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“Didn’t you hear me?” Bickel demanded. “I’m getting nerve-net response! This thing’ll behave like a human nervous system!”
“Raj, he is!”
It was Prudence. Flattery dropped his gaze to where she was pointing. She had shifted a small corner of her own auxiliary board into a repeater system tied to Bickel’s diagnostic circuits.
“Beta rhythm,” she said, pointing to the scope in the center of the board.
Flattery watched the sine play of the green line on the scope, digesting what Bickel had said, what that scope implied.
Black box—white box.
Perhaps it was possible, theoretically, to use the entire computer as a white box to take the transfer pattern called consciousness. But there remained many unanswered questions—and one was more vital than all the others.
“What do you intend using as a black box?” Flattery asked. “Where’ll you get your original pattern?”
“From a conscious human brain. I’m going to take one of our spare hyb tanks and adapt the electroencephalographic feedback system as a man-amplifier.”
He’s utterly mad, Flattery thought. The shot-effect shock would kill the human subject.
Bickel looked out of the screen, stared at Flattery—realizing that the psychiatrist-chaplain had seen the possible deadliness of this proposal.
Who will bell the cat? Bickel thought. He swallowed. Well, if necessary, I will.
“How would you protect the subject from the shot-effect bursts?” Prudence asked. “Curare?”
Even as she asked, she wondered how she was protecting herself from her own experiments. The answer was daunting: No better than Bickel would! What had made this crew so prone to all-or-nothing efforts?
“I believe the subject will have to be fully conscious,” Bickel said. “Without any medication … or narcoinhibitions.”
He waited for the explosion from Timberlake. This idea was sure to outrage the conditioning of the life-systems engineer. Where was Timberlake?
“Absolutely not!” Flattery exploded. “It’d be murder!”
“Or maybe … suicide,” Bickel said.
Prudence looked away from the console, met Bickel’s eyes. “Be reasonable, John,” she pleaded. “You’re already endangering the computer with that …”
“The ship’s still functioning, isn’t it?” Bickel countered.
“But if you throw a shot-effect burst through that—” she nodded toward the stacked blocks and interwoven leads of the Ox beside Bickel “—how’ll you avoid damage to the computer’s core memory?”
“Core memory’s a fixed system and buffered. I’ll keep the Ox potential below the buffer threshold. Besides …” he shrugged, “we’ve already put shot-effect bursts through the computer without—”
“And scattered information from hell to breakfast!” she snapped.
“We can still find that information if we use the Ox to sort the addresses for us,” Bickel said.
Flattery glanced at the sensors in front of Prudence. What was wrong with Timberlake? Was he injured? Unconscious? But the sensors revealed a narrow path of movement from the life-systems engineer … all of it within the hyb tank complex.
“If I understand you correctly,” Prudence said, “you’ll have to add nerve-net simulation channels to the Ox until it and the computer are as complex as a human nervous system. As you build it and test it, we become more and more dependent on that jury-rigged Ox monstrosity for our very lives.”
“It has to have a full range of sensory apparatus,” Bickel said. “There’s no other way.”
“There must be!” she said. “Where’d you get such a mad idea?”
“From you.”
Shock momentarily stilled her tongue. “That’s impossible!”
“You’re a female,” Bickel pointed out, “capable of biological reproduction of conscious life. In that method, you have a substrate of molecules that are capable of assuming a large number of forms … different forms. Those molecules assume a particular form in the presence of a molecule that already has that form.” He shrugged. “Black box—white box.”
“I thought you meant from me personally,” she said, looking up at the telltale sensors and seeing the apparently irrational movements of Timberlake.
“Look,” Bickel said, unaware of their preoccupation, “the basic behavior of the computer will remain intact. We won’t interfere with supervisory programs or command constants. We want to set up a system dealing with probabilities, with mobility constant for the—”
“Games theory!” Flattery sneered. “You can’t predict all the behavior of your machine.” He looked back at the telltales.
What was Tim doing?
“That’s just it!” Bickel said. “If the machine’s going to be conscious, we can’t predict all of its behavior … by the very nature of consciousness, by definition. Consciousness is a game where the permissible moves aren’t arbitrarily established in advance. The sole object’s to win.”
Anything goes? Flattery wondered. He focused suddenly on Bickel, recognizing the essentially blasphemous nature of such a concept. There had to be rules!
“The machine gets part of its personality from its creator, part from its opponents,” Bickel said.
Something from God, something from the Devil, Flattery thought. There had to be essential error in this path … somewhere. Bickel was behaving far outside the predictions. Their “organ of analysis” was acting magically. He was not making the best possible move each time.
“You’ll introduce error factors and loss increment into the entire computer,” Prudence cautioned. “That’s not only illogical, it’s—” She broke off, studied her board, made a pressure-balance correction in the atmospheric recirculation system, and waited to see if the automatics could hold the new setting.
“You have to make the best possible move at all times,” Flattery said. “Your suggestion does not appear to—”
“There you’ve hit it,” Bickel agreed. “Best possible move. Sometimes your best possible move is to make a dangerously poor move that changes the entire theoretical structure of the game. You change the game.”
“What about all those lives down in the hyb tanks?” Prudence asked. “Do they have any choice in this … game?”
“They already made their choice.”
“And while they’re helpless, you change the rules,” Flattery said.
“That was one of the chances they accepted when they accepted hybernation,” Bickel said. “That was their choice.”
Flattery abandoned the argument, pushed himself off his action couch.
“What’re you going to to do?” Prudence asked.
“Check on Tim.”
“Where is Tim?” Bickel asked.
“Down in the hyb tanks,” Flattery said, knowing Bickel could get the answer himself—once he consulted the shop’s repeaters.
“Deep in the hyb tanks?” Bickel asked.
“Of course!”
“Prue!” Bickel snapped. “Try to raise him on the command circuit.”
She heard the urgency in Bickel’s voice, whirled to obey.
There was no response from Timberlake.
“You fools!” Bickel said.
Flattery stopped at the tube hatch, glared up at the screen.
“Who let him go down into the deep tanks?” Bickel demanded. “You blind idiots! Don’t you know what he’s likely to find down there?”
“What do you mean?”
“This whole damn ship’s nothing but a simulation device,” Bickel said. “There’ll be nothing down there except a few crew replacements. Those tanks have to be empty!”
