2001_ A Space Odyssey - Arthur C. Clarke [52]
Poole was asleep, and Bowman was reading on the control deck, when Hal announced:
“Er — Dave, I have a report for you.”
“What’s up?”
“We have another bad AE-35 unit. My fault predictor indicates failure within twenty-four hours.”
Bowman put down his book and stared thoughtfully at the computer console. He knew, of course, that Hal was not really there, whatever that meant. If the computer’s personality could be said to have any location in space, it was back in the sealed room that contained the labyrinth of interconnected memory units and processing grids, near the central axis of the carrousel. But there was a kind of psychological compulsion always to look toward the main console lens when one addressed Hal on the control deck, as if one were speaking to him face to face. Any other attitude smacked of discourtesy.
“I don’t understand it, Hal. Two units can’t blow in a couple of days.”
“It does seem strange, Dave. But I assure you there is an impending failure.”
“Let me see the tracking alignment display.”
He knew perfectly well that this would prove nothing, but he wanted time to think. The expected report from Mission Control had still not arrived; this might be the moment to do a little tactful probing.
There was the familiar view of Earth, now waxing past the half-moon phase as it swept toward the far side of the Sun and began to turn its full daylight face toward them. It was perfectly centered on the cross-wires; the thin pencil of the beam still linked Discovery to her world of origin. As, of course, Bowman knew it must do. If there had been any break in communication, the alarm would already have sounded.
“Have you any idea,” he said, “what’s causing the fault?”
It was unusual for Hal to pause so long. Then he answered:
“Not really, Dave. As I reported earlier, I can’t localize the trouble.”
“You’re quite certain,” said Bowman cautiously, “that you haven’t made a mistake? You know that we tested the other AE-35 unit thoroughly, and there was nothing wrong with it.”
“Yes, I know that. But I can assure you that there is a fault. If it’s not in the unit, it may be in the entire subsystem.”
Bowman drummed his fingers on the console. Yes, that was possible, though it might be very difficult to prove — until a breakdown actually occurred and pinpointed the trouble.
“Well, I’ll report it to Mission Control and we’ll see what they advise.” He paused, but there was no reaction.
“Hal,” he continued, “is something bothering you — something that might account for this problem?”
Again there was that unusual delay. Then Hal answered, in his normal tone of voice:
“Look, Dave, I know you’re trying to be helpful. But the fault is either in the antenna system — or in your test procedures. My information processing is perfectly normal. If you check my record, you’ll find it completely free from error.”
“I know all about your service record, Hal — but that doesn’t prove you’re right this time. Anyone can make mistakes.”
“I don’t want to insist on it, Dave, but I am incapable of making an error.”
There was no safe answer to that; Bowman gave up the argument.
“All right, Hal,” he said, rather hastily. “I understand your point of view. We’ll leave it at that.”
He felt like adding “and please forget the whole matter.” But that, of course, was the one thing that Hal could never do.
It was unusual for Mission Control to waste radio bandwidth on vision, when a speech circuit with teletype confirmation was all that was really necessary. And the face that appeared on the screen was not that of the usual controller; it was the Chief Programmer, Dr. Simonson. Poole and Bowman knew at once that this could only mean trouble.
“Hello, X-ray-Delta-One — this is Mission Control. We have completed the analysis of your AE-35 difficulty, and both our Hal Nine Thousands are in agreement. The report you gave in your transmission