Poulsen was one of the early arrivals on Mars. I regarded him with interest. He was of ectomorphic build, with a slight stoop. A flowing mop of pale yellowish hair was swept back from a high brow. Although his face was lined, he seemed neither young nor old. He spoke in a high tenor. His gestures were slow, rather vague; or perhaps they might be construed as thoughtful. I found myself impressed by him.
We walked among the machines. Poulsen casually checked readings here and there. These machines maintained atmospheric pressure within the domes, and monitored air content, signalling if CO2 or moisture levels climbed unacceptably high.
‘They are perfectly reliable, my computers. They perform miracles of analysis in microseconds which would otherwise take us years – possibly centuries,’ Poulsen said. ‘Yet they don’t know they’re on Mars!’
‘If you tell them – what then?’
He gave a high-pitched snort. They would be about as emotionally moved as the sands of Mars … These machines can compute but not create. They have no imagination. Nor have we yet created a program for imagination,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘It is because of their lack of imagination that we are able completely to rely on them.’
They could arrive swiftly at the solution of any problem set for them, but had no notion what to do with the solution. They never argued among themselves. They were perfectly happy, conforming to Aristotle’s ancient dictum, as quoted by May Porter, that happiness was activity in accordance with excellence – whereas I felt myself that morning to be baffled and cloudy.
Should I not have allowed myself to mourn in solitude the death of my beloved Antonia, rather than embark on the substitute activity of instigating a suitable Martian way of life?
Against one wall of the computer room stood three androids. The computers would activate them when necessary. They were sent out every morning to polish the surfaces of the photovoltaic plates on which we relied for electricity. They had completed their task for the morning to stand there like butlers, mindlessly awaiting fresh orders.
I remarked on them to Poulsen. ‘Androids? A waste of energy and materials,’ he said. ‘We had to discover how to create a mechanical that could walk with reasonable grace on two legs – thus emulating one of mankind’s earliest achievements! – but once we’ve done it…’
Pausing, he stood confronting one of the figures. ‘You see, Tom, they give off no CPS, no CPS. Like the dead … Do you realise how greatly we humans depend on each other’s signals of life? It emanates from our basic consciousness. A sort of mental nutrition, you might say.’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Arnold, you’ve lost me. What is a CPS?’
Poulsen looked at me suspiciously, to see if I was joking. ‘Well, you give one off. So do I. CPS is Clear Physical Signal. We can now pick up CPSs on what we call a savvyometer. Try it on these androids: zilch!’
When I asked him what the androids were here for, he told me they had been intended to maintain the integrity of the air-tight structures in which we lived. ‘But I will not trust them. In theory they’re on lease from EUPACUS. You see, Tom, they’re biotech androids, with integrated organic and inorganic components. I ordered BIA Mark XI – the Euripedes. The EUPACUS agent swindled us and sent these Euclids, Mark VIII, obsolete rubbish. I wouldn’t entrust our lives to a mindless thing, would you?’
The androids regarded us with their pleasant sexless faces.
Turning to one of the androids, Poulsen asked it, ‘Where are you, Bravo?’
The android replied without hesitation, ‘I am on the planet Mars, mean distance from the Sun, 1.523691 AUs.’
‘I see. And how do you feel about being on Mars as opposed to Earth?’
The android answered, ‘The mean distance of Mars from the Sun is 1.523691 AUs. Earth’s mean distance is 1 AU.’
‘Feel. I said feel. Do you think life’s dangerous on Mars?’
‘Dangerous things are life-threatening. Plagues, for instance. Or an earthquake. An earthquake can be very dangerous. There are no earthquakes on Mars. So Mars lacks danger.’
‘Sleep mode,’ Poulsen ordered, snapping his fingers. As we turned away, he said, ‘You see what I mean? These androids have halitosis instead of CPS. They create hydroxyls. I rate certain plants higher than these androids – plants mop up airborne hydroxyl radicals and protect us from sick-building syndrome…’