"Of what you're doing! Damn it, man, don't tell me that was all waste
effort in there! Look--I know what this means, and I'm with you all the
way. If only you could beat ECAIAC, I'll give it all the publicity it
can bear! Who knows--"
Beardsley looked at him blankly, and Pederson gave a snort and a
gesture. "All right! I guess I'm wrong. For a while there I actually
thought you had it." Pederson surveyed him shrewdly. "Just the same,
that bit you exploded--about the person who killed Carmack didn't hate
him at all--you meant that, Beardsley!"
"That's right, I meant it."
"My choice is Jeff Arnold."
"Ah? Now why do you say that?"
"The way you built up to it, that's why. And you got your result! Sheila
Carmack's in love with Arnold, and she tried to cover up for him ...
sure, that's it! It's obvious! She thinks he's the killer, either thinks
or knows it--"
"Ah, yes. The obvious," Beardsley said with a grimace. "But you know, I
learned a long time ago that the _obvious_ can be a mighty tricky thing.
A dangerous thing. The forceps of the mind are greedy, and inclined to
crush a little in the seizing...."
Pederson pondered that. "And you," he said slowly, "are not seizing. I
take that to mean you still have an angle!"
Beardsley didn't answer at once. He glanced over at the equate-panel, at
the flux of dancing lights. Mandleco was bright-eyed and attentive,
chomping on the stub of a cigar, head thrust forward as he listened to
some detail of Arnold's. Sheila stood miserably near by, still in a
blind shock of disbelief; it was as if she had a need to be close to
Arnold, and he felt it, too, but they dared not look at each other.
* * * * *
"Now let's suppose," said Beardsley, "just suppose that Arnold thinks
_Sheila_ is the killer. Eh? Let us say they _suspect each other_.
Naturally, each has disclaimed any part of the deed. But the suspicion
is there, that tiny seed; and suspicion, particularly where love is
involved, has a habit of taking root and giving growth. Neither can be
_totally_ sure of the other's innocence--eh?" He paused, peering up at
Pederson. "And Arnold would want to protect her from any possible
consequence. Now what would be his way of doing that? The only way he
knew?"
He saw the idea take hold. Pederson was staring at the equate-panel with
an odd look of excitement.
"Total reject," he gasped. "By God, if he should try _that_--to equate
her from Logical into reject--" He gestured helplessly. "No, it isn't
possible. Those tapes are coded! There's no way of tampering--" Pederson
stopped abruptly, as a great light dawned. "Wait a minute, though. It
needn't be the tapes! One thing I've always wondered--_would_ it be
possible to negate a given factor beyond all reach of empirical
cooerdinates? You know, through operational technique or setup--"
Beardsley peered at him. "I'd say anything was possible," he urged,
"given time and incentive."
Pederson bobbed his head in facile agreement. "By God, you're right! For
example, I've always thought there wasn't sufficient control on
Cumulative! You can bet your life Arnold would know ... results at that
point _could_ be juggled a little, say if the extrapolations were
just--"
The forceps, the forceps of the mind. Already Pederson was reaching out
to seize and to crush; the man was a fool after all! Beardsley felt a
burgeoning disgust, but there was something more, a throbbing,
chest-filling sensation that he strove to hold rigidly in leash. He said
quickly: "Come to think of it, Arnold did mention that he was here most
of last night, working on setup."
He watched Pederson absorb that, too; he saw the excitement grow.
"Beardsley, if you are _sure_--if you could prove that Arnold managed a
thing like that--"
They were interrupted by the sudden quiet that engulfed the room. It was
so total as to be frightening. CUMULATIVE--CUMULATIVE--CUMULATIVE. For
half-a-minute all operation ceased, as the words flashed bright across
the panel.
But the techs had been waiting. It was a mere respite. Swiftly, they
checked their respective units against Cumulative Code, and at the end
of thirty seconds every light went green for total clearance as ECAIAC's
deep-throated power resumed.
* * * * *
Beardsley had been waiting too. "Cumulative!" he breathed. He let his
breath out slowly, and made a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass
all the latent delight, all the unleashed joy of his being.
He was aware of Pederson again, a voice in panic: "Beardsley! Don't you
know what it means? If there's been an imbalance, it has passed through!
It will reach final equate!"
"That's right, it's entirely in ECAIAC's lap. You wouldn't want to
deprive her of the chance, now would you?"
"But--but what are you going to _do_?"
"Me? I'm going to watch. I'm going to watch one of the epic events of
our time--" For a moment Beardsley was solemn, almost shocked, as a
thought struck him. "In a way it will be sad. Yes, it will! ECAIAC is
about to lose her first case."
Now that was strange. Why should he have said such a thing? _Why ... now
that the game was over which had had to be played, and he felt the
bitter-sweet surge of victory that lay throbbing at his grasp!_ About to
lose her first case....
He shrugged in remote annoyance and strode away from Pederson. It would
be fast now! Already the rejects were falling, the irrelevants, as
ECAIAC with blithe unconcern brought the final equate toward conclusion.
He observed Jeff Arnold, standing silent and alert but so devoid of all
emotion that somehow it wasn't real ... and Mandleco, half crouched,
teeth gnawing away at the cigar, his heavy face rapacious and eager as
he awaited the final tape; that was all that mattered now; the
MATHEMATICS would register, CODE would add synaptic approval, and proof
indisputable would be on that tape in clean translated print--the name
of Carmack's killer.
Indisputable? Bowing his head, Beardsley smiled, and listened to the
smooth rhythmic control. Nothing sinister now! No snapping malevolence!
All those other times ... his unreasoning panic, the askance remarks
from Arnold, the humiliation ... the very thought of it now was gibing
and obscene. How could he ever have been caught up in such a thrall of
terror?
It wasn't terror he felt now. Something.... His smile turned to a giggle
as he felt a sudden compelling impulse to pat ECAIAC on the head!
* * * * *
Now how would one do THAT? Never mind. Never mind, never mind, never
again are you going to snap at _me_, Ekky. We were introduced, remember?
We're really great friends now.
For a moment Beardsley was suspended in astonishment, aware that he had
almost crooned the thought. He glanced around in embarrassment--
Pederson was watching him. Pederson was at his side again, perplexed and
frowning. "Beardsley--this business of Sheila and Arnold. It wouldn't
happen that way, it couldn't! There's another answer, there's _got_ to
be--"
Beardsley stood unmoving, oblivious. Almost, he seemed suspended in
another dimension; almost, he caught the quivering of a mind but could
not separate it from the sudden tremor that rose in his own....
He couldn't avoid it. It came unbidden, it battered through his reason,
it towered there and blotted out his thoughts until all that was left
was a tremulous regret, an attrite compassion.
About to lose her first case ... _but one loses! And one survives it,
you know, one survives it! For twelve years now...._
* * * * *
More than a tremor now. More than compassion now. A sense of betrayal
almost, illogical and nameless and yet palpable as the scent of fear.
There was a pulse of red darkness in Beardsley's brain as all the mental
and emotional equations of his being sang a sharp alarm. For subtly,
ever so subtly ECAIAC's deep-throated tone had changed ... nothing like
those other times, rather it was a halting stutter of puzzlement,
erratic and querulous, with overtones of immediacy as if some formless
presence were on the verge of unleashing.
Beardsley looked down at his hands, and they were trembling. He could
not stop the trembling. A tightness took him about the heart, and behind
his eyes that pulse of red darkness presaged the beginning of a violent
headache.
Even the others noticed it now, something amiss. Jeff Arnold especially.
He looked up in quick alarm at the equate-panel where the mathematics
seemed to have gone a little fitful, a little frantic, with stuttery
lapses in progression as if ECAIAC were unable or unwilling to confront.
The flux of pattern dimmed, then hesitated; blanked out and heroically
began anew.
It happened suddenly, then. It happened as the techs came crowding
around. There came a quivering, a sort of shudder, and ECAIAC subsided
with a final weary gasp. It was for all the world as if she were saying,
"This is it, boys. I've had it!"
But it was there, it was there! All at once every symbol was constant,
static and livid upon the screen, enhanced by the words
EQUATE--COMPLETE--EQUATE--COMPLETE. In that moment every tech in the
room must have felt a touch of pride.
A click, a whirr, and it was done. The fateful tape ejected.
Both Mandleco and Arnold leaped for it, but Arnold was there first. He
ripped the tape clear and then paused, hand outflung, as if he could not
resist this final bit of drama.
"Well? Well, Arnold?" Mandleco was hopping ludicrously about in an agony
of impatience.
Arnold nodded. He brought the tape to his scrutiny. His mouth opened,
then shut again as a shudder seized him. Once more he read it, a look of
wild disbelief on his face ... he staggered, and seemed about to cry or
go hysterical or both.
Mandleco gave a snort as he pounced, recovered the tape and with blunt
assurance read the words aloud:
"SOLUTION : UNTENABLE : SOLUTION : UNTENABLE : SUB-CIRCUIT REFERRAL :
ELLERY SHERLOCK : SUB-CIRCUIT REFERRAL: ELLERY SHERLOCK--"
He sounded like a well-grooved parrot. Mandleco turned east, then south,
then south-by-east, like a compass on a binge; he looked as if he wanted
to roar, but his voice came out as a frantic bleat: "Why, this is crazy!
Goddam it, it's crazy! Do you realize what this will--" He confronted
Arnold wildly. "What the hell does it MEAN, I say! Untenable? And who
the hell is _Ellery Sherlock...!_"
He got no response; Jeff Arnold was oblivious to the moment, a man
utterly defeated, beyond solace or action or answer ... but already a
few of his techs were huddled about the panel, consulting, viewing the
Equate Constant and frantically taking notes. Mandleco shoved his way
through them. "I demand to know the meaning of this!" he yelped.
* * * * *
It was Sheila Carmack who answered, her voice on the high edge of
hysteria. "_Meaning?_ I think it might mean," she said, "that ECAIAC has
also had a recent indulgence for the _whodunits_. But with a smattering
of confusion, wouldn't you say? Or would you say a distortion of the
detectival? Perhaps a disenchantment," she murmured ... this was too
absurd, too delicious. "Ellery Sherlock!" she choked, and the thought of
it seemed to break her up.
In the general hysteria they paid no heed to Raoul Beardsley. He had
regained his composure, and far down in his eyes something leaped into
rapt expression; he adjusted his glasses and peered around cautiously,
beaming. He beamed at them all, and had to suppress an inane glee....
Not glee as he observed Pederson, who stood there scowling into space
as though at some incredible absurdity. Suddenly Pederson straightened,
and there was something strangely different ... his gaze as it met
Beardsley's was neither shocked nor accusing but held an expression of
boundless sadness.
_So Pederson knew. At last the poor fellow had found that other
answer...._ Beardsley had been expecting it. He could almost sense the
man's thoughts going to and fro, like a shuttle, weaving all the facts
into fabric....
And Pederson's voice, ineffably sad now, regretful now: "So I was right
the first time. The tapes. It _was_ the tapes. But even without that I
ought to have known! The answer was there, you handed it to us, but it
was like looking straight into the sun--"
He paused. Did he expect Beardsley to say something? Beardsley looked up
at him and blinked.
* * * * *
"_Motives_," Pederson said accusingly. "There was your theme from the
first! You were relentless, you pursued it to perfection, you laid our
motives bare and you beat them raw, each and every one. Oh, I grant you
it was masterful! It was the Beardsley of old! You managed to keep us
off balance every moment--" He wet his lips. "What was it, Beardsley? A
compulsion, some grotesque need to squeeze us all down to microscopic
size first? Oh, you enjoyed doing that! I watched you. You enjoyed it in
a way that--" He shook his head, glanced sorrowfully at the
equate-panel. "And this ... was it all for this? An achievement--an
absurdity. Ellery Sherlock!" he said with a shudder. "In Heaven's name,
WHY? You didn't really expect to carry it off? No, don't answer! It's
not important now--"
Beardsley shrugged in remote annoyance. Must the man use such puerile
methods?
"Not important," Pederson repeated, and stood caught in a startled
wonderment. "Because you see, Beardsley, I just happen to remember
something from the _whodunits_! That surprises you? So long ago, I can't
quite recall who said it; but it was a rather good exposition of logic,
something to the effect that when you've exhausted the possible, all the
possible--that which remains--_no matter how impossible it may
seem_--must be the truth!"
His head lifted; his gaze bored into Beardsley's and his voice was
tight with meaning. "And I'd say we have come full circle, wouldn't you?
You will have to admit, you did a _real good job of eliminating_!"
Beardsley managed to smile, even as his mind jarred a little. Even as he
met Pederson's gaze and saw the compassion there, the acceptance there,
the understanding and boundless regret. For a split second something
leaped unspoken between them, as if doors in both their minds had opened
and closed again.
He turned away wordlessly. Close as Pederson had come, even he was an
irrelevance now. _But ECAIAC didn't_ know. Poor Ekky! Her first real
failure, a fiasco--she really deserved a better fate. Beardsley's heart
went out to her, as he observed Arnold in his defeat and Mandleco in his
frustration and the huddle of techs in their futile efforts.
Suddenly then--"Code!" he heard one of them say, gesturing excitedly.
"Post-subjective synapse!" another tech yelled, and there was a sudden
scurry of activity about the screen. Without warning or appreciable
reason those symbols had begun to shift ... wild and elusive, ghost
patterns without semblance or sense, but so unmistakable that even Jeff
Arnold was jarred alert; Arnold stared, then suddenly was white as chalk
as he ploughed into the midst of his techs.
Beardsley stood frozen, a fatuous smile about his lips; there was only
silence now, a silence that had a pulse in it--the beating of his heart.
Seconds only ... suddenly there was another pulse, from another heart.
ECAIAC wasn't quite finished! Unerring and resolute the sound came up,
slowly at first and then faster, gathering strength into a steady drone
as if every synapse were dredging, dredging deep into the sensitized
structure ... and even before the panel attained flux again, a tech was
waving his notes and yelling, "It's true! Post-subjective synapse!
Unbelievable ... Jeff, we now have a Constant!"
But ECAIAC was telling them that. The sound went on, and on, wild and
lone and constant, ascending to the confines of the room, transcending
the confines of reason. It was crescendo incarnate; it was purpose gone
rife; it was human and more than human, with all the fears and hopes and
hates, as it attained a high-pitched scream with wailing overtones such
as even Arnold had never heard. There was sentience in it, there was
awareness in it, there was fury in it and who could say if there was
grief...? There might have been.
Only Beardsley knew. He felt suddenly packed in ice, from his lips to
the pit of his belly; he revolved slowly away, took a few steps and
caught the edge of the panel. His whole body began to shake
uncontrollably and his lips moved in a soundless whisper that seemed to
say, "No, no ... don't you understand? ... we're friends now!"
But no one heard; no one would have understood. Arnold handled the tape
as it came looping out. The words fell slowly at first, then faster and
faster in constant repeat: CANCEL LAST EQUATE--SOLUTION TENABLE--CANCEL
LAST EQUATE--SOLUTION TENABLE--
Another word came, a single word. Arnold stiffened. One of the techs was
so indiscreet as to exclaim: "_Murderer?_ Where did it pick up that
word! 'Final Equate' is proper...."
A space, a whirr, and the rest of it came in a clicking rush against the
high-pitched scream: MURDERER--RAOUL BEARDSLEY--MURDERER--RAOUL
BEARDSLEY--MURDERER--RAOUL--MURDERER--MURDERER--incessant, untiring.
* * * * *
There was no trial. Trial presupposes a modicum of doubt, and Beardsley
dispelled that readily enough. Once more the pathetic figure, it was as
if he were impelled by a dull and pitiless logic; he waived all defense;
his confession to the murder of Amos Carmack was straightforward and
factual, unvarying to the point of boredom, insistent with
repetition--and in the socio-legal aspect there was the rub! Whether it
was true psychic shock or mere cunning, there seemed to be a blind spot
in Beardsley's responses, a stumbling reticence to elaborative detail
that left the Citizen's Disposition Council with a problem on its hands
baffling as it was unprecedented. Judicially they were safe. There would
not even be need of null-censor. But actually, the problem here was of
far more vital consequence than murder and indeed more frightening; it
had to do with Beardsley _vs._ ECAIAC, the encompassing _modus operendi_
and all the implications of that grotesque denouement.
At whatever cost, _these things had to be answered_.
Oh, there was amusement, too. The fact that Minister-of-Justice
Mandleco had begged off, far from gracefully, and retired to the
isolation of his ten-thousand-acre Alaskan ranch (for an unspecified
time) had brought snickers from those in the know.
The Chief-Counselor of Disposition looked as if he'd like to retire,
too. For the third time in as many days he took his place in the Private
Sessions chamber, glanced at Beardsley with shuddering disbelief and
then bent his head in pontifical guise as he leafed through his notes;
it wasn't as if he were unversed in the matter by now, but who was there
to question if his lips moved fretfully across the words "Ellery
Sherlock?" He was thinking: _yesterday wasted--covert regression, myself
included--no more of that_! And with that bolstering thought he brought
his head up sharply.
COUNSELOR: Our task for today--(_voice quavering, he saved it from the
upper registers_). Our task for today is to get at the aggregate
pattern. And I assure you, gentlemen, we are going to do that! Now. Mr.
Pederson, if you please....
PEDERSON: Yes, sir?
COUNSELOR: I see that Mr. Beardsley made certain statements to you, and
to you alone, immediately after the--uh--ECAIAC incident--
PEDERSON: You saw that three days ago! Must we go through it again?
COUNSELOR: We must and we shall! Due to the unnatural tenor of the case,
it is the opinion of the Council that these things must be fixed and
adjudged if we are to make a correct Disposition.
PEDERSON: (_wearily_): Yes, sir. Well, the fact is he seemed to want to
confide in me. Nothing strange in that! He realized he had lost, poor
guy, and he--
COUNSELOR: Mr. Pederson! No diversions, please. We'd simply like to hear
from your own lips what Beardsley told you. (Glances at his notes.) Is
it true that he said--his sole motive in this affair was to prove he
could conduct an investigation as efficiently as ECAIAC--_or any damned
machine_?
PEDERSON: (_hesitant, with a glance at Beardsley who sat remote and
vacuous_): Yes. He told me that.
COUNSELOR: Even to the point of committing a murder to prove it? And his
entire subsequent action was predicated upon that? We have extensive
reports here--from Mrs. Carmack, from Mandleco, from Jeff Arnold and
yourself. It is difficult to see how such a basically integrated and
well-functioning personality as Raoul Beardsley--
PEDERSON: (_angrily_): No. What you fail to see is the facade! What man
has stronger reason than the man who has lost his reason? It is the only
outlet for aggression, a devious fulfillment, it brings psychological
satisfactions which cannot be obtained in any other way--call it the
self-destructive impulse if you will. I doubt if Beardsley rationalized
this--but he had come to his moment, his time of assertion, his way of
making fools of us all ... and my complete opinion, sir, is that his
actions from beginning to end were both a triumph and an inspiration!
COUNSELOR: (_smugly_): Thank you, Mr. Pederson. These are the insights
you had not revealed before. (_Turns to member at far end of table._)
Dr. Deobler. As psychologist assigned to Disposition Council, may I ask
if there is an area of concurrence?
DEOBLER (_bored, but deigns to lift a hand_): Save for the rhetorics at
the very end, you have my official concurrence; it is obvious in every
aspect; this was a devious fulfillment of the self-destructive impulse.
COUNSELOR: Thank you, sir! It will be so noted. And now--(_Makes a
pretense of scanning his brief._) Now we come to an area of vital
interest--an area demanding our most urgent attention, inasmuch as it
gives indication of threatening our basic fundamental of cybernetic
detection; believe me, I cannot place enough emphasis here; I refer, of
course, to Mr. Beardsley's process of manipulation of ECAIAC, and this
strange business of "Ellery Sherlock." (_Pause._) Mr. Jeff Arnold, if
you please. I believe you were to be ready with some observations today?
ARNOLD: Yes, sir. But more than observation, I am glad to report. We
have _solved_ the "Ellery Sherlock" equate.
COUNSELOR: This is wonderful! Will you proceed, sir?
ARNOLD: A strange thing ... and yet so simple! We began by resurrecting
a huge number of "Summaries"; we dredged into Dead File for at least
three years back, re-ran them under a synapse intensifier. It's all
there, you know, every minute particle of every case that has gone
through ECAIAC; almost subliminal, some of it, but--
COUNSELOR: One moment, sir. This reference to "synapse." Could
you--ah--clarify?
ARNOLD: Why, a synapse is the primary adjunct to memory! The human brain
has billions of them, neuronically linked--sort of pathways that get
grooved deeper and deeper with constant repetition of thought, until
after a while they become completely permanent, retentive and
self-functioning. ECAIAC is similarly equipped--not to the degree of the
human brain, as yet, but amazingly.
COUNSELOR (_dazed_): Ah--yes. Please continue, sir.
ARNOLD: As I said, we revived a number of the old cases. And what we
discovered, was that Beardsley--for years past, mind you--had been
utilizing his capacity as Chief of Cooerdinates to introduce extraneous
material to ECAIAC _via_ the tapes! In each and every case that came
before him! Oh, you can believe me, he was clever, he went about it by
slow and subtle degrees! And the substance of this material,
sir--(_Pauses, gulps and shakes his head, unable to go on._)
COUNSELOR: Please control yourself, sir! The substance of this
extraneous material?
ARNOLD (_again gulps_): De-detective fiction!
COUNSELOR (_leans forward sharply_): Do I understand you correctly, Mr.
Arnold? You did say _detective fiction_?
ARNOLD: Of two types. Ellery Queen and Sherlock Holmes--I presume it was
Beardsley's random choice. But there was nothing random about his
purpose! Don't you see, don't you see, it all fits! It explains the
trouble we were having in recent months in getting total synaptic
clearance! (_His voice borders on the frantic._) I remember, now, I even
mentioned this to Beardsley--and oh, the smug way he took it. He knew,
damn him, he knew! He was getting there, he was reaching the synaptic, a
bit of fiction here and a bit there, ECAIAC was being conditioned,
unable to distinguish the real from the unreal--
COUNSELOR: Mr. Arnold! If you please, sir! (_Waits for Arnold to
subside._) I can appreciate how this discovery distresses you,
both--ah--personally and in your official capacity, but be assured that
your findings will be of inestimable value to future security. In fact
(_smiles slightly_) Council has not been idle in its own pursuit of Mr.
Beardsley's vagaries! (_Rises, removes a small screen to reveal a
towering pile of tomes._) And now, Mr. Beardsley. I must really ask you
to cooperate; I believe you fully capable. Are these your books?
BEARDSLEY (_adjusts his glasses, smiles at his books_): Yes.
COUNSELOR: And these charts, these graphs that we found plastered to
every wall of your home. Obviously they are also yours.
BEARDSLEY (_adjusts his glasses, smiles at his graphs_): Yes.
COUNSELOR: Thank you, Mr. Beardsley. That's fine. And, Mr. Beardsley,
what did you use them for? These books, these graphs?