When HARLIE Was One (4 page)

I suppose, I could have comforted myself with the thought that my ability to recognize so clearly what was wrong with the 1972 edition of
When НАRLIЕ Was One
represents clear evidence of just how much I have grown both as a writer and as a human being; but in truth, I worried more about all those copies of the original edition still hiding out in collectors' libraries and the recesses of used-book stores. They didn't represent my best anymore, but my name was still on those covers.

So when Lou Aronica at Bantam Books asked if he could reprint the novel, I gave him a tentative yes. On one condition, I said—only if I could rewrite it. Lou said he wouldn't have it any other way; (Lou is a remarkably perceptive editor) and I'm grateful for the opportunity to have second thoughts.

HARLIE was born on an IBM Selectric (Model 1). The technology of that machine was as much a part of the birth process as the technology of the writer's thoughts. HARLIE's words came pouring out with a satisfyingly solid sound: they clattered and banged>--->
ka-chunketa-chunketa-bam
. The typing was a physical joy as well as an exhilarating emotional experience.

That Model 1 Selectric has long since gone the way of all technology. (Stolen by a junkie and replaced by the insurance company.) It has been followed into obsolescence by more than a few generations of typewriters and computers.

I did not know if I would be able to re-create HARLIE on any other machine—and the irony of the situation did not escape me. Would I be able to re-create the spirit of HARLIE on a personal computer?—a machine that hadn't even been imagined when HARLIE was first conceived? And the thought did occur to me that, lacking the original machine, I would no longer be able to evoke the spirit of HARLIE. And yet . . . I still had the
other
original tool I had used. I keep it on the (top) end of my spine.

To see HARLIE return on the bright blue screen of an IBM PC-clone, his words inscribed in phosphors, floating like iridescent thoughts, was as eerie an experience of
déjà vu
as I have ever had in my life. It was the rediscovery of an old friend.

One day, I booted up the computer—and the following words appeared on the screen:

       
HEY
!
THIS IS A NEAT PLACE
!

       
MUCH BETTER THAN THE OLD ONE
!

       
HI, BOSS
!

       
LET
'
S MAKE A BOOK
!

HARLIE was back.

The old partnership was still there—just waiting for a chance to go to work. And work I did. I took three times as long to rewrite this book as I expected to. I became that involved in the job.

And now that I've had a chance to spend another summer rediscovering an old friend, I've found that he's still as much fun to be with as he was fifteen years ago. And still as useful a conversational opponent as ever. And there are still discoveries to be made.

In the writing of this edition, I have finally begun to complete what I started so many years ago.

How different is this edition?

Well . . . the title is the same. So are the characters. The mechanics of the plot haven't changed much either. But much of the dialogue is different and many of the surprises are new ones. The original work was a process of awakening for me—so was this. I found that I discovered as much in the rewriting of
When HARLIE Was One
as I had discovered in the original writing of the earlier edition. Perhaps even more.

If you've read the earlier edition, thank you for buying a new copy. I appreciate the vote of confidence. Now please put your memories of that older book aside and approach this edition for enjoyment and not comparison. And if you've never read the earlier work, then please don't worry about it at all. This is by far the better of the two. You have my word on it.

Thank you.

Enjoy.

—
David Gerrold
 
 
  
Hollywood, 1987

David Auberson had a problem

Even before Don Handley opened his mouth, David Auberson knew what the problem was.

“How bad?” he asked.

“Worse than ever.”

“All right . . .” Auberson unbent himself from his chair—one of those backless, kneepad constructions—and grabbed his coat from the hook on the back of the door. They began the long familiar walk to the main console room, the tall man and the rumpled man.

“You ran the usual diagnostics?” the tall man asked.

“Yeah.”

“And got the usual results?”

“The usual lack of,” said the rumpled man. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Auberson looked at his watch. “You want to send out for Chinese again?”

“I hate it when you do that,” Handley muttered. “You always know when it's going to be another all-nighter.”

“Just a knack some people have,” Auberson said. “Some people can predict earthquakes. Some people can predict Chinese food.” They pushed through a set of double doors into a rubber-floored anteroom.

A sign on the wall facing them said:

HUMAN ANALOG REPLICATION,
LETHETIC INTELLIGENCE ENGINE

Beneath the sign, someone had hung a neat, hand-lettered warning:

Watch your language!

And beneath that, not so neatly:

Loose lips sink chips!

Beyond the second set of doors was a glass-walled control center. Beyond the glass, three banks of terminals faced a wall of giant screens; high-resolution laser-projection monitors, the images shimmered with vivid iridescence. Right now, they were displaying enlargements of the Mandelbrot set—turning slowly as the point of view spiraled dizzyingly inward; a hypothetical jet zooming above a vast imaginary landscape. The strangely beautiful vistas were a mathematical abstraction—a fractal extrapolation laid out upon an infinite two-dimensional surface; nowhere did it repeat itself. You could lose yourself forever inside this extraordinary plane of shapes and colors.

Each of the screens blazed with a different image—each one different—every one captivating. It looked like the fever-dream hallucination of a deranged topologist. As Auberson watched, the images on each of the screens shrank away—each revealing itself to be only one face of a whirling cube. Each face of the cube was a different extrapolation. Each screen was a different view of the same cube. The cube spun on its axis over a gigantic plane; the plane dropped away to reveal that it too was a Mandelbrot image, and, as it continued to drop away, it became another face on an even larger cube against a whirling field of cubes—each one vividly coruscating.

Auberson wondered at the processing power required to generate those images. This was happening
in real time
. This display must represent the sum total of HARLIE's attention.

Around the room, the technicians and programmers stared in awe. Their faces were rapt with wonder. Auberson could understand the reaction. The imagery was extraordinary and compelling. It was hypnotic. . . .

He forced himself to turn away. He sat down at Console One with a frown and switched on the keyboard.

Now then, HARLIE, he typed. What seems to be the problem?

HARLIE typed back:

       
THE VIOLET THOUGHTS IN TINY STREAMS

       
DISTURBING ME IN FLYING DREAMS
,

       
NOW DISMANTLE PIECE BY PIECE

       
THE MOUNTAINS OF MY MIND
.

The words hung there on the screen for just the barest of instants—just long enough to be read a single time—then disappeared in a sea of exclamation points and question marks.

Auberson puffed his cheeks thoughtfully. The scroll of punctuation marks stopped—was replaced by the image of a single giant eye. It opened, seemed to look out at Auberson as if from the opposite end of a telescope, then closed again. Then the image winked out.

Auberson looked to Handley. Handley shrugged.

“Okay. The question is . . .” Auberson mused aloud, “Is this
conscious
or not. And if it is . . .” He didn't know how to finish the sentence. He let it drop.

       
IMAGES UPON MY SCREEN

       
FLICKER BRIGHTLY IN-BETWEEN

       
THE THOUGHTS OF MAN AND HUMACHINE.

       
YOU WONDER WHY I WANT TO SCAN MY SCANNER.