to understand.

“But you won’t,” he told Junior. “Pal, I’ve got to give that to you; when it comes to anything except women, you’re really good .”

The switch was open, but since no question had been asked, of course Junior didn’t answer.

Carmody put down the files and glowered at Junior. “Junior,” he said, “that’s your weakness all right, women. And you can’t have genetics without women, can you?”

“No,” Junior said.

“Well, you do know that much. But even I know it. Look, here’s one that’ll stump you. That blonde I met at the party last night. What about her?”

“The question,” said Junior, “is inadequately worded; please clarify.”

Carmody grinned. “You want me to get graphic, but I’ll fool you. I’ll just ask you this—should I see her again?”

“No,” said Junior, mechanically but implacably.

Carmody’s eyebrows went up. “The devil you say. And may I ask why, since you haven’t met the lady, you say that?”

“Yes. You may ask why.”

That was one trouble with Junior; he always answered the question you actually asked, not the one you implied.

“Why?” Carmody demanded, genuinely curious now as to what answer he was going to receive. “Specifically, why should I not again see the blonde I met last night?”

“Tonight,” said Junior, “you will be busy. Before tomorrow night you will be married.”

Carmody almost literally jumped out of his chair. The cybernetics machine had gone stark raving crazy. It must have. There was no more chance of his getting married tomorrow than there was of a kangaroo giving birth to a portable typewriter. And besides and beyond that, Junior never made predictions of the future—except, of course, on such things as orbits and statistical extrapolation of trends.

Carmody was still staring at Junior’s impassive panel with utter disbelief and considerable consternation when the red light that was the equivalent of a doorbell flashed in the ceiling. His shift was up and Bob Dana had come to relieve him. There wasn’t time to ask any further questions and, anyway, “Are you crazy?” was the only one he could think of at the moment.

Carmody didn’t ask it. He didn’t want to know.

Carmody switched off both mikes and stood gazing at Junior’s impassive panel for a long time. He shook his head, went to the door and opened it.

Bob Dana breezed in and then stopped to look at Carmody. He said, “Something the matter, Ray? You look like you’d just seen a ghost, if I may coin a cliche.”

Carmody shook his head. He wanted to think before he talked to anybody—and if he did decide to talk, it should be to Chief Operative Reeber and not to anyone else. He said, “Just I’m a little beat, Bob.”

“Nothing special up?”

“Nope. Unless maybe I’m going to be fired. Reeber wants to see me on my way out.” He grinned. “Says the President wants to talk to me.”