I, Robot - Isaac Asimov [65]
Dr. Calvin smiled mildly, “Well, you’re right, but not just yet. This is going to be a question. It will be so complicated we’re going to give it to you in writing. But not just yet. I think I’ll talk to you first.”
“All right. I don’t mind talking.”
“Now, Brain, in a little while, Dr. Lanning and Dr. Bogert will be here with this complicated question. We’ll give it to you a very little at a time and very slowly, because we want you to be careful. We’re going to ask you to build something, if you can, out of the information, but I’m going to warn you now that the solution might involve . . . uh . . . damage to human beings.”
“Gosh!” The exclamation was hushed, drawn-out.
“Now you watch for that. When we come to a sheet which means damage, even maybe death, don’t get excited. You see, Brain, in this case, we don’t mind—not even about death; we don’t mind at all. So when you come to that sheet, just stop, give it back—and that’ll be all. You understand?”
“Oh, sure. By golly, the death of humans! Oh, my!”
“Now, Brain, I hear Dr. Lanning and Dr. Bogert coming. They’ll tell you what the problem is all about and then we’ll start. Be a good boy, now—”
Slowly the sheets were fed in. After each one came the interval of the queerly whispery chuckling noise that was The Brain in action. Then the silence that meant readiness for another sheet. It was a matter of hours—during which the equivalent of something like seventeen fat volumes of mathematical physics were fed into The Brain.
As the process went on, frowns appeared and deepened. Lanning muttered ferociously under his breath. Bogert first gazed speculatively at his fingernails, and then bit at them in abstracted fashion. It was when the last of the thick pile of sheets disappeared that Calvin, white-faced, said:
“Something’s wrong.”
Lanning barely got the words out, “It can’t be. Is it—dead?”
“Brain?” Susan Calvin was trembling. “Do you hear me, Brain?”
“Huh?” came the abstracted rejoinder. “Do you want me?”
“The solution—”
“Oh, that! I can do it. I’ll build you a whole ship, just as easy—if you let me have the robots. A nice ship. It’ll take two months maybe.”
“There was—no difficulty?”
“It took long to figure,” said The Brain.
Dr. Calvin backed away. The color had not returned to her thin cheeks. She motioned the others away.
In her office, she said, “I can’t understand it. The information, as given, must involve a dilemma—probably involves death. If something has gone wrong—”
Bogert said quietly, “The machine talks and makes sense. It can’t be a dilemma.”
But the psychologist replied urgently, “There are dilemmas and dilemmas. There are different forms of escape. Suppose The Brain is only mildly caught; just badly enough, say, to be suffering from the delusion that he can solve the problem, when he can’t. Or suppose it’s teetering on the brink of something really bad, so that any small push shoves it over.”
“Suppose,” said Lanning, “there is no dilemma. Suppose Consolidated’s machine broke down over a different question, or broke down for purely mechanical reasons.”
“But even so,” insisted Calvin, “we couldn’t take chances. Listen, from now on, no one is to as much as breathe to The Brain. I’m taking over.”
“All right,” sighed Lanning, “take over, then. And meanwhile we’ll let The Brain build its ship. And if it does build it, we’ll have to test it.”
He was ruminating, “We’ll need our top field men for that.”
Michael Donovan brushed down his red hair with a violent motion of his hand and a total indifference to the fact that the unruly mass sprang to attention again immediately.
He said, “Call the turn now, Greg. They say the ship is finished. They don’t know what it is, but it’s finished. Let’s go, Greg. Let’s grab the controls right now.”
Powell said wearily, “Cut it, Mike. There’s a peculiar overripe flavor to your humor at its freshest, and the confined atmosphere here isn’t helping it.”
“Well, listen,” Donovan took another