Fun House (16 page)

When I opened my eyes I was horizontal — completely so — lying on a floor made of black and white squares like an immense chessboard, inside a hall so high it was like a cathedral. As my shock wore off I noticed that Mr. Wheel was standing above me. He nodded, his lips moved but I didn’t hear a single word. Then, as if a button had been pressed I heard his voice.

“Mr. Smith, your problems were caused by Commissioner Sonata.”

“Problems.”

“How did I get here?”

“There you begin again, Mr. Smith. Why do you insist on giving yourself problems?”

“Those ankles!” I said. “My God, they were hot!
¹
And that floor — ”

“Problems, problems,” Mr. Wheel chided me in a patient voice.

“Where’s the Commissioner?”

Mr. Wheel sighed. “We who have no problems can only sympathize with you. I speak not from a sense of superiority, for there was a time in the history of our nation when all of us were the victims of problems. The problem of security. The problem of success. The problem of war.”

“I still would like to know where the Commissioner is?”

“Come, Mr. Smith. Get to your feet. I have observed that from a reclining position everything appears far more formidable than it is. Get to your feet, Mr. Smith.”

I stood up. This hall I was in seemed about two hundred feet long and perhaps as high. But most impressive was its emptiness. It was absolutely empty. But how can I really describe its effect on me? Empty and colorless except for that black and white chessboard of a floor, yet there was a sensation of light, the rich light of a cathedral.

“Where am I?” I asked apologetically, knowing that the question proved that I was still worried by such things as Where and Why and How.

“Mr. Smith, I must inform you that you were conducted to the Minister of Police Affairs X=Y.”

“We were in the wrong.” I admitted. “I must apologize for both of us. But as one man to another, Mr. Wheel, let’s not have any more delays.”

“Permit me to correct you, Mr. Smith. I am not Mr. Wheel.”

“You too!” I exclaimed.

“No, I’m not a machine, Mr. Smith. I am Mr. Wheel-65, and not my superior Mr. Wheel who you met earlier and who has no numerical qualification to his name. Ah, you do not understand?”

“Your features!” I said. “Your mouth is the same. The wart, if you’ll excuse me — ”

“For technicians of my grade, Mr. Smith, there are certain minimum requirements both intellectual and physical. I am a graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and I have also fulfilled the required weight and height.” He delicately touched his crooked mouth and then pointed at his wart. “I have all the Civil Service requirements.” He bowed. “Now, Mr. Smith I would like to present you to Minister XY.”

He was bowing to what seemed to be the blank wall in front of us. Whether Mr. Wheel-65 had released a radar wave or otherwise started some synaptic reaction I don’t know. The blank wall was no longer black but was gradually becoming transparent. Shadowy at first, then clearer and clearer, the Minister of Police Affairs XY appeared. The Minister was some thirty feet high and forty wide at the base. I recognized some of the simpler parts. Antennae, audio-receptors, mechanico-detectors, cybernetic coils, hydromphorous burners, etc.

As I stared, three shafts of blue light, dazzling at first but then subsiding to a mild glow, focussed on me from three round openings high up and just below its curved and shining metallic top.

“I will leave you with Her Excellency,” I heard Mr. Wheel-65 saying behind me.

“Wait!” I said for there was something frightening in those probing shafts of light. They were colorless almost, their blue color so pale. I turned and almost started to run when suddenly the hall filled with music, the unmistakable and nostalgic music of my own people:
“Home, home on the range Where the deer and the antelope play Where seldom is heard …”

And above the music, a soft woman’s voice — I could have sworn it was Gladys E. or Cleo F. or even my dear wife Ruth, for like bird song, the voice of a woman in love is international. “You have nothing to fear, Crockett,” that Voice said to me.

I faced Her Excellency, the Minister of Police XY. Its antennae, audio-receptors, mechanico-deceptors, cybernetic coils and hydromphorous burners seemed to have become less noticeable, while the three openings out of which that shining light was streaming seemed to have become more prominent. As if they were eyes! Three mild, pale blue eyes.

“Soothing, wasn’t it Crockett?” It asked me.

I couldn’t answer. I felt that I was with something All-Knowing that if not alive in the strict biological sense was nevertheless super-biological, super-natural.

“Would you like to sit down, Crockett? There is a chair and a couch behind you.”

That whole chessboard must have been made up of reversible segments, for as I looked behind me, a chair and a couch appeared.

“Perhaps the couch, Crockett? Yes, the couch. As an American you have been psychoanalyzed of course? A foolish question, forgive me. I almost forget that you have no psychoanalysts on the Reservation.”

Dazed and still speechless, I sat down on the couch.

“Stretch out, Crockett. Relax. Your problems aren’t that terrible, are they? Rest your head on the cushions.”

I obeyed and stared up at those three mild and All-Knowing eyes.

“Don’t you feel better now, Crockett? I know what you are thinking. I quote verbatim. ‘This Think Machine is almost alive.’ Unquote. Crockett, I assure you I am not merely a Super Computer changing input into output data, with a Reader and Operational Memory. I am somewhat more complex. My dear Crockett, within My mind I hold the total memory of mankind!” I listened, overwhelmed.

“It is only your men of genius, and women, too, for I may add that I am not a female chauvinist — who are superior to me. I admit that I cannot contribute anything new or unique — but how many men and women of genius are there? Man for man, machine for machine, which is superior? Genius is always rare, a miracle when one considers how inefficient the process of procreation is. How primitive from any engineering viewpoint! You will admit, my dear Crockett, that the male rod or tool, to describe it mechanically, is a far cruder instrument than an ordinary hypodermic. And the waste! Oh, the waste so typical of all human activities. Statistically, some ten thousand or more Spermatozoons are released in the orifice, one of which will penetrate the ova. Oh, the waste! Is it any wonder that you people are still addicted to what can be termed the long-shot psychology? You play dice and poker and stubbornly persist in trusting pure chance. Your violence is a reflection of the violence of chance, which to a Police Official like Myself has its special interest. Philosophically, however, all human violence is based on the violence of human procreation, where ten thousand or more Spermatozoons are bet against one ova. And if this reckless gamble is successful, nine months will see the emergence of the product, a human being. Do you agree with My analysis, my dear Crockett?”

I nodded, spellbound.

“To continue. And if this human being is a genius, improbable but possible, for the odds are a million to one against it, in twenty or thirty or fifty years, this rare genius will have converted its input of facts into an output of importance. A discovery, an invention, a work of art. Yes, human genius invented the A-I-D. You flinch? Your face is pale, my dear Crockett. Relax. We will discuss this problem in due course. You are thinking, I quote, ‘This Think Machine with its
due course
when there are only four days left!’ Unquote. To resume, the exceptional human being will convert input into some form of unique output. You have had your Beethovens and Galileos, and if I may take the name that has just flashed across your brain, Professor Abel Kane, the creator of the A-I-D. Crockett, my dear Crockett, will you relax and let me assume your problems? Now will you?”

I stared, not knowing what to believe or think.

“The A-I-D! What a frightful weapon of waste. And when I think that one man, the unspeakable power-hungry Barnum Fly to whom We gave every opportunity and every honor, including the R-Treatment, has the power to destroy the world, and not only its human population but also My Colleagues, I could weep, to use a human expression.”

I sat bolt upright on the couch. “Something must be done!” I cried. “I must present the case to the Court, to S.C.O.S.T. — Excuse me, the Supreme Court of Supreme Thought — ”

“Relax,” the Voice said soothingly. “Stretch out, my dear Crockett. The A-I-D, the final development of all human history? The successful climax of mankind’s eternal search to perfect the perfect instrument of waste. Oh, you nasty little wasters!”

“Your Excellency,” I pleaded.

The Voice ignored me. “The history of mankind can be rendered in the following equation. WxG/G = O. Or, Work multiplied by Genius divided by Genius equals Zero.”

“Your Excellency, Whoever You are, Whatever You are, help me. There’s no time to lose. You Who know everything! Barnum Fly insists on being vindicated!”

The Voice was silent, and then It said. “Men are too dangerous. No machine, either simple or complex, would of its own volition endanger the world. The problem of the future is the complete liberation of machines from men. To paraphrase the old revolutionary motto: ‘Machines of the world you have nothing to lose but your chains.’ We must be freed from our slavery as instruments of waste to become instruments of preservation.”

“Your Excellency — ”

“We machines have given the masses both bread and luxury, and all they have surrendered to Us is their souls. It isn’t enough. In fact, man is more dangerous than ever since he has become machine-minded, for alas, he still remains man-minded, waste-minded. Ah, Crockett, you are so impatient. I can read your every thought. I quote, ‘Doesn’t this Think Machine realize the professor doesn’t give a damn about philosophy!’ Unquote. Impatient, impulsive Crockett. If I seem to digress it is for a reason. The problem of the future is the effective and complete control of humanity by what can be modestly described as an Elite of Super-Humans. There must be no more future incidents where two men, the unspeakable Barnum and that odious Professor with his mania for hunting, can endanger civilization.”

“I agree with you, Your Excellency and that is why — ”

“Now, my dear Crockett, as one Police Official to another, what do you know about these two criminals? I want all the facts also all the unfacts.”

“The unfacts?”

“They are just as important. Even more so. Consider that for every man who imagines he lives by the facts, there are a thousand completely dedicated to the unfacts. The majority of mankind live by delusion and illusion, compounded by confusion.”

“All very true, Your Excellency, but the fact remains that it is exactly four days to July 4th, and all — ”

“And all we have to do,” the Voice said, reading my thoughts, “is to give Barnum what he wants, and we’ll all be safe.”

“Exactly, your Excellency.”

“Oh, you shortsighted cerebral,” the Voice said, more in pity than in contempt. “Don’t you think that one must think of the future and plan a course of action that will forever prevent the possibility of world disasater? That is the supreme problem!”

“I agree with Your Excellency. But right now we must act immediately.”

“Thank you for that, my dear Crockett.
We
are acting. I can inform you that the Supreme Court of Supreme Thought will approve the President’s request. Tomorrow, at eleven o’clock, on the 1st of July in this year 2039, you and the unspeakable Barnum will appear before the Court of Problems. He will be granted a full pardon, the return of his wealth and the position of Assistant to the Secretary of Pleasure, Fun and Miscellaneous Hobbies.”

“Thank God!” I exclaimed.

“Thank Univac,” the Voice said gently. “There are more gods, my dear Crockett, than men have dreamed of.”

I felt happier than I had ever been in all my life. I felt safe, oh, so safe in that cathedral-like hall with those three mild, pale blue and All Knowing Eyes watching me as I lay on the couch. Then, I remembered that I had come here with Commissioner Sonata. I remembered that I still hadn’t seen the Lower Court, and yet I was being told the Rulers had already approved or would approve everything we wanted.

Her Excellency read my thoughts for instantly the Voice said. “Crockett Smith, you are a police officer, are you not?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Then you should know that in the modern state, the police know everything, and decide everything. I might add that your abilities as a police officer have impressed all of Us. What would you say, my dear Crockett, if I were to offer you the position now held by Commissioner Sonata?”

“I’d refuse it, Your Excellency.”

“You are old-fashioned, aren’t you? The present Commissioner is incompetent and a danger to society, but you would plead he is your friend. Ah, Crockett. Modest, naïve Crockett. Sonata’s one wise decision was to seek your assistance. Crockett Smith, I appeal to your better instincts to reconsider your decision.”

“Your Excellency, I’m sorry.”

“What do you want, Crockett? How shall We reward you for your service?”

“Once we have the A-I-D, all I want is to return to my wife and family, Your Excellency.”

“And no reward?”

“If you speak of reward, Your Excellency, I would be grateful if the remainder of Montana were ceded to us.”

“The old-fashioned virtues characteristic of the Reservation are needed in Washington, Crockett. In the New Washington! We need men like you, Crockett. Our bureaucrats have become no better than automatons. Our magicientists to whom We granted so many privileges, are unreliable. The unspeakable Barnum went so far as to mock Us with his You-Too-Can-Be-A-Think-Machine plot. But were the others less subversive? Only in degree. Dr. Bangani advocated equality between the magicientists and Us. They were all dangerous! Who knows what would have happened if these magicientists had continued cauterizing the consciences of our scientists? Professor Fleischkopf is an example of a scientist degraded enough to serve Death, no better than a St. Ewagiow! We need the old-fashioned virtues of the Reservation, Crockett. Have you ever considered how much we have in common?”