When HARLIE Was One Page 8

  Auberson nodded. “I think so, yes.”

  “You think so . . . ?”

  “We’re still testing.”

  Elzer remained unimpressed. “It’s still a computer, isn’t it?”

  Auberson looked at him, frustrated by the man’s inability to understand. “So is your brain, Elzer. Your brain is a computer made out of meat. In your case, hamburger. But it doesn’t matter whether the software is running in meat or silicon. It still runs. The biggest difference is that silicon tends to be more accurate.”

  “That kind of rudeness is uncalled for, Auberson.” Elzer snapped.

  “Aubie—” Dorne said warningly.

  “I’m sorry, I did not mean the comment as an insult. I was trying to make a point. It’s a shame that Carl Elzer had to make such a pointed comment about the jargon of consciousness technology, because we’ve gotten some of our most interesting insights from some of the estholes and lifespringers and modies we’ve talked to. For instance, the Mode people call a human being a ‘self-programming problem-solving device.’ That’s also a good description of HARLIE. That’s the essential goal of any artificial intelligence program—to have a machine that can understand questions in English and build its own programs for finding the solutions. Human beings do that too—except most of us don’t understand the process by which we do it. HARLIE does—or at least he’s trying to. That’s what those periods of nonrationality are all about. He’s trying to . . .” Auberson trailed off, abruptly unwilling to complete the sentence. He didn’t want to hand new ammunition to Elzer.

  “To what?” Elzer demanded.

  Auberson sighed. “I think . . . that he’s trying to understand what it is to be human.”

  “Now you’re saying he’s not only alive, but human?”

  Auberson shook his head. “Not human. Not exactly. How many human beings do you know who are immobile, who never sleep, who have twenty-five sensory inputs, who have eidetic memories, who have no concept of taste or smell or any other organic chemical reactions? How many human beings do you know who have no sense of touch? And no sexual outlet? Please, don’t make that mistake. HARLIE is definitely not human. Not at all. But he does want to understand humanity—because we’re all he has to talk to.” Auberson shrugged. “He does imitate human behavior, quite a bit. We’re his role models. He’s not perfect—or maybe I should say he is perfect. His emulations of us are terrifyingly accurate. So he makes perfect mistakes.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He’s developed a personality—quite a volatile one, I should say.”

  “Volatile?” The little man was confused. “You mean he gets angry?”

  “Angry? No, not angry. He can get impatient though—especially with human beings.”

  “This is all very . . . interesting,” Elzer dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “And I suppose it’s even quite a bit of fun to have all of these wonderful conversations with the machine. But it’s all irrelevant. It’s worthless research. Because it doesn’t produce anything. The real question is—when are we going to see a tangible result from this project, Auberson? What is its purpose?”

  “It’s funny you should ask that. HARLIE has asked the same question. He wants to know why he exists, why we exist. Funny, isn’t it?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Auberson ignored that. “The best I could tell him is that it’s evolution. Intelligence is the logical result of the first law of biology.” To the questioning expressions around the table, Auberson explained. “The first law of biology is survival—”

  “It’s also the first law of business,” retorted Elzer. “Perhaps you should explain that to your machine. Or is it more involved with the existential side of the question? Perhaps we should have Miss Stimson, the executive secretary, arrange to bring in a minister to sit and speak with the machine.” A few of the board members smiled, but not Miss Stimson. She was quietly typing the minutes of the meeting into a portable terminal. “What we want to know is HARLIE’s purpose. Having built him, you should have some idea.”

  “HARLIE’s purpose—I thought I just told you—is to be a self-programming, problem-solving device.”

  “I mean for what financial reason? What economic applications will this program have?”

  “Huh? The applications are endless. This is one of those developments that has so much potential—”

  “Spare me the speech. Name six.”

  “I can’t just—Well, robotics, for instance. We could be talking about robot diagnosticians or negotiators, truly intelligent civil servants—or, controlling the right mechanical body, robot firemen or even police officers.”

  “Robot police?”

  “Or even soldiers or anti-terrorism squads. Any place where the ability to make quick judgments is needed.”

  “Now, that might be worth something. How long till you could demonstrate a working prototype?”

  “Prototype?! It’s just an off-the-wall idea! We’re nowhere near implementation! This is—You don’t understand, do you? This is not something we can program. It’s something we have to teach.”

  “It’s a machine—isn’t it?”

  “Only in the same way that you and I are apes! We are and we aren’t. The same with HARLIE. He is not simply a thinking machine. He is alive in the same way that you and I are alive! HARLIE is sentient! He has a personality. He has feelings. Very real feelings.” Auberson lowered his voice. Somehow he had to get the point across.

  “This is a whole new domain of computer science. We have to proceed very carefully. I’ll tell you the truth. We’re like the guy who discovered fire. We have here the immediate possibilities of lighting up the night, keeping our caves warm and cooking our food; eventually, we’ll have blast furnaces and steam engines, tempered steel and internal combustion, chemistry and nuclear power—but first we have to learn how not to burn down our forests. That’s HARLIE. He represents an incredible potential of power—but we don’t know yet how to apply that potential; and we are nowhere near the point where we can start rolling his clones off an assembly line. We still have so much to study, so much to test—”

  Elzer acted as if he hadn’t heard a word of what Auberson had said—or as if he had heard the words, but not the meaning. He turned in his chair toward the head of the table and pointed with his pen. “Well, this just proves my point. This project is out of control. We’ve got a bunch of hackers down there who are only interested in what they can make their pretty toys do. They’ve lost sight of the fact that we have to have a result we can take to market—and that’s the same exact problem that destroyed SoftStar and Lexicon and Uni-Tech. The software people were out of control. We can’t afford this kind of dilettantism. We need a return—or we need to pull the plug.” He raised his voice to be heard over Auberson’s protests.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “I can read a balance sheet. If Auberson and his friends had wanted to build artificial brains, they should have applied for a federal grant. Dr. Auberson’s little speech was very inspiring, but this corporation is not in the business of selling inspiration. This project is clearly incapable of producing a tangible result any time in the foreseeable future. I don’t think we have any choice but to discontinue it.”

  “Elzer, you are a shortsighted little weasel.” Auberson surprised himself with his vehemence.

  There was an instant of startled silence. Then Elzer snorted. Loudly. “Thank you. I think we’ve finally established Auberson’s level of conversational competency.”

  “We’ve gone off on a tangent,” Dorne said abruptly. “Let’s try and get back on purpose. The point is, Auberson, that HARLIE is a drain on corporate funds—”

  “We’re budgeted for him across the next three years,” Auberson said.

  “—a drain on corporate funds,” Dorne repeated, “with no immediate prospect of return. I know that we’re budgeted quite some time ahead. That’s no longer the question. Nor are we conce
rned with how successful your research has been. What we need to do now is assess if this is something we want to continue. Is it worthwhile? Obviously,” Dorne admitted, “some of us in this room have our doubts. But no decision has been made yet. Auberson, you and your people need to recognize that no decision has been made yet because we do respect the enormous effort that all of you have invested in this project. And even though it may not be obvious to you, it’s still true that we’d rather see you succeed than fail. It would be better for all of us than to have wasted all that money and all that time and effort. What we want—what we need to know—is what direction this thing is heading in. Then we can know whether or not we want to continue it. I have no problem with the research budget as it stands—but I need to know that we’re getting something for our money. Something we can use.”

  There was something in Dorne’s voice that made Auberson pause. Auberson looked at his hands on the table in front of himself, allowed himself to feel tired, allowed himself also to feel the smallest moment of hope. “All right,” he said wearily. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” snorted Elzer.

  Both Dorne and Auberson ignored him. Dorne said, “Show us a plan. Where are you going with HARLIE? What are you going to do with him? And most of all, what is he going to do for us?”

  “I’m not sure I can answer that right now . . .”

  “How much time do you need?”

  Auberson shrugged. “I can’t say.”

  “Why don’t you ask HARLIE for the answer?” Elzer mocked. “If he’s that smart, it should be easy.”

  Auberson looked at Elzer, slightly surprised, oddly impressed. He looked at the little man as if he were seeing him for the very first time. Elzer seemed discomfited by Auberson’s intense examination and dropped his glance to the papers in front of him. When he looked up again, Auberson was still studying him.

  “That’s actually a very good idea.” Auberson grinned. “I believe I will,” he said. “I believe I will.”

  But he didn’t. Not right away.

  What if Elzer was right? What if this whole thing really was just a damned waste of time and money? Not much more than an interesting dead end? What if . . . ?

  I mean, I have to consider the possibility, don’t I?

  And yet . . . on another level, it didn’t make any difference—because it wasn’t about Elzer. And it wasn’t about time and money and corporate resources. It wasn’t about any of those things any more. Maybe last month or last week, Auberson might have been willing to view the circumstances from within the corporate context. But not today. Not now. He couldn’t. Not after . . .

  No, it wasn’t about Elzer any more. It was about HARLIE.

  It had always been about HARLIE.

  Auberson knew he’d have to talk to HARLIE again, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. He still didn’t have an answer for HARLIE’s question. What was the purpose of a human being anyway?

  He wondered if there was even an answer to that. Or more accurately, if there was an answer, was it knowable?

  If there was one, it wasn’t going come easy. He took another sip of coffee instead. Bitter, too bitter.

  A gentle voice intruded on his thoughts. “May I join you?” It was Stimson, the executive secretary.

  “Sure.” He started to rise, but she waved him back down. “Save it.”

  Auberson waited politely while she unloaded her tray; a sad-looking sandwich and a Coke. The company cafeteria was not known as a haven of haute cuisine.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. I was just thinking.”

  “Mm,” she said. “You looked a little . . . sad, I guess.” She bit into her sandwich. Tuna fish. Auberson could smell the sharpness. The thought flickered across his mind: Why do tuna fish sandwiches always smell so strongly?

  Auberson shrugged. When in doubt, shrug.

  “They were kind of rough on you, weren’t they?”

  “No, they weren’t.” And never admit anything. “Elzer maybe. But . . . the rest of them, they were just doing their jobs. Protecting the stockholders’ interests.” He shook his head.

  “Listen—” she said. “You are a terrible liar. Your face does the most interesting things when you lie.”

  “Uh—” He felt himself stiffening with sudden self-consciousness. He tried to keep his face impassive. “I don’t know what you mean.” And he felt like a damn fool doing it . . .

  He could have held it, but she giggled.

  The ice cracked then and he laughed too. He spread his hands apologetically. “All right, you got me. Yeah, I’m—sitting here feeling frustrated and pissed and . . . and I don’t know what.” And then he did know, and the dam broke and he blurted out quickly, “Yes, I do. I feel trapped. I feel like I’ve been working my ass off and nobody cares. Everybody wants something from me. They’re all gimme pigs. You know what a ‘gimme pig’ is? ‘Gimme, gimme, gimme . . .’ Only nobody’s giving me anything. I’m feeling like I’m out here all alone—”

  He stopped himself abruptly and looked across at her. Who was she anyway? Annie Stimson, corporate executive secretary. What did that mean? Should he trust her? Had he said too much already?

  He corrected himself quickly, “I’m okay. I’m just annoyed. Give me a little time and I’ll . . . be back to normal.’’

  “Mm-hm,” she said, very noncommittally. She was studying him curiously, a faint smile on her lips.

  He looked back at her, shyly at first, then with a very real curiosity of his own. Her auburn hair was a cascade of sunshine and embers. He liked the way the light reflected off it, sparkling shades of shimmering gold and red when she moved her head. He wondered what it would be like to stroke it. Like silk perhaps?

  Her eyes were green, very green.

  Abruptly, he grinned. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  She shook her head. Her smile was impish. “Nope. Not a word.”

  He dropped his gaze; it was getting too intense. “The truth is, I’m scared. I’m terrified that somebody’s going to turn off HARLIE before we’ve had a chance to find out what he’s really capable of. And that would be so wrong. Maybe you can’t see it in the boardroom, but some of us downstairs are up against it every day. This whole—” he spread his hands wide, “—thing is too important to just simply abandon.” And then he realized how silly that must sound to her, so he added, “Well, to me, anyway.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” He looked at her again.

  She didn’t answer. She only returned his gaze. For the first time he noticed the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. How old was she anyway? He returned to the study of his coffee cup. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying any of this—I mean, not to you. I mean, maybe you’re one of them. Sorry, but—”

  She shook her head. “Don’t apologize. You’d be a damn fool not to suspect it. Maybe I did sit down here to pump you for information. And maybe I sat down here because I’m honestly curious about HARLIE. I could tell you that I’m really just curious, but I could be lying, couldn’t I? So, you’re just going to have to trust your own judgment, aren’t you?” She met his eyes unashamedly.

  “Uh, right—” Auberson was a little startled at her straightforwardness. He didn’t know what to say. He shrugged. “The hell with it. I don’t have anything to hide. I’ll tell you the truth. If HARLIE were just a machine, it would be a whole other thing. I might even be on Elzer’s side. I hate the idea of megalithic machinery, of projects out of control—of waste. If HARLIE were that, I wouldn’t be here, couldn’t be here. But he’s not. The truth is that HARLIE is like a . . . a . . . I know it sounds hard to accept—but he’s alive. He’s a person. A being that thinks and feels and perhaps even cares. He’s alive! And he’s . . . like a child to me, a son.”

  “I know.” She said it gently.

  “Do you?” Auberson wanted to believe. “Do you really?”

  “Now it’s my turn to trust you. I’ll tell you one
. I’ve read the company doctor’s report on you.”

  “Huh?” Auberson’s head snapped up. “I didn’t know—”

  “Of course not. Nobody ever knows when we do a psychiatric report on them. It’d be bad policy. Anyway, you don’t have to worry.”

  “Oh?” Auberson was holding himself back. A grenade had gone off in his belly and she was telling him it wasn’t serious?

  She shook her head. “It said that you’re introverted—but that’s an occupational hazard. You’re obsessive—but that’s a virtue in your position. You’re a perfectionist—but not a blind one. And uh—what else? I think there was also something about your worrying too much because you take on too much responsibility.” She surveyed him thoughtfully as if trying to decide whether or not to tell him the one last thing.

  “You shouldn’t be telling me this, should you?”

  “Does it make a difference?” Her smile was like sunshine.

  “No, I guess not. What else was in the report?”

  “He said you were becoming overly involved with the HARLIE project, but that such a development was almost unavoidable because whoever became HARLIE’s mentor would have found himself emotionally attached. But he did say that . . . you might be particularly vulnerable—because you’re something of a loner.”

  “Mm,” Auberson grunted, deliberately impassive. “All that, huh?”

  “Mm-hm.” Stimson nodded.

  Auberson felt naked. His feelings were in a turmoil. He felt betrayed. Instinctively, he covered with humor. “Did he get my weight right too?”

  Stimson laughed, a brief chuckle of warmth. “You’re taking it better than I would have—”

  Auberson pretended to sip at his coffee. He shook his head. He finally brought his gaze back up to hers. “I can’t say that I like it. In fact, I actually hate it. Not the information—it’s true. What I hate is the spying. The implications. The betrayal.” He put the coffee cup down. “And I hate it that you know so much about me while I know almost nothing about you. I feel—”

  “I’m thirty-four,” she said calmly. “I live alone. I’m allergic to cats. I weigh a hundred and nineteen pounds. I do not dye my hair; this is its real color. I had my nose fixed when I was nineteen. I like sushi, I don’t like sea urchin. I grew up in San Diego. I’m divorced. His choice, not mine. No children. And I like my steak medium rare. Anything else?”