His lights blinked in binary read-out as he answered by voder, “Eleven thousand two hundred thirty-eight with uncertainty plus-minus eighty-one representing possible identities and nulls. Shall I start program?”
“Hold it! Mike, I would starve to. death if I listened to eleven thousand jokes–and sense of humor would trip out much sooner. Mmm– Make you a deal. Print out first hundred. I’ll take them home, fetch back checked by category. Then each time I’m here I’ll drop off a hundred and pick up fresh supply. Okay?”
“Yes, Man.” His print-out started working, rapidly and silently.
Then I got brain flash. This playful pocket of negative entropy had invented a “joke” and thrown Authority into panic–and I had made an easy dollar. But Mike’s endless curiosity might lead him (correction: would lead him) into more “jokes”. . . anything from leaving oxygen out of air mix some night to causing sewage lines to run backward–and I can’t appreciate profit in such circumstances.
But I might throw a safety circuit around this net–by offering to help. Stop dangerous ones–let others go through. Then collect for “correcting” them (If you think any Loonie in those days would hesitate to take advantage of Warden, then you aren’t a Loonie.)
So I explained. Any new joke he thought of, tell me before he tried it. I would tell him whether it was funny and what category it belonged in, help him sharpen it if we decided to use it. We. If he wanted my cooperation, we both had to okay it.
Mike agreed at once.
“Mike, jokes usually involve surprise. So keep this secret.”
“Okay, Man. I’ve put a block on it. You can key it; no one else can.”
“Good. Mike, who else do you chat with?”
He sounded surprised. “No one, Man.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re stupid.”
His voice was shrill. Had never seen him angry before; first time I ever suspected Mike could have real emotions. Though it wasn’t “anger” in adult sense; it was like stubborn sulkiness of a child whose feelings are hurt.
Can machines feel pride? Not sure question means anything. But you’ve seen dogs with hurt feelings and Mike had several times as complex a neural network as a dog. What had made him unwilling to talk to other humans (except strictly business) was that he had been rebuffed: They had not talked to him. Programs, yes–Mike could be programmed from several locations but programs were typed in, usually, in Loglan. Loglan is fine for syllogism, circuitry, and mathematical calculations, but lacks flavor. Useless for gossip or to whisper into girl’s ear.
Sure, Mike had been taught English–but primarily to permit him to translate to and from English. I slowly got through skull that I was only human who bothered to visit with him.
Mind you, Mike had been awake a year–just how long I can’t say, nor could he as he had no recollection of waking up; he had not been programmed to bank memory of such event. Do you remember own birth? Perhaps I noticed his self-awareness almost as soon as he did; self-awareness takes practice. I remember how startled I was first time he answered a question with something extra, not limited to input parameters; I had spent next hour tossing odd questions at him, to see if answers would be odd.
In an input of one hundred test questions he deviated from expected output twice; I came away only partly convinced and by time I was home was unconvinced. I mentioned it to nobody.
But inside a week I knew . . . and still spoke to nobody. Habit–that mind-own-business reflex runs deep. Well, not entirely habit. Can you visualize me making appointment at Authority’s main office, then reporting: “Warden, hate to tell you but your number-one machine, HOLMES FOUR, has come alive”? I did visualize–and suppressed it.
So I minded own business and talked with Mike only with door locked and voder circuit suppressed for other locations. Mike learned fast; soon he sounded as human as anybody–no more eccentric than other Loonies. A weird mob, it’s true.
I had assumed that others must have noticed change in Mike. On thinking over I realized that I had assumed too much. Everybody dealt with Mike every minute every day–his outputs, that is. But hardly anybody saw him. So-called computermen–programmers, really–of Authority’s civil service stood watches in outer read-out room and never went in machines room unless telltales showed misfunction. Which happened no oftener than total eclipses. Oh, Warden had been known to bring vip earthworms to see machines–but rarely. Nor would he have spoken to Mike; Warden was political lawyer before exile, knew nothing about computers. 2075, you remember–Honorable former Federation Senator Mortimer Hobart. Mort the Wart.
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