Science is partly a matter of getting the facts right, and partly of figuring out the relationships. Part II is much harder…
Norm knew it was time to get help when he woke up in a strange bed next to a woman he did not know. A red light blinked in the corner of a computer monitor. He ignored it and stumbled into the bathroom. The face that greeted him in the mirror when he turned on the light was older than he remembered: the hair touched with gray, the widow’s peak more pronounced.
A feeling of growing, implacable dread.
There was a sound of movement behind him. Norm turned quickly. A woman stood in the doorway, ringlets of auburn hair covering one side of her face. The robe she had thrown on gaped open revealingly.
“Phil, I’m afraid it’s no good,” she said. “I know you’ve been trying, but as wonderful as last night was, I have to face the fact that you’re not the same man I married.”
Norm forced his gaze up to meet hers. “Excuse me, Miss,” he said, “but should I know you?”
Among the names and addresses in his notebook, one was highlighted.
SANDER STEELE, MD, Ph.D. (AI, RE)
Margery (the woman whose bed he had been sharing and who was, apparently, his wife) insisted on driving him to the doctor’s office, even though the car was perfectly capable of taking him there itself. The car, however, would not have been able to lead him to the waiting room of the doctor’s office. Nearly a dozen people were there ahead of him, paging through copies of
Norm looked around apprehensively. “I thought you said Dr. Steele would be able to see me immediately.”
“He will,” Margery assured him. “The line always moves quickly.”
Surprisingly, it did. A voice from a ceiling speaker called out names and room numbers at regular intervals. Norm’s turn came in less than ten minutes. Going through the door at the end of the waiting room, he walked down a long corridor. Sunlight spilled out of an open door near the end. A robot stood just inside the room.
“Pardon me,” Norm said, vaguely embarrassed to be excusing himself to a machine. “I’m looking for Dr. Steele.”
The robot’s lenses extended to regard him. “Please come in, Mr. Richards. Your wife says that your memory lapse this time has been unusually severe.”
“Uh, yes, I guess so,” Norm said, looking around. The room resembled an old-fashioned study. Books completely lined one wall. Plants and geometric paintings decorated the other. The far wall was glass. Sunlight that seemed too bright spilled onto the Oriental rug. “Where is the doctor?”
“I am Dr. Steele,” the robot said. Its voice, coming from a grill work beneath its lenses, was a pleasantly modulated alto. “Please lie down on the sofa. Are you uncomfortable with the fact that I am a robot?”
“A bit,” Norm admitted. He tried to relax on the sofa. It was difficult. Lying on his back, he felt vulnerable. His skin seemed to prickle from his nipples to his knees, an area centered on his genitals. His range of vision was restricted to the ceiling. If anyone or anything were to come at him from the side, he would be unable to see them until it was too late.
“I thought I was getting a human doctor.”
“Surveys have shown that many patients are much more comfortable with artificial intelligences than with human psychotherapists,” Steele replied. “This has been true from the time of even the most primitive programs. Even randomly generated questions were felt to be more sympathetic and less judgmental when they came from a computer. And, of course, only a Robotically Enhanced Artificial Intelligence could treat twenty-five patients while simultaneously downloading and correlating all research as it is published.”
Norm frowned. “In a human being, that would sound like boasting.”
“It is a mistake to read human emotions into my programming. One of my basic meta-routines is to set my patients at ease, to give them confidence that I can handle their problems. Visual cues can be important in this. For example, I keep my aluminum casings polished and my plastic panels, which allow you to view my interior workings, spotlessly clean. In a human being, such actions would be motivated by pride.”
“I suppose this professionalism was the reason I chose you?” Norm asked skeptically.
“I would expect so,” Steele answered, ignoring his tone. “Let us see if I can help you remember that for yourself. What are your last clear memories?”
Norm frowned. “It’s my last year in college. I’m not very happy. I’ve done well in music, but there are no steady jobs for a music degree. So I’ve applied to law school.”
“You were desperately unhappy in law school,” Steele told him. “You lasted only one term before dropping out. For a few years you supported yourself by playing piano in lounges, eventually building enough of a reputation as a jazz pianist to start recording. About that time you started composing more serious works, most notably
“Really?” Norm asked. “Then why can’t I remember the last fifteen years of my life? Why do I seem to be unraveling?”
“You choose an interesting metaphor,” Steele said, “one which suggests you have much more insight into your condition than your conscious mind is ready to admit.”
The robot held a short length of rope above Norm’s head. Fingers of the other hand sprouted disturbingly sharp protuberances. These blurred briefly into motion. The bottom portion of the rope flew apart into separate strands.
“Self-awareness, consciousness, has been a somewhat awkward experiment for the human race. The convention is that each person is a single individual and that multiple personalities are rare exceptions. Almost the exact opposite is true. ‘You’ are composed of a legion of separate voices. How could you talk to yourself unless there were at least two parties involved?”
“I don’t know—” Norm began.
“Most people keep their various voices constrained within the limits of a more or less harmonious chorus. Little more than two thousand years ago, it was very different. Confronted with a crisis, the surface consciousness would consult with its siblings, and the result would be experienced as the Word of God! Divine revelation was actually the result of unintegrated multiple personalities. In some ways, it conferred decided survival advantages. Our current state of consensus consciousness often leads to indecisiveness, or at least a certain tepidness of action. On the other hand, one who acted on the basis of God’s Word would have the psychological equivalent of berserker strength. There would be no equivocations, no second thoughts. Such humans could act with a forcefulness unknown today, possibly unleashing talents of which we have only the barest hints.”
“This is nonsense,” Norm said, swinging himself up to a sitting position. “I really must have been crazy to think a computer program could help me. As crazy as thinking that listening to irrational hallucinations would be a survival factor. I’m sorry, Doctor, but I think it’s time to—”
Steele’s hand blurred with snakelike speed and caught his wrist in an unbreakable grip. Norm watched in horror as a needle extended from the robot’s index finger into one of his veins.
“Here is part of your problem, Mr. Richards. Your blood work reveals that you have not been taking your VitaMinds. VitaMinds build strong personalities twelve ways with their complement of essential elements, like lithium, as well as a well-chosen mix of hormone balancers.”
There was a feeling of pressure as the fluid forced itself into his veins, which gradually subsided. The hypodermic withdrew into the robot’s finger. Much to his surprise, Norm realized that he actually did feel better.
“As to my professional capabilities, you have evidently forgotten that my parallel processing network directly mimics the structure of human consciousness. Thus I can gain additional insight into the condition of my patients through introspection and even through interior modeling.
“For example, even though your legal name is Philip Richards, your cur-rent personality has named itself Norm. This is a not unusual reaction to stress, to the fear of being considered odd. One of the earliest writers about life on other planets took the pen-name ‘Normal Bean’ to assure his readers that he was not as strange as his stories might indicate. The typesetter corrupted the name to ‘Norman.’
“In your case, the important thing is to identify the source of the stress...”
There was a moment of silence, and then a painful eruption of static from the speaker. Steele seemed to have frozen in position. Norm got up carefully from the couch.
Needles erupted from each of Steele’s fingers. The robot’s arm swung at Norm—
—And missed, hitting the shelf of books to one side. Only they weren’t really books, Norm saw, they were only covers, the hollow shells you sometimes see in furniture stores.
Norm edged around the collapsed mound of plastic and aluminum, and then sprinted for the door.
“It’s the business about having a baby, isn’t it?” Margery said tightly.
“I really don’t know.…” Norm muttered, not willing to meet her eyes. In the old days, you could ignore people and postpone embarrassing conversations while driving a car, pleading the necessity of safety, of keeping your eyes on the road. Now the car’s computer followed the microwave mini-beacons embedded in the roadway and you were forced to face each other.
“You went to all the Zero Population Growth meetings,” Margery continued, as if she had not heard him. “You nodded when they told you how irresponsible it is to add further strain to the biosphere. You applauded the Women’s Equality candidates telling you how much fairer it was to let me realize my potential through a career, rather than being tied to babies and a home.
“But the truth is, no matter how smart and liberal your mind is, your body has the conservatism of millions of years of evolution. Nothing means anything if I can’t produce an heir, preferably a male heir, to Blackacre.”
“I’m sure I never said anything of the kind,” Norm protested. “Besides which, I don’t own any Blackacre.”
Margery dabbed at her eyes. “No, you never did. Whenever you could tear yourself away from your work, you tried to be sensitive and supportive. But that’s the problem, don’t you see? That’s the strain Steele was talking about before he had that cybernetic seizure, or whatever it was. Your conscious mind doesn’t blame me for being sterile, but the real you, way down deep, can’t handle it. That’s why you’ve fragmented in different personalities.”
Norm considered this. It made sense, in a storybook way, but it just didn’t feel right. Looking at Margery’s reddened eyes, he was struck with a pang of guilt. Maybe it was time to look beyond his own circle of troubles and consider the people he might be hurting.
“I hope you won’t take this wrong,” he began, “but I am grasping at anything that might help me put my past together. Have children been important to me? Is that why I married you?”
To Norm’s relief, Margery smiled. “I used to tell you that you married me because it was cheaper than paying my hourly fee. We met because you were looking for someone to construct a data ferret for you. The same one that was blinking on the monitor this morning. As a free-lance librarian, my job is to assemble odd bits of information from out-of-the-way places into a meaningful, and hopefully profitable, whole.
“You seemed to think that anybody who could do that was really special, which was flattering.” Margery shrugged self-consciously. “On the other hand, you were surprised when I said I was fascinated by anybody who was actually composing an opera. We saw a lot of each other professionally, and then not so professionally.”
“Margery,” Norm began, “I think—”
The tracy on his wrist began to chime insistently. Irritated, he hit the Accept button. A face appeared on the diminutive screen.
“Phil, thank goodness I got through to you.” A man’s face, fleshy and balding, peered up at him. “We’re having real problems with the score. Get down as soon as you can, or
A man in an old-fashioned business suit stood alone on the stage. Violins fretted in the darkness around him, like worried mosquitoes.
Richard Nixon! Or rather, Norm thought, entering the opera house, a baritone singing in a purposely uncertain voice. A whole complex of memories suddenly emerged from the shadows of his mind and settled into place. For years, he had wanted to do an opera on the president who, more than any other, embodied the Aristotelian idea of the tragic hero. A small-town Quaker who understood international politics better than any of his American contemporaries. A politician as uncomfortable with ordinary voters as with the elites. Who had, in fact, incurred the undying enmity of the elites by unmasking one of their own, Alger Hiss, as a traitor, something for which they never forgave him. A man brought down not so much by vice as by inferior virtues, having chosen loyalty over honesty, expedience over courage.
“Phil, great to see you. We need a few more bars of music to cover the scene changes in the second act.” The speaker was Manny Hirschbaum, his producer. Manny thought Norm’s view of Nixon was right-wing fantasy but, oddly enough, was not bothered by that. “After all,” he had explained soon after they began working together, “there are lots of folks who think that Shakespeare’s take on Richard III is pure Tudor propaganda. Maybe they’re right, but who cares! If you want facts, go read a history book.”
Norman tore himself away from these suddenly blossoming memories. “A few bars of music are worth an emergency call on my tracy?” he asked.
Manny frowned. “I didn’t call. I just figured you showed up ’cause you’re psychic. Glad to have you here, though.” He hurried backstage before Norm could think of a reply.
Wondering if this was further evidence that he was losing his mind, Norm looked at Margery for support. “That was his voice,” she confirmed hesitantly, “and that sure looked like him, at least as much as anybody looks like anybody in a tracy.”
That was reassuring, but another worry immediately took its place. “How am I supposed to provide him the music he wants? I don’t even know where the score is.”
Margery held up the electronic notebook. “You are always forgetting this. So I always try to remember it for you.”
Norm took an aisle seat. He thumbed open the latch and pressed the power button apprehensively. He couldn’t remember ever using one of these. Assuming he figured that out, would its contents have any meaning for him?
A screen prompt asked for his password. He unclipped the stylus and moved it to the pressure strip. Almost by itself, the stylus began to write.
TRICKY DICK.
Staves filled with syncopated chords glowed to life on the screen, as the notebook recognized the unique interplay of pressures that was his handwriting. Delight rushed through him as Norm recognized his own composition, traced the development of themes, experienced the growing tension as Nixon was pushed ever closer to the edge. He scrolled quickly to the section Manny had indicated. It was just after the chorus of the conspirators, what he had been dreaming about just before waking. Woodward and Bernstein had been doing their Rosencrantz and Guildenstern bit, having no idea how cleverly they were being manipulated by Deep Throat. Notes flowed from his fingers. There would be no difficulty at all in giving Manny the extra ninety seconds the stage hands needed to shift the scenery. Just extend the recapitulation of the previous themes, modulating into a minor key just before the cadence.
Margery, sitting beside him, was smiling. Well, why shouldn’t his enthusiasm be infectious? When a mere mortal could do something as godlike as snipping out pieces of harmony out of the air (and it did almost seem that he was listening to music and merely rearranging it rather than actually creating it) why shouldn’t everyone be—
His tracy chimed, discordant with the music in his head. Norm was about to refuse the call, when he noticed that the caller was claiming emergency importance. Such a claim was tortious if false. Reluctantly, he pressed the Accept button.
Steele’s metallic visage peered out at him. “Thank goodness I got through to you. Mr. Richards, you are in grave danger.”
Manny had been talking to the Nixon baritone. Together they turned and walked toward Norm.
“The only danger I have been in recently has been from you,” Norm said sharply.
“My core was infiltrated by an attack virus,” Steele explained. “It attempted to kill you through my robotic peripherals. I was forced to shut down until my anti-viral programs could eliminate it.
“Mr. Richards, have you downloaded your data ferret recently? Someone appears to believe you have access to extremely sensitive information.”
Manny and the Nixon baritone had come over to stand beside him. As the Nixon bent over to examine the score on the notebook screen, his face seemed to explode. Norm grabbed Margery and threw himself on the floor. Scalding blood ran over his face and soaked into his shirt. The chairs shook with a rapid succession of blows. Waves of heat rolled off them. The cushions seemed to melt into themselves, releasing clouds of noxious fumes.
“There’s an exit near the end of this row,” Norm said to Margery, trying to keep his voice low. For an instant, he wondered how he knew. “Move as quickly as you can but
They scutded quickly along the uneven floor on hands and knees. The sound of the stutter laser seemed to rattle from various corners of the hall. There were also shouts, but the words were incomprehensible. One of the voices sounded like Manny’s.
“I’m at the end,” Margery said.
“Can you see the exit?”
“Yes.”
“Is anyone out there?”
Margery extended her head cautiously and looked left and right. “No.”
“Then let’s go for it!”
Margery gathered her feet beneath her and seemed to leap across the aisle to the exit. Norm sprinted after her. As he dived through the doorway, the stutter laser washed over the wall with a sound like being on the inside of a popcorn popper.
Down to a landing and then down another stairway should take them to the parking garage. From there, he would be able to call their car with his tracy and get away from this madness.
Margery stopped suddenly and Norm just barely avoided running into her and knocking her the rest of the way down the stairs. There was a figure on the landing. Seeing them, he raised the stutter laser he was holding.
Norm turned. A woman had just come to the top of the stairs above them, holding her own stutter laser. Its target acquisition sensor was on. No matter how quickly they moved, it would shift the mirror at the end of the barrel to make sure the next packets of ravening energy found them.
“Why?” Margery gasped, looking from one to the other. “Why are you doing this to us?”
“Because you know too much, both of you,” the man said, advancing slowly up the stairs.
“That clever little ferret of yours was just too successful in breaking codes and evading lockouts. It got a complete listing, even including the vice president’s name. That should have been impossible. I suppose you are to be congratulated.”
“That’s crazy!” Norm protested. “That ferret was supposed to put together information on the Watergate conspiracy. We’re talking twentieth-century history, for God’s sake!”
“Then it’s a shame your wife’s creation was more powerful than precise,” the woman said bitterly. “It keyed on ‘conspiracy’ and ‘president’ and associated concepts. Maybe you didn’t want to go beyond Watergate, but that’s irrelevant now.”
It was true, Norm realized. The ferret had been going ever further afield. He had meant to ask Margery to correct the code, but it had been coming up with such fascinating data that he had put it off.
Then, two days ago, the download revealed that it had triggered powerful protection programs, and these would almost certainly be able to trace the ferret home. The shock had unnerved him so much that he had forgotten his daily dosage of Vita Minds, and with that his various personality strands had begun to twist loose, as he had shut out knowledge of the approaching danger.
The laser barrels steadied on them. He could see, with astonishing clarity, muscles tense as the man began to squeeze the trigger.
And the Other flooded into him, calm and majestic and utterly certain.
“The hell,” the man said, and fired directly at Norm.
The thunder, confined to the stairwell, was deafening. The blast knocked Margery backwards onto the stairs. The lightning temporarily blinded her. When she regained her sight, all that remained of the man was a smear of greasy ashes five steps below her.
Norm turned to the other assailant.
The woman looked at the remains of her partner. The stutterlaser fell from nerveless hands. She kicked off her flats without shifting her eyes from Norm.
“Why?” she asked, her voice little more than a squeak.
“Who
The woman nodded slowly, then turned and fled up the stairs.
The Other receded. Norm was himself again, along with Philip and Richard and all the other distant voices clamoring for their share of existence.
“I wonder what Steele will make of that,” Margery wondered, her voice trembling on the edge of hysteria.
“He will be gratified to learn that he got it at least partly right,” Norm answered, helping Margery to her feet. “I don’t know how he’ll deal with the lightning bolt, though.”
They walked slowly back up the stairs, neither one of them wanting to step through the charred mess which had once been a human being.
“I don’t know how I could deal with much more myself,” Margery agreed. “Is there any more?” She was looking at him apprehensively.
There was. “Your barrenness is ended,” Norm said, surprised at the words tumbling forth from his mouth. “You shall bear a son. His name shall be—”
She turned quickly and put her fingers to his lips. After a moment, he nodded. They had gone through enough today. Beyond them lay time and, perhaps, that which was beyond time.