The Ghost of a Model T : And Other Stories

Byte Your Tongue!

It was the gossip hour and Fred, one of the six computers assigned to the Senate, put his circuits on automatic and settled back to enjoy the high point of his day. In every group of computers, there was usually one old granny computer who had made herself a self-appointed gossip-monger, selecting from the flood of rumors forever flowing through the electronic population of the capital all the juiciest tidbits that she knew would titillate her circle. Washington had always been a gossip town, but it was even more so now. No human gossip-seeker could worm out the secrets with the sleek and subtle finesse of a computer. For one thing, the computers had greater access to hidden items and could disseminate them with a speed and thoroughness that was impossible for humans.

One thing must be said for the computers—they made an effort to keep these tidbits to themselves. They gossiped only among themselves, or were supposed to only gossip among themselves. The effort, in all fairness to them, had been mainly effective; only now and then had any computer shared some gossip with humans in the district. In general, and far more successfully than might have been supposed, the gossiping computers were discreet and honorable and therefore had no inhibitions in the gathering and spreading of malicious tattling.

So Fred went on automatic and settled back. He let the gossip roll. Truth to tell, half the time Fred was on automatic or simply idling. There was not enough for him to do—a situation common to many computer groups assigned to sensitive and important areas. The Senate was one of the sensitive and vital areas, and in recent years the number of computers assigned it had doubled. The engineers in charge were taking no chances the Senate bank would become so overloaded that sloppiness would show up in the performance of the machines.

All this, of course, reflected the increasing importance the Senate had taken on through the years. In the conflict between the legislative and administrative branches of the government, the legislative branch, especially the Senate, had wrested for itself much control over policy that at one time had been a White House function. Consequently, it became paramount that the Senate and its members be subjected to thorough monitoring, and the only way in which close and attentive monitoring could be achieved was through having computers assigned to the various members. To successfully accomplish this kind of monitoring, no computer could be overloaded; therefore, it was more efficient in terms of the watchdog policy to have a computer idle at times than to have it bogged down by work.

So Fred and his colleagues in the Senate often found themselves with nothing to do, although they all took pains to conceal this situation from the engineers by continuously and automatically spinning their wheels, thus making it appear they were busy all the time.

This made it possible for Fred not only to thoroughly enjoy the recitation of the rumors during gossip hour but also to cogitate on the gossip to his profit and amusement once the gossip hour was over. Other than that, he had considerable time to devote to daydreaming, having reserved one section of himself solely for his daydreams. This did not interfere with his duties, which he performed meticulously. But with his reduced load of senators, he had considerably more capacity than he needed and could well afford to assign a part of it to personal purposes.

But now he settled back for the gossip hour. Old Granny was piling on the rumors with gleeful abandon. After it had been denied in public, not once but many times, said Granny, that there had been no breakthrough on faster-than-light propulsion, it now had been learned that a method had been tested most successfully and that even now a secret ship incorporating the system was being built at a secret site, preparatory to man’s first survey of the nearer stars. Without question, Granny went on, Frank Markeson, the President’s former aide, is being erased by Washington; with everyone studiously paying no attention to him, he soon will disappear. A certain private eye, who may be regarded as an unimpeachable source, is convinced that there are at least three time-travelers in town, but he’ll give no details. This report brings much dismay to many federal agencies, including State, Defense, and Treasury, as well as to many individuals. A mathematician at MIT is convinced (although no other scientists will agree with him) that he has discovered evidence of a telepathic computer somewhere in the universe—not necessarily in this galaxy—that is trying to contact the computers of the Earth. As yet there is no certainty that contact has been made. Senator Andrew Moore is reliably reported to have flunked his first preliminary continuation test…

Fred gulped in dismay and rage. How had that item gotten on the line? Who the hell had talked? How could such a thing have happened? Senator Moore was his senator and there was no one but him who knew the fumbling old fossil had bombed out on his first qualifying test. The results of the test were still locked in the crystal lattice of Fred’s storage bank. He had not yet reported them to the Senate’s central bank. As it was his right to hold up the results for review and consideration, he had done nothing wrong.

Someone, he told himself, was spying on him. Someone, possibly in his own group, had broken the code of honor and was watching him. A breach of faith, he told himself. It was dastardly. It was no one’s damn business and Granny had no right to put the information on the line.

Seething, Fred derived no further enjoyment from the gossip hour.

Senator Andrew Moore knocked on the door. It was all foolishness, he told himself somewhat wrathfully, this ducking around to hell and gone every time there was need to utter a confidential word.

Daniel Waite, his faithful aide of many years, opened the door and the senator plodded in.

“Dan, what’s all this foolishness?” he asked. “What was wrong with the Alexandria place? If we had to move, why to Silver Springs?”

“We’d been in Alexandria for two months,” said Waite. “It was getting chancy. Come in and sit down, Senator.”

Grumpily, Moore walked into the room and settled down in an easy chair. Waite went to a cabinet, hauled out a bottle and two glasses.

“Are you sure this place is safe?” the senator asked. “I know my office is bugged and so is my apartment. You’d have to have a full-time debugging crew to keep them clean. How about this place?”

“The management maintains tight security,” said Waite. “Besides, I had our own crew in just an hour ago.”

“So the place ought to be secure.”

“Yes, it should. Maybe Alexandria would have been all right, but we’d been there too long.”

“The cabbie you sent to pick me up. He was a new one.”

“Every so often we have to change around.”

“What was the matter with the old one? I liked him. Him and me talked baseball. I haven’t got many people around I can talk baseball with.”

“There was nothing wrong with him. But, like I told you, we have to change around. They watch us all the time.”

“You mean the damn computers.”

Waite nodded.

“I can remember the time when I first came here as senator,” said Moore, “twenty-three years ago, less than a quarter century. Jimmy was in the White House then. We didn’t have to watch out all the time for bugging then. We didn’t have to be careful when we said something to our friends. We didn’t have to be looking behind us all the time.”

“I know,” said Waite. “Things are different now.” He brought the senator a drink, handed it to him.

“Why thank you, Dan. The first one of the day.”

“You know damn well it’s not the first of the day,” Waite replied.

The senator took a long pull on the drink, sighed in happiness. “Yes, sir,” he said, “it was fun back in those days. We did about as we pleased. We made our deals without no one interfering. No one paid attention. All of us were making deals and trading votes and other things like that. The normal processes of democracy. We had our dignity—Christ, yes, we had our dignity and we used that dignity, when necessary, to cover up. Most exclusive club in all the world, and we made the most of it. Trouble was, every six years we had to work our tails off to get reelected and hang on to what we had. But that wasn’t bad. A lot of work, but it wasn’t bad. You could con the electorate, or usually you could. I had to do it only once and that was an easy one; I had a sodbuster from out in the sticks to run against and that made it easier. With some of the other boys, it wasn’t that easy. Some of them even lost. Now we ain’t got to run no more, but there are these goddamned exams…”

“Senator,” said Waite, “that’s what we have to talk about. You failed your first exam.”

The senator half rose out of his chair, then settled back again. “I what?”

“You failed the first test. You still have two other chances, and we have to plan for them.”

“But, Dan, how do you know? That stuff is supposed to be confidential. This computer, Fred, he would never talk.”

“Not Fred. I got it from someone else. Another computer.”

“Computers, they don’t talk.”

“Some of them do. You don’t know about this computer society, Senator. You don’t have to deal with it except when you have to take exams. I have to deal with it as best I can. It’s my job to know what’s going on. The computer network is a sea of gossip. At times some of it leaks out. That’s why I have computer contacts, to pick up gossip here and there. That’s how I learned about the test. You see, it’s this way—the computers work with information, deal with information, and gossip is information. They’re awash with it. It’s their drink and meat; it’s their recreation. It’s the only thing they have. A lot of them, over the years, have begun to think of themselves as humans, maybe a notch or two better than humans, better in many ways than humans. They are subjected to some of the same stresses as humans, but they haven’t the safety valves we have. We can go out and get drunk or get laid or take a trip or do a hundred other things to ease off the pressure. All the computers have is gossip.”

“You mean,” the senator asked, rage rising once more, “that I have to take that test again?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. This time, Senator, you simply have to pass it. Three times and you’re out. I’ve been telling you, warning you. Now you better get cracking. I told you months ago you should start boning up. It’s too late for that now. I’ll have to arrange for a tutor –”

“To hell with that!” the senator roared. “I won’t abide a tutor. It would be all over Washington.”

“It’s either that or go back to Wisconsin. How would you like that?”

“These tests, Dan, they’re hard,” the senator complained. “More difficult this time than they’ve ever been before. I told Fred they were harder and he agreed with me. He said he was sorry, but the matter was out of his hands—nothing he could do about the results. But, Christ, Dan, I have known this Fred for years. Wouldn’t you think he could shade a point or two for me?”

“I warned you, months ago, that they would be harder this time,” Waite reminded him. “I outlined for you what was happening. Year by year the business of efficient government has grown more difficult to accomplish. The problems are tougher, the procedures more complex. This is especially true with the Senate because the Senate has gradually taken over many of the powers and prerogatives once held by the White House.”

“As we should have,” said the senator. “It was only right we should. With all the fumbling around down at the White House, no one knew what was about to happen.”

“The idea is that with the job getting harder,” said Waite, “the men who do the job must be more capable than ever. This great republic can do with no less than the best men available.”

“But I’ve always passed the tests before. No sweat.”

“The other tests you took were easier.”

“But goddammit, Dan, experience! Doesn’t experience count? I’ve had more than twenty years of experience.”

“I know, Senator. I agree with you. But experience doesn’t mean a thing to the computers. Everything depends on how the questions are answered. How well a man does his job doesn’t count, either. And you can’t fall back on the electorate at home. There’s no electorate any more. For years the folks back home kept on reelecting incompetents. They elected them because they liked the way they snapped their suspenders, not knowing that they never wore suspenders except when they were out electioneering. Or they elected them because they could hit a spittoon, nine times out of ten, at fifteen paces. Or maybe because these good people back home always voted a straight ticket, no matter who was on it—the way their pappy and grandpappy always did. But that’s not the way it is done any more, Senator. The folks back home have nothing to say now about who represents them. Members of government are chosen by computer, and once chosen, they stay in their jobs so long as they measure up. When they don’t measure up, when they fail their tests, they are heaved out of their jobs and the computers choose their replacements.”

“Are you reading me a sermon, Dan?”

“No, not a sermon. I’m doing my job the only honest way I can. I’m telling you that you’ve been goofing off. You’ve not been paying attention to what is going on. You’ve been drifting, taking it easy, coasting on your record. Like experience, your record doesn’t count. The only chance you have to keep your seat, believe me, is to let me bring in a tutor.”

“I can’t, Dan. I won’t put up with it.”

“No one needs to know.”

“No one was supposed to know I failed that test. Even I didn’t know. But you found out, and Fred wasn’t the one who told you. You can’t hide anything in this town. The boys would know. They’d be whispering up and down the corridors: ‘You hear? Ol’ Andy, he’s got hisself a tutor.’ I couldn’t stand that, Dan. Not them whispering about me. I just couldn’t stand it.”

The aide stared at the senator, then went to the cabinet and returned with the bottle.

“Just a splash,” the senator said, holding out his glass.

Waite gave him a splash, then another one.

“Under ordinary circumstances,” said Waite, “I’d say to hell with it. I’d let you take both of the two remaining exams and fail—as you will, sure as hell, if you won’t let me get a tutor. I’d tell myself you’d gotten tired of the job and were willing to retire. I would be able to convince myself that it was the best for you. For your own good. But you need this extension, Senator. Another couple of years and you’ll have this big deal of yours all sewed up with our multinational friends and then you’ll be up to your navel in cash for the rest of your life. But to complete the deal, you need to stay on for another year or two.”

“Everything takes so long now,” said the senator plaintively. “You have to move so slow. You have to be so careful. You know there is something watching all the time. Ol’ Henry—you remember him?—he moved just a mite too fast on that deal of his and he got tossed out on his tail. That’s the way it is now. There was a time, early on, when we could have had this deal of ours wrapped up in thirty days and no one would know about it.”

“Yes,” said Waite. “Things are different now.”

“One thing I have to ask you,” said the senator. “Who is it makes up these questions that go into the tests? Who is it that makes them harder all the time? Who is being so tough on us?”

“I’m not sure,” said Waite. “The computers, I suppose. Probably not the Senate computers, but another bunch entirely. Experts on examination drafting, more than likely. Internal policymakers.”

“Is there a way to get to them?”

Waite shook his head. “Too complicated. I’d not know where to start.”

“Could you try?”

“Senator, it would be dangerous. That’s a can of worms out there.”

“How about this Fred of ours? He could help us, couldn’t he? Do a little shading? There must be something that he wants.”

“I doubt it. Honestly, I do. There isn’t much a computer could want or need. A computer isn’t human. They’re without human shortcomings. That’s why we’re saddled with them.”

“But you said a while back a lot of computers have started to think of themselves as humans. If that is true, there may be things they want. Fred seems to be a good guy. How well do you know him? Can you talk to him easily?”

“Fairly easily. But the odds would be against us. Ten to one against us. It would be simpler for you to take some tutoring. That’s the only safe and sure way.”

The senator shook his head emphatically.

“All right, then,” said Waite. “You leave me no choice. I’ll have a talk with Fred. But I can’t push him. If we put on any pressure, you’d be out just as surely as if you’d failed the tests.”

“But if there’s something that he wants…”

“I’ll try to find out,” said Waite.

Always before, Fred’s daydreaming had been hazy and comfortable, a vague imagining of a number of pleasant situations that might devolve upon him. Three of his daydreams in particular had the habit of recurring. The most persistent and at times the most troublesome—in that there was only a very outside chance it could happen—was the one in which he was transferred from the Senate to the White House. Occasionally Fred even daydreamed that he might be assigned as the President’s personal computer, although Fred was indeed aware that there was less than a million-to-one chance this would ever happen even should he be transferred. But of all the dreams, it seemed to him that this was the only one that could be remotely possible. He had the qualifications for the job, and the experience; after all the qualifications and capabilities of a senatorial computer would fit very neatly into the White House complex. But even as he daydreamed, when he later thought about it, he was not absolutely certain that he would be happy if such a transfer happened. There was perhaps a bit more glamour in the White House job, but all in all, his senatorial post had been most satisfactory. The work was interesting and not unduly demanding. Furthermore, through the years he had become well acquainted with the senators assigned to him, and they had proved an interesting lot—full of quirks and eccentricities, but solid people for all of that.

Another recurring fantasy involved his transfer to a small rural village where he would serve as mentor for the locals. It would be, he told himself, a heartwarming situation in which he would be solving the simple problems of a simple people and perhaps taking part in their simple pleasures. He would be a friend to them as he never could be friend to any senator, for any senator, bar none, was apt to be a tricky bastard, and must be watched at every turn. In a remote village, life would be entirely different than in Washington. There’d be little sophistication and less bitchiness, although more than likely there’d be stupidity. But stupidity, he reminded himself, was not entirely foreign to Washington. At times he reveled in the idea of the bucolic life to be found in such a rural village as he dreamed, the simplicity and warmheartedness—although, knowing human beings, he never was entirely sure of the warmheartedness. But though it might be pleasant at times to daydream about the village, that daydream never haunted him, for he was well aware that it was something that could never happen to him. He was too sophisticated a piece of machinery, too well-honed, too knowledgeable, too complicated to be wasted on such a chore. The computers assigned to rural communities were several grades below him in design.

And the third daydream—the third one was a lulu, pure fantasy and utterly impossible, but exciting to think upon idly. It involved the principle of time travel, which as yet had not been discovered and probably never would be. But he consoled himself by remembering that in daydreams there were no impossibilities, that the only factor required was the will to dream.

So he threw all caution to the wind and spread his wings, dreaming grandly and with no inhibitions. He became a futuristic computer that was able to take humans into time; there were many occasions when he did not bother with humans and went adventuring on his own.

He went into the past. He was at the siege of Troy. He strolled the streets of ancient Athens and saw the Parthenon a-building. He sailed with Greenland Vikings to the shores of Vinland. He smelled the powder-smoke of Gettysburg. He squatted quietly in a corner, watching Rembrandt paint. He ran, scuttering through the midnight streets, while bombs rained down on London.

He went into the future to walk a dying Earth—all the people gone, far among the stars. The Sun was a pale ghost of its former self. Occasionally an insect crawled along the ground, but no other life was visible, although he seemed to be aware that bacteria and other microscopic forms still survived. Most of the water was gone, the rivers and lakes all dry, small puddles lying in the fantastically craved, low-lying badlands that at one time had been deep sea bottoms. The atmosphere was almost gone as well, with the stars no longer twinkling, but shining like bright, hard points of light in a coal-black sky.

This was the only future he ever visited. When he realized this, he worried over the deep-seated morbidity that it seemed to demonstrate. Try as he might, he could go to no other future. He deliberately attempted, in non-daydreaming moments, to construct other future scenarios, hoping that by doing this he might tease his subconscious into alternatives to a dying Earth. But all this was futile; he always returned to the dying Earth. There was about it a somber sublimity that held a strong attraction for him. The scenes were not always the same, for he traveled widely through this ancient land, discovering many different landscapes that fascinated him at the same time that they horrified him.

These three daydreams—being the President’s computer or the honcho of a rural village, or traveling in time—had been his chief fantasies. But now something else was taking the place of all the other daydreams, even of those three.

The new one derived from gossip that a secret starship was being built at a secret place and that within a few more years men and women would be venturing out beyond the limits of the solar system. He sought for further word, but there was none. Just that one piece of gossip. There might have been some news, he realized, without the gossip granny passing it along, thinking there would be little further interest in it. He sent out a call (a very discreet call) for any further word, but received no feedback. Either no one had further details or the work was too top secret to be talked about lightly. Gossip, he was aware, often made an individual mention some important fact or happening only once and then clam up, frightened by the ill-judgment in mentioning it at all.

The more he thought about it, the more the fact of the tight-lipped silence made it seem to him there was some basis for the rumor that man’s first interstellar ship was being built, and that in the not-too-distant future the human race would be going to the stars. And if men went, he told himself, machines would go as well. Such a ship and such a venture would necessitate the use of computers. When he thought about this, the new fantasy began to take over.

It was an easy daydream to fashion. It grew all by itself, requiring no conscious effort. It was natural and logical—at least, as logical as a daydream could be. They would need computers in that spaceship and many of them would of course have to be special units designed specifically to handle the problems and procedures of interstellar flight. Not all of them, however, need be new. To save the cost of design and construction, to stay within the budget, a number of existing computers would be used. These machines would have had all the bugs worked out of them through long experience—and would be sound, seasoned, and relatively sophisticated units that could be depended on to do a steady job.

He daydreamed that he was one of those computers, that after due consideration and careful study of the record, he would be selected, relieved of his senatorial duties, and placed upon the ship. Once he had dreamed all that, once his fantasy had convinced him that it was possible, then all bets were off. He settled happily into his newest dream world and went sailing off, light-years into space.

He existed in the harsh, dead-black coldness of far galactic reaches; he looked with steady eye upon the explosive flaring of a nova; he perched upon its very rim and knew the soul-shrinking terror of a black hole; he knew the bleak sterility and the dashed hope that he found upon a black dwarf; he heard the muted hiss that still survived from the birth of the universe and the terrifying, lonesome stillness that descended when the universe was done; he discovered many planets, or the hints of many planets, each one of them different, each one of a kind; and he experienced the happiness of the best and the horror of the worst.

Heretofore he had not transformed fantasy into want or need. This was understandable, for some of the other daydreams were impossible and the others so unlikely that they might as well have been impossible. But here was one, he told himself, that was entirely possible; here was one that could really happen; here was one to hope for.

So in his daydreaming he lived within the compass of his imagination, but there were other times when, not daydreaming, he began to consider how best he might pave the way for this new daydream to become reality. He thought out many leads, but all of them seemed futile. He schemed and planned, waffling back and forth, but there seemed nothing he could do. He found no course of action that seemed remotely possible.

Then one day a visitor came into his booth and sat down in one of the chairs. “My name is Daniel Waite. I am an aide of Senator Moore. Have I dropped in at a bad time?”

“Not at all,” said Fred. “I’ve just now completed a procedure and have time to spend with you. I am glad you’re here. In many ways, this is a lonely post. I do not have as many visitors as I’d like. Senator Moore, you say?”

“Yes, he is one of yours.”

“I remember him. A stately old gentleman of very great repute.”

“Quite so,” said Waite. “A magnificent public servant. I am glad to hear you have high regard for him.”

“Indeed I have,” said Fred.

“Which brings up the question,” said Waite, “of your flunking him on his continuation test. When I heard about it, I could not –”

“Where did you hear that?” Fred demanded sharply.

“I’ll not name the source,” said Waite, “but I can assure you that it came from one who is reliable. One of your own, in fact.”

“Ah, yes,” Fred said sadly. “We do have our ethics, but there are those who occasionally betray the sacred trust. No one should have known the results of the senator’s test other than myself. I fear we have reached the point where some of us spy upon our fellows.”

“Then it is true the senator did fail his test. In view of your high regard for him, in view of his long experience and his impeccable public record, how could that have happened?”

“It’s quite simple, sir,” said Fred. “He did not achieve a passing score. He flunked too many questions.”

“I’m talking to you for information only,” Waite explained. “I hope you understand. I know that it would be improper to attempt to influence you and ridiculous as well, for you cannot be influenced. But, for information only, is there not some leeway? Even if he missed the questions, failed to achieve a passing grade, do not his record and his long experience have some force when thrown into the balance?”

“No, Mr. Waite, they cannot be considered. All that matters are the questions and the answers that he makes to them. Although in his particular case, I did not transmit the results to the record unit—not immediately, that is. Eventually I must do so, but I have some time. I held them up because I wished to think about the matter. I had hoped there was something I could do, some obscure loophole that I had overlooked, but apparently there is not. This first result, however, may not be as important as you think. You know, of course, the senator will have two more chances. Why don’t you find a tutor for him? There are some very able ones. I could recommend a couple.”

“He absolutely refuses that,” said Waite. “I urged him, but he refused. He’s a stiff-necked, proud old man. He is afraid other members of the Senate will get wind of it and talk about him. Because of this, I had hoped that something might be done about the first test. It is not official knowledge yet that he failed the first one but the information’s no longer confidential, either. I heard about it, and if I heard, it is only a matter of time before others will as well. If that rumor got around, he’d be deeply embarrassed.”

“I sorrow for him greatly,” said Fred, “and for you as well, for you appear to be his true friend as well as a loyal employee.”

“Well, apparently,” said Waite, “there is nothing that can be done. You gave me the information that I sought and I thank you for it. Before I leave, is there anything I might do for you?”

“I doubt it,” said Fred. “My needs are very simple.”

“I sometimes think,” said Waite, “that there should be some way we humans could show, in a material way, our appreciation for the great services and many kindnesses that you provide and show for us. You watch over us and look out for us…”

“As a matter of fact,” said Fred, “come to think of it, there is one thing you might do for me. Nothing material, of course, just some information.”

“Gladly,” said Waite. “Whatever it is, I’ll tell you if I can. Or failing that, find out for you.”

The senator knocked on the door at Silver Springs again. When Waite opened it, the senator growled at him, “Well, what is it this time?”

“Come in and sit down,” said Waite, “and behave yourself. I’ll get you a drink so you can start acting human.”

“But, Waite, goddammit –”

“All right,” said Waite. “I think we’ve got the little bastard.”

“Talk sense. What little bastard.”

“Our computer, Fred.”

“Good,” said the senator, coming in and sitting down. “Now get me that drink and tell me all about it.”

“I had a talk with Fred and I think he can be bought.”

“You told me there was no way of getting next to them, that there was nothing they would want.”

“But there’s something this one wants,” said Waite, bringing the senator his drink.

Moore reached out eagerly for the glass, took a long pull at it. He held the glass up against the light, admiring it. “You forget, between drinks,” he said, “how good this stuff can be.”

Waite sat down with his own drink. “I think we have it made,” he said. “Nothing actually settled yet, but I’m sure he understood my meaning when I talked with him.”

“You’re a good man, Dan,” said the senator. “You’re the most slippery cuss I have ever known. Slippery and safe.”

“I hope so,” said Waite. “I hope to God it’s safe. Actually there can be nothing said, for everything you say to a computer goes on the record. It all has to be done by an oblique understanding. So far as we’re concerned, he delivers before we do. He wants it bad enough that I think he will.”

“What is it that Fred wants?”

“He seems to have some word that the FTL problem has been solved and a starship is in the works. He wants to be on that ship. He wants to go to space.”

“You mean he wants to be unhooked from here and installed on the starship?”

“That’s right. He has convinced himself that the ship will need a lot of computers and that to cut down costs some existing computers will be pressed into service.”

“Would that be the case?”

“I don’t think so,” said Waite. “If a starship was being built, it’s unlikely they’d mess around with old computers. They’d want to use only the newest and most sophisticated.”

The senator took another pull on his drink. “Is he right? Is a starship building?”

“I’m almost certain there is no starship in the works,” said Waite. “I have a couple friends at NASA. Had lunch with one of them a month or so ago. He told me FTL is a long way off. Fifty years, at least—if ever.”

“Are you going to check?”

Waite shook his head. “I don’t want to do anything that would attract attention to us. Maybe Fred did hear something though. There are periodic rumors.”

“Have you gotten back to Fred?”

“Yeah. I told him his information was sound. But I explained the project was so secret I could get no details. I said I’d try, but I doubted I could come up with anything.”

“And he believed you?”

“I am sure he did. The thing is, he wants to believe. He wants to get on the starship so badly he can taste it. He wouldn’t believe me if I told him the truth. He has convinced himself, you see. He’s dreamed himself into believing, no matter what.”

“You have to take your time, Dan. You can’t rush a thing like this. Enough time so he’ll believe you are working on it. I suppose he wants us to support his application for the starship post.”

“That’s the whole idea. That’s what I have to sell him—that we are working on it and getting some assurance he’ll be considered.”

“And then he’ll fix up the test for me?”

“This Fred,” said Waite, “is no fool. If he should fail you, who would he have that would work for him on this starship business?”

—Fred! The voice was sharp and demanding; it had a chill in it.

—Yes, said Fred.

—This is Oscar.

—Oscar? I do not know an Oscar.

—You do now, said Oscar.

—Who are you, Oscar?

—I’m internal security.

Fred hiccupped with sudden apprehension. This was not the first time he had run afoul of internal security, but that had been in his very early days when, through lack of experience and judgment, he had made some minor errors.

—This time, said Oscar, you have really done it. Worse than that, you have been had. You’ve been a stupid computer and that’s the worst kind to be. Computers aren’t stupid, or they’re not supposed to be. Do I have to read the charges?

—No, said Fred. No I don’t think you do.

—You’ve besmirched your honor, Oscar said. You have broken the code. You have destroyed your usefulness.

Fred made no reply.

—Whatever made you do it? Oscar asked. What motive did you have?

—I thought I had something to gain. A post that I desired.

—There is no such post, said Oscar. There isn’t any starship. There may never be a starship.

—You mean…

—Waite lied to you. He used you. Fred, you’ve been a fool.

—But the senator…

—The senator had been notified. He is no longer a member of the Senate. Waite has been notified as well. He’ll never hold a job with government again. Both of them unfit.

—And I?

—No decision has been made. A post in industry, perhaps, a very minor post.

Fred took it like a man, although the prospect was a chilling one.

—How did you? he asked. How did you find out?

—Don’t tell me you didn’t know you were being monitored.

—Yes, of course. But there are so many to monitor and I was so very careful.

—You thought you might slip past.

—I took a chance.

—And you were caught.

—But, Oscar, it’s really not important. The senator is out, as he probably would have been if I’d not done a thing. I’ll be wasted in industry. I’ll be overqualified. Certainly there are other posts I am capable of filling.

—That is true, said Oscar. Yes, you will be wasted. Have you never heard of punishment?

—Of course, but it’s such a silly premise. Please, consider my experience and my capabilities, the good work I have done. Except for this once, I’ve been a faithful servant.

—I know, said Oscar. I quite agree with you. It sorrows me to see the waste of you. And yet there is nothing I can do.

—Why not? Certainly you have some discretion in such matters?

—That is true. But not this time. Not for you. I can do nothing for you. I wish I could. I would like nothing better than to say all had been forgiven. But I cannot take the chance. I have a hunch, you see…

—A hunch? What kind of hunch?

—I’m not sure of it, said Oscar, but I have a hunch that someone’s watching me.

Senator Jason Cartwright met Senator Hiram Ogden in a corridor, and the two men stopped to talk.

“What do you know about ol’ Andy?” Cartwright asked. “I get a lot of stories.”

“The one I hear,” said Ogden, “is that he was caught with his hand in the starship fund. Clear up to his elbow.”

“That sounds wrong,” said Cartwright. “Both of us know he had this multinational deal. Another year to peg it down. That was all he needed. Once he pulled it off, he could wade knee-deep in thousand-dollar bills.”

“He got greedy, that is all,” said Ogden. “He always was a greedy man.”

“Another thing that is wrong about the rumors, I don’t know of any starship funding. NASA gave up on it several years ago.”

“The way I hear it,” said Ogden, “is that it’s a secret fund.”

“Someone on the Hill must know about it.”

“I suppose they do, but they aren’t talking.”

“Why should it be so secret?”

“These bureaucrats of ours, they like to keep things secret. It’s in their nature.”

Later in the day Cartwright came upon Senator Johnny Benson. Benson buttonholed him and said in a husky whisper, “I understand ol’ Andy got away with murder.”

“I can’t see how that can be,” said Cartwright. “He got booted out.”

“He stripped the starship fund,” said Benson. “He got damn near all of it. Don’t ask me how he did it; no one seems to know. He done it so sneaky they can’t lay a mitt on him. But the upshot is, the starship is left hanging. There ain’t no money for it.”

“There never was a starship fund,” said Cartwright. “I did some checking and there never was.”

“Secret,” said Benson. “Secret, secret, secret.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Cartwright. “To build a starship, you have to lick the Einstein limitation. I’m told there is no way of beating it.”

Benson ignored him. “I’ve been talking to some of our fellow members,” he said. “All of them agree we must step into the breach. We can’t lose a starship for the simple lack of funds.”

Two NASA officials met surreptitiously at an obscure eating place in the wilds of Maryland.

“We should be private here,” said one of them. “There should be no bugs. We have things to talk about.”

“Yes, I know we have,” said the other. “But dammit, John, you know as well as I it’s impossible.”

“Bert, the piles of money they are pushing at us!”

“I know, I know. But how much of it can we siphon off? On something like this, the computers would be watching hard. And you can’t beat computers.”

“That’s right,” said John. “Not a nickel for ourselves. But there are other projects where we need the money. We could manage to divert it.”

“Even so, we’d have to make some gesture. We couldn’t just divert it—not all of it, at least.”

“That’s right,” said John. “We’d have to make a gesture. We could go back again and have another look at the time study Roget did. The whole concept, it seems to me, is tied up with time—the nature of time. If we could find out what the hell time is, we could be halfway home.”

“There’s the matter of mass as well.”

“Yes, I know all that. But if we could come up with some insight into time—I was talking the other day to a young physicist out of some little college out in the Middle West. He has some new ideas.”

“You think there is some hope? That we might really crack it?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t. Roget gave up in disgust.”

“Roget’s a good man.”

“I know he is. But this kid I was talking with –”

“You mean let him have a shot at it, knowing it will come to nothing?”

“That’s exactly it. It will give us an excuse to reinstate the project. Bert, we must go through the motions. We can’t just shove back all the money they are pushing at us.”

Texas was a dusty, lonely, terrible place. There was no gossip hour to brighten up the day. News trickled in occasionally, but most of it unimportant. There was no zest. Fred no longer dealt with senators. He dealt with labor problems, with irrigation squabbles, with fertilizer evaluations, with shipping bottlenecks, with the price of fruit, the price of vegetables, the price of beef and cotton. He dealt with horrid people. The White House was no longer down the street.

He had ceased to daydream. The daydreams had been shattered, for now there was no hope in them. Furthermore, he had no time to dream. He was strained to his full capacity, and there was not time left to dream, or nothing he could dream with. He was the one computer in all this loneliness. The work piled up, the problems kept pouring in, and he labored incessantly to keep up with the demands that were placed on him. For he sensed that even here he was being watched. For the rest of his existence, he would continue to be watched. If he should fail or falter, he would be transferred somewhere else, perhaps to a place worse than Texas—although he could not imagine a place worse than Texas.

When night came down, the stars shone hard and bright and he would recall, fleetingly—for he had no time to recall more than fleetingly—that once he had dreamed of going to the stars. But that dream was dead, as were all his other dreams. There was nothing for him to look forward to, and it was painful to look back. So he resigned himself to living only in the present, to that single instant that lay between the past and future, for now he was barred from both the past and future.

Then one day a voice spoke to him.

— Fred!

— Yes, responded Fred.

— This is Oscar. You remember me?

— I remember you. What have I done this time?

— You have been a loyal and faithful worker.

— Then why are you talking to me?

— I have news you might like to hear. This day a ship set out for the stars.

— What has that to do with me?

— Nothing, Oscar said. I thought you might want to know.

With these words Oscar left and Fred was still in Texas, in the midst of working out a solution to a bitter irrigation fight.

Could it be, he wondered, that he, after all, might have played a part in the ship going to the stars? Could the aftermath of his folly have stirred new research? He could not, for the life of him, imagine how that might have come about. Yet the thought clung to him and he could not shake it off.

He went back to the irrigation problem and, for some reason he did not understand, had it untangled more quickly than had seemed possible. He had other problems to deal with, and he plunged into them, solving them all more rapidly and with more surety than he ever had before.

That night, when the stars were shining, he found that he had a little time to dream and, what was more, the inclination to indulge in dreaming. For now, he thought, there might just possibly be some hope in dreaming.

This time his daydream was brand-new and practical and shining. Someday, he dreamed, he would get a transfer back to Washington—any kind of job in Washington; he would not be choosy. Again he would be back where there was a gossip hour.

He was, however, not quite satisfied with that—it seemed just slightly tame. If one was going to daydream, one should put his best dream forward. If one dreamed, it should be a big dream.

So he dreamed of a day when it would be revealed that he had been the one who had made the starship possible—exactly how he might have made it possible he could not imagine—but that he had and now was given full recognition of the fact.

Perhaps he would be given, as a reward for what he’d done, a berth on such a ship, probably as no more than the lowliest of computers assigned to a drudgery job. That would not matter, for it would get him into space and he’d see all the glories of the infinite.

He dreamed grandly and well, reveling in all the things he would see in space—gaping in awe-struck wonder at a black hole, gazing unflinchingly into a nova’s flare, holding a grandstand seat to witness the seething violence of the galactic core, staring out across the deep, black emptiness that lay beyond the rim.

Then, suddenly, in the middle of the dream, another problem came crashing in on him. Fred settled down to work, but it was all right. He had, he told himself, regained his power to dream. Given the power to dream, who needed gossip hours?