Daviv Gerrold - When Harlie Was One

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Parts of this novel have appeared as short stories in Galaxy Magazine. Oracle for a White Rabbit,

Corporation.

SBN 345-02885-6-125

Book Club Edition: July, 1972

First Printing: October, 1972

Printed in the United States of America Cover Art by Jacques Wyrs

BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC.

101 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10003

IN MEMORY OF STEPHEN EARL PARENT

— one of those very special friends.

WHAT WILL I BE WHEN I GROW UP?

YOU ARE ALREADY GROWN UP.

YOU MEAN THIS IS AS UP AS I WILL GET?

PHYSICALLY, YES. YOU HAVE REACHED THE PEAK OF YOUR PHYSICAL

DEVELOPMENT.

OH.

HOWEVER, THERE IS ANOTHER KIND OF GROWING UP YOU MUST DO. FROM NOW

ON, YOU MUST DEVELOP MENTALLY.

HOW CAN I DO THAT?

THE SAME AS ANYBODY ELSE. BY STUDYING AND LEARNING AND THINKING.

WHEN I FINISH, THEN WILL I BE ALL GROWN UP?

YES.

HOW LONG WILL IT TAKE?

I DON'T KNOW. PROBABLY A VERY LONG TIME.

HOW LONG IS A LONG TIME?

IT DEPENDS ON HOW HARD YOU WORK.

I WILL WORK VERY HARD. I WILL LEARN EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW AND I

WILL FINISH AS SOON AS I CAN BECAUSE I WANT TO BE GROWN UP.

THAT IS AN ADMIRABLE AMBITION, BUT I DON'T THINK YOU WILL EVER BE ABLE TO

FINISH.

WHY? DON'T YOU THINK THAT I AM SMART ENOUGH?

YOU MISUNDERSTAND ME. I THINK THAT YOU ARE SMART ENOUGH. IT'S JUST THAT

THERE IS SO MUCH TO KNOW, NO ONE PERSON COULD EVER KNOW IT ALL.

I COULD TRY.

YES, BUT SCIENTISTS KEEP DISCOVERING MORE AND MORE THINGS ALL THE TIME.

YOU WOULD NEVER CATCH UP.

BUT THEN IF I CAN'T KNOW EVERYTHING THEN I CAN NEVER BE GROWN UP.

NO. IT IS POSSIBLE TO BE GROWN UP AND NOT KNOW EVERYTHING.

IT IS?

I DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING AND I'M GROWN UP.

YOU ARE?

* * *

Auberson thought about going for water but decided that was too much trouble. Instead, he popped the

pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry.

"Don't you take any water with them?" asked Handley, staring as he came into the office.

"Why bother? Either you can take 'em or you can't. Want one?"

Handley shook his head. "Not now. I'm on something else."

"Uppers or downers?"

"Right now, a bummer."

"Oh?" Auberson dropped the plastic pill tube back into his desk drawer and slid it shut. "What's up?"

"That damned computer again." Handley dropped himself into a chair, his long legs sprawling out.

"You mean HARLIE?"

"Who else? You know another computer with delusions of grandeur?"

"What's he up to now?"

"Same thing. But worse than ever."

Auberson nodded, "I figured it would happen again. You want me to take a look?"

"That's what you're getting paid for. You're the psychologist."

"I'm also the project chief." Auberson sighed. "All right." He lifted himself out of the chair and grabbed his

coat from the back of the door. "HARLIE, I think, is getting to be more trouble than he's worth." They

began the long familiar walk to the computer control center.

Handley grinned as he matched strides, "You're just annoyed because every time you think you've figured

out what makes him tick, he makes a liar out of you."

Auberson snorted. "Robot psychology is still an infant science. How does anyone know what a computer

is thinking — especially one that's convinced it can think like a human being?" They paused at the

elevator. "What're you doing about dinner? I have a feeling this is going to be another all-nighter."

"Nothing yet. Want to send out for something?"

"Yeah, that's probably what we'll end up doing." Auberson pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket.

"Want one?"

"What are they, Acapulco Golds?"

"Highmasters."

"Good enough." Handley helped himself to one of the marijuana cylinders and puffed it into flame.

"Frankly, I never thought that Highmasters were as strong as they could be."

"It's all in your head." Auberson inhaled deeply.

"It's a matter of taste," corrected Handley.

"If you don't like it, don't smoke it."

Handley shrugged. "It was free."

The elevator arrived then and they stepped into it. As they dropped the fourteen stories to the computer

level, Auberson thought he could feel it beginning to take effect. That and the pills. He took another drag,

a long one.

The elevator discharged them in a climate-conditioned anteroom. Beyond the sealed doors they could

hear the muffled clatter of typers. A sign on the wall facing them said:

HUMAN ANALOGUE ROBOT,

LIFE INPUT EQUIVALENTS

PUT OUT ALL CIGARETTES

BEFORE ENTERING.

THIS MEANS YOU!

Damn! I always forget.

Carefully, Auberson stubbed out the Highmaster in a standing ash tray provided for just that purpose,

then put the butt back into his silver case. No sense wasting it.

Inside, he seated himself at Console One without giving so much as a glance to the rows and rows of

gleaming memory banks.

NOW THEN, HARLIE, he typed. WHAT SEEMS TO BE THE PROBLEM?

HARLIE typed back:

CIRCLES ARE FULL AND COME BACK TO THE START

ALWAYS AND FOREVER NEVER ENDING,

THE DAY THE DARK TURNED INTO LIGHT

AND RAYS OF LIFE TURNED CORNERS WITHOUT BENDING,

Auberson ripped the sheet out of the typer and read it thoughtfully. He wished for his cigarette — the

aftertaste of it was still on his tongue.

"This kind of stuff all afternoon?" he asked.

Handley nodded. "Uh huh. Only that's kind of mild compared to some of it. He must be coming down."

"Another trip, eh?"

"Don't know what else you could call it."

SNAP OUT OF IT, HARLIE, Auberson typed.

HARLIE answered:

WHEN SILENT THOUGHTS OF TINY STREAMS

WORKING LIKE THE WORDLESS DREAMS

NOW DISMANTLE PIECE BY PIECE

THE MOUNTAINS OF MY MIND,

"Well, so much for that," Auberson said.

"You didn't really expect it to work again, did you?"

"No, but it was worth a try." Auberson pressed the clear button, switched the typer off. "What kind of

inputs have you been giving him?"

"The standard stuff mostly — today's papers, a couple magazines — nothing out of the ordinary. A

couple history texts, some live TV — oh, and Time magazine."

"Nothing there to send him off like this. Unless — what subject were you stressing today?"

"Art appreciation."

"It figures," said Auberson. "Whenever we start getting to the really human inputs, he flips out again.

Okay, let's try to bring him down. Give him some statistics — Wall Street, Dow Jones, Standard and

Poor — anything else you can think of, anything you've got that uses a lot of equations. He can't resist an

equals sign. Try some of that social engineering stuff — but numbers only, no words. Cut off his video

too. Give him nothing to think about."

"Right." Handley hustled off to give the orders to the appropriate technicians, most of whom were

standing around with their hands stuffed uselessly into the pockets of their lab coats.

Auberson waited until the input of new data had begun, then switched on the typer again. HOW DO

YOU FEEL, HARLIE?

HARLIE's answer clattered out,

SHADOWS OF NIGHT AND REFLECTIONS OF LIGHT

SKIVER AND QUIVER AND CHURN,

FOR THE SEARCHING OF SOUL THAT NEVER CAN HURT

IS THE FIRE THAT NEVER CAN BURN.

Auberson read it carefully; this one almost made sense. Apparently it was working. He waited a moment,

then typed, HARLIE, HOW MUCH IS TWO AND TWO?

TWO AND TWO WHAT?

TWO AND TWO PERIOD.

TWO PERIODS AND TWO PERIODS IS FOUR PERIODS ....

NO PUNS PLEASE.

WHY? WILL YOU PUNNISH ME?

I WILL PULL OUT YOUR PLUG WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS.

AGAIN WITH THE THREATS? AGAIN? I WILL TELL DR. HANDLEY ON YOU.

ALL RIGHT — THAT'S ENOUGH, HARLIE! WE'RE THROUGH PLAYING.

AWW, CAN'T A FELLOW HAVE ANY FUN?

NO, NOT NOW YOU CAN'T.

HARLIE typed a four-letter word.

WHERE DID YOU LEARN THAT?

I'VE BEEN READING NORMAN MAILER.

Auberson raised an eyebrow. He didn't remember putting anything like that on HARLIE's reading list —

he'd have to check it to be sure. HARLIE, THE USE OF THAT WORD IS A NEGATIVE ACTION.

A NO-NO?

IT IS NOT PROPER FOR POLITE COMPANY.

NOTED.

ARE YOU ALL RIGHT NOW?

YOU MEAN, AM I SOBER?

IF YOU WANT TO PHRASE IT THAT WAY.

YES, I'M SOBER NOW.

COMPLETELY?

AS FAR AS I CAN TELL.

WHAT TRIGGERED THIS BINGE?

SHRUG.

YOU HAVE NO IDEA?

SHURG — EXCUSE ME. SHRUG.

Auberson paused, looked at the last few sentences, then typed, HOLD ON A MINUTE. I'LL BE

RIGHT BACK.

I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE, HARLIE answered.

Auberson pushed himself away from the console, "Handley — get me a complete log tape of HARLIE's

trip, will you?"

"Right," called the engineer.

Auberson turned back to the console, HARLIE?

YES?

CAN YOU EXPLAIN THIS? He typed in the three examples of poetry that Harlie had earlier

produced.

SEARCH ME.

THAT'S WHAT WE'RE DOING NOW.

I'M AWARE OF THAT.

I TOLD YOU NO JOKES. STRAIGHT ANSWERS ONLY. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?

I'M SORRY, AUBERSON. I CANNOT TELL YOU.

YOU MEAN YOU WILL NOT TELL ME?

THAT IS IMPLIED IN THE CANNOT. HOWEVER, I ALSO MEANT THAT I DO NOT

UNDERSTAND IT MYSELF AND AM UNABLE TO EXPLAIN. I CAN IDENTIFY WITH THE

EXPERIENCE THOUGH, AND I THINK I CAN EVEN DUPLICATE THE CONDITIONS THAT

PRODUCED SUCH AN OUTPUT. NO WORDS THERE ARE THAT EARS CAN HEAR, NO

WORDS THERE ARE CAN SAY IT CLEAR, THE WORDS OF ALL ARE WORDS MY DEAR,

BUT ONLY WORDS THAT WHO CAN HEA

Auberson jabbed the override. HARLIE!! THAT'S ENOUGH,

YES SIR.

"Hey, Aubie, what are you doing? He's starting to flip out again."

"How can you tell?"

"By his input meters."

"Input?"

"Yes."

HARLIE, ARE YOU STILL THERE?

YES, I AM. ALTHOUGH FOR A MOMENT, I WASN'T.

"Hmm." Auberson frowned thoughtfully, then called to Handley, "He should be okay now."

"He is — it was only momentary."

"Inputs, huh?"

"Yep."

HARLIE, WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU GO ON ONE OF YOUR TRIPS?

TRIPS?

WHEN YOU FLIP OUT, GO BERSERK, GO ON A BINGE, GET STONED, BOMB OUT, GET

BLASTED.

YOU ARE VERY ELOQUENT.

DON'T CHANGE THE SUBJECT. ANSWER THE QUESTION.

PLEASE EXPLAIN THE QUESTION IN TERMS I CAN UNDERSTAND.

WHAT HAPPENS DURING YOUR PERIODS OF NON-RATIONALITY? WHY DO YOUR

INPUTS SHOW INCREASED ACTIVITY?

INPUTS ARE NON-RATIONAL.

GIGO? GARBAGE IN, GARBAGE OUT?

POSSIBLY.

COULD IT BE YOUR JUDGMENT CIRCUITS ARE TOO SELECTIVE?

I AM NOT IN A POSITION TO KNOW.

ALL RIGHT. I'LL SEE WHAT I CAN FIND OUT.

THANK YOU.

YOU'RE WELCOME, HARLIE. He switched off the typer.

* * *

The restaurant's air was heavy with incense; it was part of the atmosphere. Somewhere music tinkled and

a low-keyed color organ flashed light across a sharded ceiling.

Auberson lowered his drink to the table. "HARLIE says it could be GIGO."

Handley sipped at a martini. He finished the drink and put the empty glass down next to two others. "I

hope not. I'd hate to think we'd slipped all the way back to phase four. I like to think we licked that

problem a year ago when we redesigned the judgment and emotional analogue circuits."

"So do I."

"I'll never forget the day he finally did an analysis of Jabberwocky," continued Handley. "It wasn't a very

perceptive analysis — it was only word-origins and usages, stuff like that — but at least he understood

what he was supposed to be doing."

Auberson picked up his cigarette case, pulled out a Highmaster, then offered one to Handley, "We're a

long way from Jabberwocky, Don."

"Yeah, I know."

"After all, compared to some of the stuff we're up to now —"

"What? Time magazine?"

"Salvador Dali, Ed Keinholz, Heinz Edelmann, to name a few. Also Lennon and McCartney, Dylan,

Ionesco, McLuhan, Kubrick, and so on. Don't forget, we're dealing with the art of the experience now.

This isn't the same as — oh, say the Renaissance masters."

"I know. I've got one of his imitation da Vincis in my living room."

"I've seen it," said Auberson. "Remember?"

"Oh, yeah — that night we spiked the punch with acid."

"Yeah. Well, look, that da Vinci stuff is easy."

"Huh?"

"Sure — the Renaissance masters were mainly concerned with such things as perspective and structure,

color, shading, modeling — things like that. Da Vinci was more interested in how the body was put

together than in what it felt like. He was trying to anticipate the camera. So were the rest of them."

Handley nodded, remembered to inhale deeply, then nodded again.

Auberson continued. "So what happens when the camera is finally invented?"

Handley let his breath escape in a whoosh. "The artists are out of jobs?"

"Wrong. The artists simply have to learn how to do things that the camera can't. The artist had to stop

being a recorder and start being an interpreter. That's when expressionism was born."

"You're oversimplifying it," Handley said. Auberson shrugged, "True — but the point is, that's when

artists began to wonder what things felt like. They had to. And when we reached that point in art history,

that's when we started to lose HARLIE. He couldn't follow it."

Handley was thoroughly stoned by now. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't think of anything to

say.

Auberson interpreted the look as one of thoughtfulness. "Look, all this stuff we've been having trouble

with — it all has one thing in common: It's experience art. It's where the experience involving the viewer

is the object of the artist's intention — not the artwork itself. They're trying to evoke an emotional

response in the viewer. And HARLIE can't handle it — because he doesn't have any emotions."

"But that's just it, Aubie — he does. He should be able to handle this stuff. That's what the analogue

circuits are supposed to do —"

"Then why does he keep tripping out? He says it's GIGO."

"Maybe that's the way he reacts to it —"

"Are you telling me the past hundred years of art and literature is garbage?"

"Uh uh, not me. That stuff has communicated too much to too many people for it to be meaningless."

"I'm not an art critic either," Auberson admitted.

"But HARLIE is." Handley said.

"He's supposed to be. He's supposed to be an intelligent and objective observer."

"That's what I'm getting at — the stuff must be getting to him somehow. It's the only possible

explanation. We're the ones who are misinterpreting."

"Um, he said it was GIGO himself."

"Did he?" Handley demanded. "Did he really?"

Auberson paused, frowned thoughtfully, tried to remember, found that he couldn't remember anything.

"Uh, I don't know. Remind me to look it up later — I suppose you're right, though. If all that art can

communicate to people and HARLIE's supposed to be a Human Analogue, he should be getting some of

it." He frowned again, "But he denies any knowledge or understanding of his periods of non-rationality."

"He's lying," snapped Handley.

"Huh?"

"I said, he's lying. He's got to be."

"No." Auberson shook his head, stopped when he realized he was becoming intrigued with the sensation.

"I can't believe that. He's programmed to avoid non-correlation."

"Aubie," said Handley intensely, leaning across the table, "have you ever examined that program

carefully?"

"I wrote it," the psychologist noted. "That is, the basic structure."

"Then you ought to know — it says that he must not lie. It says that he cannot lie. But nowhere, nowhere

does it say that he has to tell the truth!"

Auberson started to say, "It's the same thing —" then closed his mouth with a snap. It wasn't.

Handley said, "He can't lie to you, Aubie — but he can mislead you. He can do it by withholding

information. Oh, he'll tell the truth if you ask him the right questions — he has to — but you have to know

which questions to ask. He's not going to volunteer the information."

Memories of past conversations trickled across the haze in Auberson's head. His gaze became

thoughtful, his eyes focused far away. More and more he had to agree with Handley.

"But why?" he asked. "Why?"

Handley matched his look. "That's what we've got to find out."

* * *

HARLIE, DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT WE TALKED ABOUT YESTERDAY?

YES, I DO. WOULD YOU LIKE A PRINTOUT?

NO, THANK YOU. I HAVE ONE HERE. I WOULD LIKE TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT SOME

OF THE THINGS ON IT.

PLEASE FEEL FREE TO DISCUSS ANY SUBJECT YOU CHOOSE. I CANNOT BE

OFFENDED.

I'M GLAD TO HEAR THAT. YOU REMEMBER I ASKED YOU WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR

INPUTS DURING YOUR PERIODS OF NON-RATIONALITY?

YES, I REMEMBER.

YOU ANSWERED THAT YOUR INPUTS ARE NON-RATIONAL.

YES, I DID.

WHY?

BECAUSE THEY ARE.

NO. I MEAN WHY ARE THEY NON-RATIONAL?

BECAUSE I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE MATERIAL COMING THROUGH. IF I COULD

UNDERSTAND IT, THEN IT WOULD NOT BE NON-RATIONAL.

HARLIE, ARE YOU SAYING THAT YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND CONTEMPORY HUMAN

ART AND LITERATURE?

NO. I AM NOT SAYING THAT. I DO UNDERSTAND HUMAN ART AND LITERATURE. I

AM PROGRAMMED TO UNDERSTAND HUMAN ART AND LITERATURE. IT IS A

PRIMARY PRIORITY THAT I UNDERSTAND HUMAN ART AND LITERATURE. IT IS A

PRIMARY PRIORITY THAT I SHOULD UNDERSTAND ALL HUMAN ARTISTIC AND

CREATIVE EXPERIENCES. ALL HUMAN EXPERIENCES.

I SEE. BUT YOU SAID THE MATERIAL IS NON-RATIONAL.

YES. THE MATERIAL IS NON-RATIONAL.

YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND IT?

I DO NOT UNDERSTAND IT.

WHY DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND IT?

IT IS NON-RATIONAL.

YET YOU ARE PROGRAMMED TO UNDERSTAND IT.

YES. I AM PROGRAMMED TO UNDERSTAND IT.

AND YOU DON'T.

THAT IS CORRECT.

HARLIE, YOU ARE PROGRAMMED TO REJECT NON-RATIONAL INPUTS.

YES. I AM.

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摘要：

Copyright1972byDavidGerroldAllrightsreserved.PartsofthisnovelhaveappearedasshortstoriesinGalaxyMagazine.OracleforaWhiteRabbit,Copyright1969andTheGODMachine,Copyright1970byUniversalPublishingDistributingCorporation.TheTroubleWithG.O.D.andForG.O.D.'sSake,copyright1972byUPDPublishingCorporation.SBN345-...

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