I, Robot - Isaac Asimov [64]
“I see,” said Robertson, who didn’t. “Now what about this information Consolidated’s wishing on us?”
“It undoubtedly involves,” said Dr. Calvin, “a problem of a forbidden sort. But The Brain is considerably different from Consolidated’s robot.”
“That’s right, chief. That’s right.” The general manager was energetically interruptive. “I want you to get this, because it’s the whole point of the situation.”
Susan Calvin’s eyes glittered behind the spectacles, and she continued patiently, “You see, sir, Consolidated’s machines, their Super-Thinker among them, are built without personality. They go in for functionalism, you know—they have to, without U.S. Robot’s basic patents for the emotional brain paths. Their Thinker is merely a calculating machine on a grand scale, and a dilemma ruins it instantly.
“However, The Brain, our own machine, has a personality—a child’s personality. It is a supremely deductive brain, but it resembles an idiot savante. It doesn’t really understand what it does—it just does it. And because it is really a child, it is more resilient. Life isn’t so serious, you might say.”
The robopsychologist continued: “Here is what we’re going to do. We have divided all of Consolidated’s information into logical units. We are going to feed the units to The Brain singly and cautiously. When the factor enters—the one that creates the dilemma—The Brain’s child personality will hesitate. Its sense of judgment is not mature. There will be a perceptible interval before it will recognize a dilemma as such. And in that interval, it will reject the unit automatically—before its brain-paths can be set in motion and ruined.”
Robertson’s Adam’s apple squirmed, “Are you sure, now?”
Dr. Calvin masked impatience, “It doesn’t make much sense, I admit, in lay language; but there is no conceivable use in presenting the mathematics of this. I assure you, it is as I say.”
The general manager was in the breach instantly and fluently, “So here’s the situation, chief. If we take the deal, we can put it through like this. The Brain will tell us which unit of information involves the dilemma. From there, we can figure why the dilemma. Isn’t that right, Dr. Bogert? There you are, chief, and Dr. Bogert is the best mathematician you’ll find anywhere. We give Consolidated a ‘No Solution’ answer, with the reason, and collect a hundred thousand. They’re left with a broken machine; we’re left with a whole one. In a year, two maybe, we’ll have a space-warp engine, or a hyperatomic motor, some people call it. Whatever you name it, it will be the biggest thing in the world.”
Robertson chuckled and reached out, “Let’s see the contract. I’ll sign it.”
When Susan Calvin entered the fantastically guarded vault that held The Brain, one of the current shift of technicians had just asked it: “If one and a half chickens lay one and a half eggs in one and a half days, how many eggs will nine chickens lay in nine days?”
The Brain had just answered, “Fifty-four.”
And the technician had just said to another, “See, you dope!”
Dr. Calvin coughed and there was a sudden impossible flurry of directionless energy. The psychologist motioned briefly, and she was alone with The Brain.
The Brain was a two-foot globe merely—one which contained within it a thoroughly conditioned helium atmosphere, a volume of space completely vibration-absent and radiation-free—and within that was that unheard-of complexity of positronic brain-paths that was The Brain. The rest of the room was crowded with the attachments that were the intermediaries between The Brain and the outside world—its voice, its arms, its sense organs.
Dr. Calvin said softly, “How are you, Brain?”
The Brain’s voice was high-pitched and enthusiastic, “Swell, Miss Susan. You’re