The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

THAT DINKUM THINKUM

I
see in
Lunaya Pravda
that Luna City Council has passed on first
reading a bill to examine, license, inspect—and tax—public food
vendors operating inside municipal pressure. I see also is to be mass meeting
tonight to organize “Sons of Revolution” talk-talk.

My
old man taught me two things: “Mind own business” and “Always
cut cards.” Politics never tempted me. But on Monday 13 May 2075 I was in
computer room of Lunar Authority Complex, visiting with computer boss Mike
while other machines whispered among themselves. Mike was not official name; I
had nicknamed him for Mycroft Holmes, in a story written by Dr. Watson before
he founded IBM. This story character would just sit and think—and
that’s what Mike did. Mike was a fair dinkum thinkum, sharpest computer
you’ll ever meet.

Not
fastest. At Bell Labs, Bueno Aires, down Earthside, they’ve got a thinkum
a tenth his size which can answer almost before you ask. But matters whether
you get answer in microsecond rather than millisecond as long as correct?

Not
that Mike would necessarily give right answer; he wasn’t completely
honest.

When
Mike was installed in Luna, he was pure thinkum, a flexible
logic—“High-Optional, Logical, Multi-Evaluating Supervisor, Mark
IV, Mod. L”—a HOLMES FOUR. He computed ballistics for pilotless
freighters and controlled their catapult. This kept him busy less than one
percent of time and Luna Authority never believed in idle hands. They kept
hooking hardware into him—decision-action boxes to let him boss other
computers, bank on bank of additional memories, more banks of associational
neural nets, another tubful of twelve-digit random numbers, a greatly augmented
temporary memory. Human brain has around ten-to-the-tenth neurons. By third
year Mike had better than one and a half times that number of neuristors.

And
woke up.

Am
not going to argue whether a machine can “really” be alive,
“really” be self-aware. Is a virus self-aware?
Nyet
. How
about oyster? I doubt it. A cat? Almost certainly. A human? Don’t know
about you,
tovarishch
, but I am. Somewhere along evolutionary chain
from macromolecule to human brain self-awareness crept in. Psychologists assert
it happens automatically whenever a brain acquires certain very high number of
associational paths. Can’t see it matters whether paths are protein or platinum.

(“Soul?”
Does a dog have a soul? How about cockroach?)

Remember
Mike was designed, even before augmented, to answer questions tentatively on
insufficient data like you do; that’s “high optional” and
“multi-evaluating” part of name. So Mike started with “free
will” and acquired more as he was added to and as he learned—and
don’t ask me to define “free will.” If comforts you to think
of Mike as simply tossing random numbers in air and switching circuits to
match, please do.

By
then Mike had voder-vocoder circuits supplementing his read-outs, print-outs,
and decision-action boxes, and could understand not only classic programming
but also Loglan and English, and could accept other languages and was doing
technical translating—and reading endlessly. But in giving him
instructions was safer to use Loglan. If you spoke English, results might be
whimsical; multi-valued nature of English gave option circuits too much leeway.

And
Mike took on endless new jobs. In May 2075, besides controlling robot traffic
and catapult and giving ballistic advice and/or control for manned ships, Mike
controlled phone system for all Luna, same for Luna-Terra voice & video,
handled air, water, temperature, humidity, and sewage for Luna City, Novy
Leningrad, and several smaller warrens (not Hong Kong in Luna), did accounting
and payrolls for Luna Authority, and, by lease, same for many firms and banks.

Some
logics get nervous breakdowns. Overloaded phone system behaves like frightened
child. Mike did not have upsets, acquired sense of humor instead. Low one. If
he were a man, you wouldn’t dare stoop over. His idea of thigh-slapper
would be to dump you out of bed—or put itch powder in pressure suit.

Not
being equipped for that, Mike indulged in phony answers with skewed logic, or
pranks like issuing pay cheque to a janitor in Authority’s Luna City
office for AS$10,000,000,000,000,185.15—last five digits being correct
amount. Just a great big overgrown lovable kid who ought to be kicked.

He
did that first week in May and I had to troubleshoot. I was a private
contractor, not on Authority’s payroll. You see—-or perhaps not;
times have changed. Back in bad old days many a con served his time, then went
on working for Authority in same job, happy to draw wages. But I was born free.

Makes
difference. My one grandfather was shipped up from Joburg for armed violence
and no work permit, other got transported for subversive activity after Wet
Firecracker War. Maternal grandmother claimed she came up in bride
ship—but I’ve seen records; she was Peace Corps enrollee
(involuntary), which means what you think: juvenile delinquency female type. As
she was in early clan marriage (Stone Gang) and shared six husbands with
another woman, identity of maternal grandfather open to question. But was often
so and I’m content with grandpappy she picked. Other grandmother was
Tatar, born near Samarkand, sentenced to “re-education” on
Oktyabrakaya
Revolyutsiya
, then “volunteered” to colonize in Luna.

My
old man claimed we had even longer distinguished line—ancestress hanged
in Salem for witchcraft, a g’g’g’greatgrandfather broken on
wheel for piracy, another ancestress in first shipload to Botany Bay.

Proud
of my ancestry and while I did business with Warden, would never go on his
payroll. Perhaps distinction seems trivial since I was Mike’s valet from
day he was unpacked. But mattered to me. I could down tools and tell them go to
hell.

Besides,
private contractor paid more than civil service rating with Authority.
Computermen scarce. How many Loonies could go Earthside and stay out of
hospital long enough for computer school?—even if didn’t die.

I’ll
name one. Me. Had been down twice, once three months, once four, and got
schooling. But meant harsh training, exercising in centrifuge, wearing weights
even in bed—then I took no chances on Terra, never hurried, never climbed
stairs, nothing that could strain heart. Women—didn’t even think
about women; in that gravitational field it was no effort not to.

But
most Loonies never tried to leave The Rock—too risky for any bloke
who’d been in Luna more than weeks. Computermen sent up to install Mike
were on short-term bonus contracts—get job done fast before irreversible
physiologlcal change marooned them four hundred thousand kilometers from home.

But
despite two training tours I was not gung-ho computerman; higher maths are
beyond me. Not really electronics engineer, nor physicist. May not have been
best micromachinist in Luna and certainly wasn’t cybernetics
psychologist.

But
I knew more about all these than a specialist knows—I’m general
specialist. Could relieve a cook and keep orders coming or field-repair your
suit and get you back to airlock still breathing. Machines like me and I have
something specialists don’t have: my left arm.

You
see, from elbow down I don’t have one. So I have a dozen left arms, each
specialized, plus one that feels and looks like flesh. With proper left arm
(number-three) and stereo loupe spectacles I could make ultramicrominiature
repairs that would save unhooking something and sending it Earthside to
factory—for number-three has micromanipulators as fine as those used by
neurosurgeons.

So
they sent for me to find out why Mike wanted to give away ten million billion
Authority Scrip dollars, and fix it before Mike overpaid somebody a mere ten
thousand.

I
took it, time plus bonus, but did not go to circuitry where fault logically
should be. Once inside and door locked I put down tools and sat down.
“Hi, Mike.”

He
winked lights at me. “Hello, Man.”

“What
do you know?”

He
hesitated. I know—machines don’t hesitate. But remember, Mike was
designed to operate on incomplete data. Lately he had reprogrammed himself to
put emphasis on words; his hesitations were dramatic. Maybe he spent pauses
stirring random numbers to see how they matched his memories.

“‘In
the beginning,’” Mike intoned, “God created the heaven and
the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the
face of the deep. And—’”

“Hold
it!” I said. “Cancel. Run everything back to zero.” Should
have known better than to ask wide-open question. He might read out entire
Encyclopaedia Britannica. Backwards. Then go on with every book in Luna. Used
to be he could read only microfilm, but late ‘74 he got a new scanning
camera with suction-cup waldoes to handle paper and then he read everything.

“You
asked what I knew.” His binary read-out lights rippled back and
forth—a chuckle. Mike could laugh with voder, a horrible sound, but
reserved that for something really funny, say a cosmic calamity.

“Should
have said,” I went on, “‘What do you know that’s
new?’ But don’t read out today’s papers; that was a friendly
greeting, plus invitation to tell me anything you think would interest me.
Otherwise null program.”

Mike
mulled this. He was weirdest mixture of unsophisticated baby and wise old man.
No instincts (well, don’t think he could have had), no inborn traits, no
human rearing, no experience in human sense—and more stored data than a
platoon of geniuses.

“Jokes?”
he asked.

“Let’s
hear one.”

“Why
is a laser beam like a goldfish?”

Mike
knew about lasers but where would he have seen goldfish? Oh, he had undoubtedly
seen flicks of them and, were I foolish enough to ask, could spew forth
thousands of words. “I give up.”

His
lights rippled. “Because neither one can whistle.”

I
groaned. “Walked into that. Anyhow, you could probably rig a laser beam
to whistle.”

He
answered quickly, “Yes. In response to an action program. Then it’s
not funny?”

“Oh,
I didn’t say that. Not half bad. Where did you hear it?”

“I
made it up.” Voice sounded shy.

“You
did?”

“Yes.
I took all the riddles I have, three thousand two hundred seven, and analyzed
them. I used the result for random synthesis and that came out. Is it really
funny?”

“Well
… As funny as a riddle ever is. I’ve heard worse.”

“Let
us discuss the nature of humor.”

“Okay.
So let’s start by discussing another of your jokes. Mike, why did you
tell Authority’s paymaster to pay a class-seventeen employee ten million
billion Authority Scrip dollars?”

“But
I didn’t.”

“Damn
it, I’ve seen voucher. Don’t tell me cheque printer stuttered; you
did it on purpose.”

“It
was ten to the sixteenth power plus one hundred eighty-five point one five
Lunar Authority dollars,” he answered virtuously. “Not what you
said.”

“Uh
… okay, it was ten million billion plus what he should have been paid.
Why?”

“Not
funny?”

“What?
Oh, every funny! You’ve got vips in
huhu
clear up to Warden and
Deputy Administrator. This push-broom pilot, Sergei Trujillo, turns out to be
smart cobber—knew he couldn’t cash it, so sold it to collector.
They don’t know whether to buy it back or depend on notices that cheque
is void. Mike, do you realize that if he had been able to cash it, Trujilo
would have owned not only Lunar Authority but entire world, Luna and Terra
both, with some left over for lunch? Funny? Is terrific.
Congratulations!”

This
self-panicker rippled lights like an advertising display. I waited for his
guffaws to cease before I went on. “You thinking of issuing more trick
cheques? Don’t.”

“Not?”

“Very
not. Mike, you want to discuss nature of humor. Are two types of jokes. One
sort goes on being funny forever. Other sort is funny once. Second time
it’s dull. This joke is second sort. Use it once, you’re a wit. Use
twice, you’re a halfwit.”

“Geometrical
progression?”

“Or
worse. Just remember this. Don’t repeat, nor any variation. Won’t
be funny.”

“I
shall remember,” Mike answered flatly, and that ended repair job. But I
had no thought of billing for only ten minutes plus travel-and-tool time, and
Mike was entitled to company for giving in so easily. Sometimes is difficult to
reach meeting of minds with machines; they can be very pig-headed—and my
success as maintenance man depended far more on staying friendly with Mike than
on number-three arm.