Cordwainer Smith - Norstrilia

And now it belonged to Rod McBan.

And housed his computer.

His own computer.

He could speak to it at the extension which reached into the gap of hidden treasures. He talked to it, other times, at the talkpoint in the field, where the polished red-and-black metal of the old computer was reproduced in exquisite miniature. Or he could come to this strange building, the Palace of the Governor of Night, and stand as the worshippers of Diana had once stood, crying, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians!” When he came in this way, he had the full console in front of him, automatically unlocked by his presence, just as his grandfather had showed him, three childhoods before, when the old McBan still had high hopes that Rod would turn into a normal Old North Australian boy. The grandfather, using his personal code in turn, had unlocked the access controls and had invited the computer to make its own foolproof recording of Rod, so that Roderick Frederick Ronald Arnold William MacArthur McBan CLI would be forever known to the machine, no matter what age he attained, no matter how maimed or disguised he might be, no matter how sick or forlorn he might return to the machine of his forefathers. The old man did not even ask the machine how the identification was obtained. He trusted the computer.

Rod climbed the steps of the Palace. The columns stood with their ancient carving, bright in his second sight; he never quite knew how he could see with the ultraviolet, since he noticed no difference between himself and other people in the matter of eyesight except that he more often got headaches from sustained open runs on clean-cloudy days. At a time like this, the effect was spectacular. It was his time, his temple, his own place. He could see, in the reflected light from the Palace, that many of his cousins must have been out to see the Palace during the nights. They too could see it, as it was a family inheritance to be able to watch the invisible temple which one’s friends could not see; but they did not have access.

He alone had that.

“Computer,” he cried, “admit me.”

“Message unnecessary,” said the computer. “You are always clear to enter.” The voice was a male Norstrilian voice, with a touch of the theatrical in it. Rod was never quite sure that it was the voice of his own ancestor; when challenged directly as to whose voice it was using the machine had told him, “Input on that topic had been erased in me. I do not know. Historical evidence suggests that it was male, contemporary with my installation here, and past middle age when coded by me.”

Rod would have felt lively and smart except for the feelings of awe which the Palace of the Governor of Night, standing bright and visible under the dark clouds of Norstrilia, had upon him. He wanted to say something lighthearted but at first he could only mutter,

“Here I am.”

“Observed and respected,” stated the computer-voice. “If I were a person I would say ‘congratulations,’ since you are alive. As a computer I have no opinion on the subject. I note the fact.”

“What do I do now?” said Rod.

“Question too general,” said the computer. “Do you want a drink of water or a rest room? I can tell you where those are. Do you wish to play chess with me? I shall win just as many games as you tell me to.”

“Shut up, you fool!” cried Rod. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Computers are fools only if they malfunction. I am not malfunctioning. The reference to me as a fool is therefore nonreferential and I shall expunge it from my memory system. Repeat the question, please.”

“What do I do with my life?”

“You will work, you will marry, you will be the father of Rod McBan the hundred and fifty-second and several other children, you will die, your body will be sent into the endless orbit with great honor. You will do this well.”

“Suppose I break my neck this very night?” argued Rod. “Then you would be wrong, wouldn’t you?”

“I would be wrong, but I still have the probabilities with me.”

“What do I do about the Onseck?”

“Repeat.”

Rod had to tell the story several times before the computer understood it.

“I do not,” said the computer, “find myself equipped with data concerning this one man whom you so confusingly allude to as Houghton Syme sometimes and as Old Hot and Simple at other times. His personal history is unknown to me. The odds against your killing him undetected are 11,713 to 1 against effectiveness, because too many people know you and know what you look like. I must let you solve your own problem concerning the Hon. Sec.”

“Don’t you have any ideas?”

“I have answers, not ideas.”

“Give me a piece of fruit cake and a glass of fresh milk then.”

“It will cost you twelve credits and by walking to your cabin you can get these things free. Otherwise I will have to buy them from Emergency Central.”

“I said get them,” said Rod.

The machine whirred. Extra lights appeared on the console. “Emergency Central has authorized my own use of sheltered supplies. You will pay for the replacement tomorrow.” A door opened. A tray slid out, with a luscious piece of fruitcake and a glass of foaming fresh milk.

Rod sat on the steps of his own palace and ate.

Conversationally, he said to the computer, “You must know what to do about Old Hot and Simple. It’s a terrible thing for me to go through the Garden of Death and then have a dull tool like that pester the life out of me.”

“He cannot pester the life out of you. You are too strong.”

“Recognize an idiom, you silly ass!” said Rod.

The machine paused. “Idiom identified. Correction made. Apologies are herewith given to you, Child McBan.”

“Another mistake. I’m not Child McBan any more. I’m Mister and Owner McBan.”

“I will check central,” said the computer. There was another long pause as the lights danced. Finally the computer answered. “Your status is mixed. You are both. In an emergency you are already the Mister and Owner of the Station of Doom, including me. Without an emergency, you are still Child McBan until your trustees release the papers to do it.”

“When will they do that?”

“Voluntary action. Human. Timing uncertain. In four or five days, it would seem. When they release you, the Hon. Sec. will have the legal right to move for your arrest as an incompetent and dangerous owner. From your point of view, it will be very sad.”

“And what do you think?” said Rod.

“I shall think that it is a disturbing factor. I speak the truth to you.”

“And that is all?”

“All,” said the computer.

“You can’t stop the Hon. Sec.?”

“Not without stopping everybody else.”

“What do you think people are, anyhow? Look here, computer, you have been talking to people for hundreds and hundreds of years. You know our names. You know my family. Don’t you know anything about us? Can’t you help me? What do you think I am?”

“Which question first?” said the computer.

Rod angrily threw the empty plate and glass on the floor of the temple. Robot arms flicked out and pulled them into the trash bin. He stared at the old polished metal of the computer. It ought to be polished. He had spent hundreds of hours polishing its case, all sixty-one panels of it, just because the machine was something which he could love.

“Don’t you know me? Don’t you know what I am?”

“You are Rod McBan the hundred and fifty-first. Specifically, you are a spinal column with a small bone box at one end, the head, and with reproductive equipment at the other end. Inside the bone box you have a small portion of material which resembles stiff, bloody lard. With that you think — you think better than I do, even though I have over five hundred million synaptic connections. You are a wonderful object, Rod McBan. I can understand what you are made of. I cannot share your human, animal side of life.”