The Ghost of a Model T and Other Stories (30 page)

“I can't, Dan. I won't put up with it.”

“No one needs to know.”

“No one was supposed to know I failed that test. Even I didn't know. But you found out, and Fred wasn't the one who told you. You can't hide anything in this town. The boys would know. They'd be whispering up and down the corridors: ‘You hear? Ol' Andy, he's got hisself a tutor.' I couldn't stand that, Dan. Not them whispering about me. I just couldn't stand it.”

The aide stared at the senator, then went to the cabinet and returned with the bottle.

“Just a splash,” the senator said, holding out his glass.

Waite gave him a splash, then another one.

“Under ordinary circumstances,” said Waite, “I'd say to hell with it. I'd let you take both of the two remaining exams and fail—as you will, sure as hell, if you won't let me get a tutor. I'd tell myself you'd gotten tired of the job and were willing to retire. I would be able to convince myself that it was the best for you. For your own good. But you need this extension, Senator. Another couple of years and you'll have this big deal of yours all sewed up with our multinational friends and then you'll be up to your navel in cash for the rest of your life. But to complete the deal, you need to stay on for another year or two.”

“Everything takes so long now,” said the senator plaintively. “You have to move so slow. You have to be so careful. You know there is something watching all the time. Ol' Henry—you remember him?—he moved just a mite too fast on that deal of his and he got tossed out on his tail. That's the way it is now. There was a time, early on, when we could have had this deal of ours wrapped up in thirty days and no one would know about it.”

“Yes,” said Waite. “Things are different now.”

“One thing I have to ask you,” said the senator. “Who is it makes up these questions that go into the tests? Who is it that makes them harder all the time? Who is being so tough on us?”

“I'm not sure,” said Waite. “The computers, I suppose. Probably not the Senate computers, but another bunch entirely. Experts on examination drafting, more than likely. Internal policymakers.”

“Is there a way to get to them?”

Waite shook his head. “Too complicated. I'd not know where to start.”

“Could you try?”

“Senator, it would be dangerous. That's a can of worms out there.”

“How about this Fred of ours? He could help us, couldn't he? Do a little shading? There must be something that he wants.”

“I doubt it. Honestly, I do. There isn't much a computer could want or need. A computer isn't human. They're without human shortcomings. That's why we're saddled with them.”

“But you said a while back a lot of computers have started to think of themselves as humans. If that is true, there may be things they want. Fred seems to be a good guy. How well do you know him? Can you talk to him easily?”

“Fairly easily. But the odds would be against us. Ten to one against us. It would be simpler for you to take some tutoring. That's the only safe and sure way.”

The senator shook his head emphatically.

“All right, then,” said Waite. “You leave me no choice. I'll have a talk with Fred. But I can't push him. If we put on any pressure, you'd be out just as surely as if you'd failed the tests.”

“But if there's something that he wants…”

“I'll try to find out,” said Waite.

Always before, Fred's daydreaming had been hazy and comfortable, a vague imagining of a number of pleasant situations that might devolve upon him. Three of his daydreams in particular had the habit of recurring. The most persistent and at times the most troublesome—in that there was only a very outside chance it could happen—was the one in which he was transferred from the Senate to the White House. Occasionally Fred even daydreamed that he might be assigned as the President's personal computer, although Fred was indeed aware that there was less than a million-to-one chance this would ever happen even should he be transferred. But of all the dreams, it seemed to him that this was the only one that could be remotely possible. He had the qualifications for the job, and the experience; after all the qualifications and capabilities of a senatorial computer would fit very neatly into the White House complex. But even as he daydreamed, when he later thought about it, he was not absolutely certain that he would be happy if such a transfer happened. There was perhaps a bit more glamour in the White House job, but all in all, his senatorial post had been most satisfactory. The work was interesting and not unduly demanding. Furthermore, through the years he had become well acquainted with the senators assigned to him, and they had proved an interesting lot—full of quirks and eccentricities, but solid people for all of that.

Another recurring fantasy involved his transfer to a small rural village where he would serve as mentor for the locals. It would be, he told himself, a heartwarming situation in which he would be solving the simple problems of a simple people and perhaps taking part in their simple pleasures. He would be a friend to them as he never could be friend to any senator, for any senator, bar none, was apt to be a tricky bastard, and must be watched at every turn. In a remote village, life would be entirely different than in Washington. There'd be little sophistication and less bitchiness, although more than likely there'd be stupidity. But stupidity, he reminded himself, was not entirely foreign to Washington. At times he reveled in the idea of the bucolic life to be found in such a rural village as he dreamed, the simplicity and warmheartedness—although, knowing human beings, he never was entirely sure of the warmheartedness. But though it might be pleasant at times to daydream about the village, that daydream never haunted him, for he was well aware that it was something that could never happen to him. He was too sophisticated a piece of machinery, too well-honed, too knowledgeable, too complicated to be wasted on such a chore. The computers assigned to rural communities were several grades below him in design.

And the third daydream—the third one was a lulu, pure fantasy and utterly impossible, but exciting to think upon idly. It involved the principle of time travel, which as yet had not been discovered and probably never would be. But he consoled himself by remembering that in daydreams there were no impossibilities, that the only factor required was the will to dream.

So he threw all caution to the wind and spread his wings, dreaming grandly and with no inhibitions. He became a futuristic computer that was able to take humans into time; there were many occasions when he did not bother with humans and went adventuring on his own.

He went into the past. He was at the siege of Troy. He strolled the streets of ancient Athens and saw the Parthenon a-building. He sailed with Greenland Vikings to the shores of Vinland. He smelled the powder-smoke of Gettysburg. He squatted quietly in a corner, watching Rembrandt paint. He ran, scuttering through the midnight streets, while bombs rained down on London.

He went into the future to walk a dying Earth—all the people gone, far among the stars. The Sun was a pale ghost of its former self. Occasionally an insect crawled along the ground, but no other life was visible, although he seemed to be aware that bacteria and other microscopic forms still survived. Most of the water was gone, the rivers and lakes all dry, small puddles lying in the fantastically craved, low-lying badlands that at one time had been deep sea bottoms. The atmosphere was almost gone as well, with the stars no longer twinkling, but shining like bright, hard points of light in a coal-black sky.

This was the only future he ever visited. When he realized this, he worried over the deep-seated morbidity that it seemed to demonstrate. Try as he might, he could go to no other future. He deliberately attempted, in non-daydreaming moments, to construct other future scenarios, hoping that by doing this he might tease his subconscious into alternatives to a dying Earth. But all this was futile; he always returned to the dying Earth. There was about it a somber sublimity that held a strong attraction for him. The scenes were not always the same, for he traveled widely through this ancient land, discovering many different landscapes that fascinated him at the same time that they horrified him.

These three daydreams—being the President's computer or the honcho of a rural village, or traveling in time—had been his chief fantasies. But now something else was taking the place of all the other daydreams, even of those three.

The new one derived from gossip that a secret starship was being built at a secret place and that within a few more years men and women would be venturing out beyond the limits of the solar system. He sought for further word, but there was none. Just that one piece of gossip. There might have been some news, he realized, without the gossip granny passing it along, thinking there would be little further interest in it. He sent out a call (a very discreet call) for any further word, but received no feedback. Either no one had further details or the work was too top secret to be talked about lightly. Gossip, he was aware, often made an individual mention some important fact or happening only once and then clam up, frightened by the ill-judgment in mentioning it at all.

The more he thought about it, the more the fact of the tight-lipped silence made it seem to him there was some basis for the rumor that man's first interstellar ship was being built, and that in the not-too-distant future the human race would be going to the stars. And if men went, he told himself, machines would go as well. Such a ship and such a venture would necessitate the use of computers. When he thought about this, the new fantasy began to take over.

It was an easy daydream to fashion. It grew all by itself, requiring no conscious effort. It was natural and logical—at least, as logical as a daydream could be. They would need computers in that spaceship and many of them would of course have to be special units designed specifically to handle the problems and procedures of interstellar flight. Not all of them, however, need be new. To save the cost of design and construction, to stay within the budget, a number of existing computers would be used. These machines would have had all the bugs worked out of them through long experience—and would be sound, seasoned, and relatively sophisticated units that could be depended on to do a steady job.

He daydreamed that he was one of those computers, that after due consideration and careful study of the record, he would be selected, relieved of his senatorial duties, and placed upon the ship. Once he had dreamed all that, once his fantasy had convinced him that it was possible, then all bets were off. He settled happily into his newest dream world and went sailing off, light-years into space.

He existed in the harsh, dead-black coldness of far galactic reaches; he looked with steady eye upon the explosive flaring of a nova; he perched upon its very rim and knew the soul-shrinking terror of a black hole; he knew the bleak sterility and the dashed hope that he found upon a black dwarf; he heard the muted hiss that still survived from the birth of the universe and the terrifying, lonesome stillness that descended when the universe was done; he discovered many planets, or the hints of many planets, each one of them different, each one of a kind; and he experienced the happiness of the best and the horror of the worst.

Heretofore he had not transformed fantasy into want or need. This was understandable, for some of the other daydreams were impossible and the others so unlikely that they might as well have been impossible. But here was one, he told himself, that was entirely possible; here was one that could really happen; here was one to hope for.

So in his daydreaming he lived within the compass of his imagination, but there were other times when, not daydreaming, he began to consider how best he might pave the way for this new daydream to become reality. He thought out many leads, but all of them seemed futile. He schemed and planned, waffling back and forth, but there seemed nothing he could do. He found no course of action that seemed remotely possible.

Then one day a visitor came into his booth and sat down in one of the chairs. “My name is Daniel Waite. I am an aide of Senator Moore. Have I dropped in at a bad time?”

“Not at all,” said Fred. “I've just now completed a procedure and have time to spend with you. I am glad you're here. In many ways, this is a lonely post. I do not have as many visitors as I'd like. Senator Moore, you say?”

“Yes, he is one of yours.”

“I remember him. A stately old gentleman of very great repute.”

“Quite so,” said Waite. “A magnificent public servant. I am glad to hear you have high regard for him.”

“Indeed I have,” said Fred.

“Which brings up the question,” said Waite, “of your flunking him on his continuation test. When I heard about it, I could not –”

“Where did you hear that?” Fred demanded sharply.

“I'll not name the source,” said Waite, “but I can assure you that it came from one who is reliable. One of your own, in fact.”

“Ah, yes,” Fred said sadly. “We do have our ethics, but there are those who occasionally betray the sacred trust. No one should have known the results of the senator's test other than myself. I fear we have reached the point where some of us spy upon our fellows.”

“Then it is true the senator did fail his test. In view of your high regard for him, in view of his long experience and his impeccable public record, how could that have happened?”

“It's quite simple, sir,” said Fred. “He did not achieve a passing score. He flunked too many questions.”

“I'm talking to you for information only,” Waite explained. “I hope you understand. I know that it would be improper to attempt to influence you and ridiculous as well, for you cannot be influenced. But, for information only, is there not some leeway? Even if he missed the questions, failed to achieve a passing grade, do not his record and his long experience have some force when thrown into the balance?”