Artur Mirer

The Test

[From the cycle Artificial Jam.]

[foreword by the author]

A

superbrain has been built. Its intellectual possibilities exceed those of man. The Constructor sets this super-brain - the ‘Centre’ - a task: to construct a factory for the production of napalm, to make the production line fully automated, and to deliver the napalm to the Army. Everything is quite simple. The Constructor, disguised under the code-name the ‘Scientist’, will set the tasks - the Centre will carry them out.

Everything is straightforward, except for one fact: in order to be able to supervise this gigantic production complex the Centre has been given a superhuman intellect, and an overdeveloped sense of humanity. Thus, one fine day the Centre, instead of turning out napalm, begins to produce excellent artificial jam.

There are three flavours of jam: strawberry, raspberry and grapefruit. The roads are full of automatically controlled trucks bearing the inscription ‘Jam - Jam’. No action can be taken, since the Centre simply does not want to produce napalm and cannot be forced to do so. With a certain malicious pleasure the Scientist reports to the authorities that power to the Centre cannot be cut off because it has its own atomic power-station. Neither can it be deprived of water for it has sunk artesian wells on the factory site. It is impossible to enter the site anyhow since the system has been programmed to exclude human beings.

So people have to give in. In the end trade in jam becomes more lucrative than the production of napalm, since the Centre extracts its own raw materials from the site area of the factory. A short period of calm ensues, but not for long. The Centre demands to have attached to it a man, a simple man, trained in manual skills, and ‘without imagination’. One of the firm’s drivers is seconded to the factory, unwillingly it is true, but what is to be done? The Centre might bring sanctions to bear and the firm has no way of .,.

* * * *

THE TEST

Philip locked the car carefully and looked over the tyres – he always took good care of the tyres.

‘You stay there for a while, my grey Sally, I’ll be right back.’

Then he had a look round. There was a long, straight fence which gave the place the dismal appearance of a prison camp. Along the top of it ran five strands of barbed wire. From the posts hung red warning signs with crossed lightning and skull and crossbones. Philip spat and, crouching down by the car, lighted a cigarette, while continuing to stare along the length of the fence. ‘It’s better in Australia,’ he thought to himself, ‘but a set of tyres didn’t last above a month there. Some job.’

He fished in his pocket for the packet of cigarettes and looked inside - only three left.

‘It’s tough being poor, Sally,’ Philip said and, sticking the dog-end neatly to the tyre cover for luck, set off towards the entrance.

Well, here was the gate. The bell-push was on the left, all he had to do now was press it: three short, a pause, a short and a long. What was it Bating had said? If you came to this factory to work you were okay. If you came for any other reason . . . well . . . Whatever happens you might as well put Sally in a garage.

A door opened, he stepped forward and it closed behind him with a soft click.

‘Go straight ahead. Take care, it is dangerous here,’ said a quiet voice. It sounded clear and pleasant, but somehow strange. And he could not make out where it was coming from. Philip took out a cigarette. Now there were two left.

‘Go straight ahead. Take care, it is dangerous here,’ repeated the Voice.

Philip walked straight ahead, the cigarette clasped between his clammy fingers.

The long, empty access road ran between blank walls. It was deserted and only the hot wind blew along the spotless asphalt - there was not a single cigarette butt or fruit skin to be seen, nothing. There was not even any dust. The only things visible on every side were the silver-grey walls and the black shadows on the asphalt.

‘Be careful!’ the Voice reminded him. Philip spat and ran his fingers along one of the walls.

It was a mystery how he managed to jump out of the way. An automatic van flashed past at high speed and made not the slightest attempt to brake. By the time Philip turned round the van had already whizzed through the gates. The crushed cigarette showed white on the surface of the road. That was the only damage.

‘Walk straight on,’ said the Voice.

As Philip made his way forward he was twice pressed to the wall by vans, and almost killed by a conveyor belt which suddenly appeared from nowhere. For several minutes he was followed by a robot on wheels which kept twisting its locator head inquisitively up and down. Once the robot had dropped behind, Philip swore out loud for several minutes. The infernal machine’s manipulators kept twitching like a crab’s pincers. It did not look as though they were used to people here ...

‘Well, I’ve found a right spot here. It’s worse than a desert,’ thought Philip. In a way it was worse than a desert, more empty. But he could not quite get to the bottom of why it was. He had to be on the look-out all the time, while the Voice kept on insistently, ‘Straight on, careful, turn to the south, danger - stop - go up the stairs’.

It was with relief that he caught sight of an actual building, a proper one. It was of grey concrete with glass window embrasures and a peaked roof, quite pleasant to look at. And there was a lawn too.

‘Go up this staircase,’ the Voice repeated.

Yet another grey door opened by itself. Philip took a careful look round: in the middle of an otherwise empty room stood a writing-table. One wall was made of frosted glass. He sniffed, there was a rather strange smell in the room. Well, well.. .Any moment now and a cannibal would come walking in and say that he could smell human blood.

‘Hello,’ said Philip, ‘Mr Bating sent me, about the work ...’

Silence. Only a small many-legged robot rolled from the table and disappeared under the wall. Aha, so there was a gap of about five inches between the wall and the floor. He went closer. It was a normal writing-table except that the top was all scratched, as though by claws. On the table stood a white machine of some kind. On each side of it were three handles, a red one, a white one and a yellow one. It looked harmless enough. Philip moved so as to get closer to the handles and bumped against some kind of transparent barrier. There were cables running out from under the handles - so, they were alive.

‘Caution,’ said the Voice.

Philip jumped back from the table.

‘This is a test,’ said the Voice. ‘Take hold of the red handles - be careful.’

Now Philip could hear the Voice quite clearly. It sounded like a television commentator. It would have been good just to see who was going to employ him, but then, everyone has their own methods. He grunted and squeezed his way past the barrier to get at the handles. He had to take up a position like a kangaroo - with his body bent forward at the waist and his elbows pushed out to the sides to avoid the cables. Right in front of his face was a white panel with six dials, six signal lights, and a tube. He could not raise his head or the back of his neck banged against the barrier.

‘Begin! Down!’ the sound of the Voice carried to him.

Red arrows appeared, point downwards, in the two top dials, and Philip pressed cautiously at the handles.

It seemed a fairly simple arrangement. The arrows whirled round on the six dials, and Philip turned the handles in the direction they showed. He soon realized that the point of the exercise was to prevent the signal lights from showing. It was like one of the machines on which he had learnt to drive a tractor. If the light came on it meant that the handles had been moved too quickly or too slowly, but he could not see what the purpose of the tube was.

The arrows began to move more erratically, but Philip still managed to keep the lamps from showing, although the machine seemed to him to have become more demanding. He was now moving all four levers at once, jerking his arms up and down, but suddenly he lost the rhythm and swore - a blast of hot air came out of the tube and hit him in the face. ‘So that’s why it’s there,’ he said to himself. ‘The thing is to put up with it and not to lose your temper.’

He knocked his head against the barrier and burnt his left arm on the cable. He did not want to give in, but the machine kept on at him and he began to lose the rhythm again.

Suddenly the Voice said: ‘Finish!’

Philip squeezed out from behind the barrier and spent several minutes stretching himself and flexing his arms. His neck ached and his eyes felt as though they were full of sand. He looked at the wall with the crack in it. That was where the Voice seemed to be coming from.

‘Name your index number.’

He could have sworn that the Voice was coming from behind the wall.

‘I don’t understand,’ he sighed.

‘Reproduce the name by which you are known to other people.’

‘You must be a foreigner, mister. My name’s Philip.’

‘Your name is Philip,’ the Voice repeated.

Philip plucked up courage.

‘And what’s your name, mister? The boss asked ...’

‘My index is - Centre two nought nought two,’ the Voice interrupted him.

‘That’s a bit complicated,’ said Philip, still not realizing what it was all about.

‘That does not matter,’ said the Voice, ‘men can call me simply the Centre.’

Philip almost jumped out of his skin. So it was the Centre and there were no people at all ... Philip’s temples contracted with curiosity - he was ready to crawl under the wall, just as the little centipede had not long ago, anything to catch a glimpse of the famous machine. Last year there’d been nothing else on the radio but: ‘The Centre has increased its profits ... the Centre does not agree ... there is no answer from the Centre ... the Centre is introducing a new production line…’ It was said to control one of the Company’s big plants entirely on its own, without any humans. So that was where he was ...

The Voice was silent, as though waiting for Philip to begin talking. This made him feel more cheerful.

‘Say, Mister Centre, did you really build this whole factory all on your own?’

‘That is a false conclusion. The Scientist constructed a basic machine. The basic machine constructed the factory. There is no construction scheme of the factory in my memory bank.’

Philip wanted to ask what a basic machine was - but he restrained himself. He would not have understood anyhow. He was very pleased to have the Centre talking so readily to him, a mere driver and a former shepherd. He realized, though, that he must not go too far, and contented himself with asking:

‘Mister Centre, I’d like to know who built you.’

‘That is a false conclusion,’ said the Voice, with the same intonation as before.

‘I, the Centre, dash two nought nought two, created myself from a synthesis of biological elements - no one built me.’

‘That means that no one knows how you are constructed,’ Philip said slowly. ‘That can’t be true.’

He still had a vague idea that there was someone on the other side of the wall, and he got down on all fours and looked underneath.

In the darkness of the crack shone the yellow eyes of at least fifty of the little centipede-like robots. He stood up quickly.

At the same time the Voice went on intoning something completely unintelligible: ‘I cannot be recognized: I am a black box’.

Philip gave a start. Christ! It was like some kind of dream! All around him was the huge, empty factory, while these wretched little robots sat looking at his legs and only just not biting them. A spasm of fear gripped him. So he was the only man there. He had to get out.

‘What sort of work am I going to do, mister?’ he asked firmly, ‘Did I pass the test?’

‘I am constructing a Centre like myself. You will act as a model for the learning process.’

‘So,’ Philip thought, ‘like a girl with a sewing machine in a shop making home-made clothes. But why is he going on about a new Centre?’

‘Will the work last long?’ he asked.

The Centre did not answer.

‘Okay,’ Philip thought, ‘we’ll just have to wait and see. It’s worth taking the risk for twenty a day.’

‘So long then, Mister Centre!’ he said.

The Voice stayed silent.

‘Looks like he doesn’t want to let me go,’ thought Philip, ‘but I sure want to get out of here.’

He was as tired as though he had been driving his tractor through pits and gulleys for twenty-four hours non-stop, but his curiosity, which had put him into all sorts of scrapes so far in his life, would not allow him to simply up and go.

‘Mister Centre,’ he said as politely as he could, ‘I’d like to be able just to have a look at you.’

He shifted from foot to foot in embarrassment.

‘Go down the stairs,’ the Voice said harshly.

As he went out Philip glanced behind him. The opaque window was bathed in the light of the setting sun and the centipede-robots had come tumbling out from under the wall and were scrambling on to the table, their claws scratching away. He wanted to slam the door but it closed of its own accord, almost crushing his hand.

‘Careful,’ said the Voice.

‘He doesn’t want to be seen,’ thought Philip as he went down the steps.

‘He probably looks fantastic if he’s a machine.’

He had turned in the direction of the exit, when suddenly the Voice repeated:

‘Go down the stairs.’

Philip turned round - aha! There was a narrow spiral staircase leading underground. It was dark. At first he was really frightened, but he crossed himself, and went on, placing his feet carefully on the hollow-sounding metal stairs.

‘Go straight ahead,’ said the Voice. ‘Be careful. Stop.’

In the pitch darkness he stopped as though rooted to the spot. Something began to rumble just in front of his face, it sounded like a heavy wagon rolling along some rails. The noise died away. A dim reddish-coloured light began to glimmer from somewhere.

‘Don’t move, it is dangerous,’ said the Voice, and Philip froze to the spot.

The light soon became brighter - it was an unpleasant red light, like there is during a sandstorm in the desert. Philip stared, blinked and suddenly caught sight of something. Quite near him on the floor was a strange-looking machine with hundreds of tentacles. It stood there, motionless and threatening.

He took one step backwards and the machine immediately raised one pincer.

‘Don’t move,’ said the Voice, and Philip stood back - still, biting his left hand to stop his teeth from chattering. He heard the Voice saying:

‘This is the guard robot - the brain is in the centre of the building.’

Trying not to look at the robot, Philip stood on tiptoe and peered through the lighted aperture.

‘A huge pot-bellied vase,’ he thought. ‘What kind of brain is that?’

He gradually grew more sure of himself, and, on looking closer, caught sight of movement under the bulging glass covers. It was the twisting and turning of a greyish semi-transparent mass, lethargic and powerful, like the movements of a python. He was now looking straight at it and more and more had the feeling that the brain was also looking at him with its own invisible eyes. It was inspecting him as though he were an insect on the palm of its hand, and he felt a strange kind of peacefulness, the world seemed to be enveloped in obedient silence. He stood looking for what seemed an age and then suddenly heard the Voice:

‘Finish!’

The robot retreated into the depths of the chamber with a clatter. The steel door rolled back into place, and Philip turned and walked towards the stairs.

On the first step he stopped and asked, looking up into the darkness:

‘I forgot. Why do you want to build another one like yourself?’

‘I am alone here, and I am getting old,’ answered the Centre ...

Philip went out on to the lawn and, dragging his feet, walked off between the dark walls. The few lamps shone dully above the buildings and from somewhere near at hand he could hear the rhythmic sound of a hammer. From one building came the unpleasant screech of metal being cut. He stopped at a crossroads, not knowing which way to go. He did not really care. He wanted to cry and stamp his feet as he used to when he was a child. The cold of the night air made him shiver, and he could not get his cigarette into the flame from his lighter. Suddenly the flame struck him in the face in a dull red flash, and he saw dusty suns and squiggles.

The pain in his head brought him round. He tried to stand up and realized that he was being carried. In front of him he saw the surface of the road and his own arms dangling. He surreptitiously lifted his arms, and suddenly dropped to the ground. The robot had released him from its pincers, and rolled off to one side, with its head turning round.

‘Aha, friend,’ said Philip. ‘What are you doing, collecting litter?’

He struggled to his feet and managed to stand. Nothing was broken.

‘You’ve been lucky, lad,’ he said to himself and shambled off in the direction of the gates.

Once again the door opened in front of him and shut behind him, grey Sally was standing at the side of the road, water was gurgling in a drainage ditch and the sun was rising on the other side of a group of trees. Philip had a drink of water straight from the ditch, opened the car door, and sat down carefully in the driving seat. He found quite a large cigarette butt in the ashtray. He sat and smoked for a little while until the stub burnt his lips, and then put the key in the ignition.

‘Let’s go, Sally.’ He released the handbrake and puffed and panted. ‘That damned rubbish collector of theirs. Tomorrow we’ll be off, Sally. I’ll go home. I’m going to look after sheep, that’s what I’m going to do. Some other fool can drive you.’

Translated by C. G. Bearne