The Complete Stories_ Volume 1 - Isaac Asimov [155]
The result was, naturally, that even the intention of crime fell off. And as such intentions fell off and as Multivac's capacity was enlarged, minor crimes could be added to the list it would predict each morning, and these crimes, too, were now shrinking in incidence.
So Gulliman had ordered an analysis made (by Multivac naturally) of Multivac's capacity to turn its attention to the problem of predicting probabilities of disease incidence. Doctors might soon be alerted to individual patients who might grow diabetic in the course of the next year, or suffer an attack of tuberculosis or grow a cancer. An ounce of prevention—
And the report was a favorable one!
After that, the roster of the day's possible crimes arrived and there was not a first-degree murder on the list. Gulliman put in an intercom call to Ali Othman in high good humor. "Othman, how do the numbers of crimes in the daily lists of the past week average compared with those in my first week as Chairman?" It had gone down, it turned out, by 8 per cent and Gulliman was happy indeed. No fault of his own, of course, but the electorate would not know that. He blessed his luck that he had come in at the right time, at the very climax of Multivac, when disease, too, could be placed under its all-embracing and protecting knowledge. Gulliman would prosper by this.
Othman shrugged his shoulders. "Well, he's happy."
"When do we break the bubble?" said Leemy. "Putting Manners under observation just raised the probabilities and house arrest gave it another boost."
"Don't I know it?" said Othman peevishly. "What I don't know is why."
"Accomplices, maybe, like you said. With Manners in trouble, the rest have to strike at once or be lost."
"Just the other way around. With our hand on one, the rest would scatter for safety and disappear. Besides, why aren't the accomplices named by Multivac?"
"Well, then, do we tell Gulliman?"
"No, not yet. The probability is still only 17.3 per cent. Let's get a bit more drastic first." Elizabeth Manners said to her younger son, "You go to your room, Ben."
"But what's it all about, Mom?" asked Ben, voice breaking at this strange ending to what had been a glorious day.
"Please!"
He left reluctantly, passing through the door to the stairway, walking up it noisily and down again quietly. And Mike Manners, the older son, the new-minted adult and the hope of the family, said in a voice and tone that mirrored his brother's, "What's it all about?"
Joe Manners said, "As heaven is my witness, son, I don't know. I haven't done anything."
"Well, sure you haven't done anything." Mike looked at his small-boned, mild-mannered father in wonder. "They must be here because you're thinking of doing something."
"I'm not."
Mrs. Manners broke in angrily, "How can he be thinking of doing something worth all—all this." She cast her arm about, in a gesture toward the enclosing shell of government men about the house. "When I was a little girl, I remember the father of a friend of mine was working in a bank, and they once called him up and said to leave the money alone and he did. It was fifty thousand dollars. He hadn't really taken it. He was just thinking about taking it. They didn't keep those things as quiet in those days as they do now; the story got out. That's how I know about it.
"But I mean," she went on, rubbing her plump hands slowly together, "that was fifty thousand dollars; fifty—
thousand—dollars. Yet all they did was call him; one phone call. What could your father be planning that would make it worth having a dozen men come down and close off the house?"
Joe Manners said, eyes filled with pain, "I am planning no crime, not even the smallest. I swear it." Mike, filled with the conscious wisdom of a new adult, said,