A Day In The Life Of Able CharlieA DAY IN THE LIFE OF ABLE CHARLIE 

by Frederik Pohl 
Version 1.0 



Like "Rem the Rememberer (and also like "The Way It Was, both also in this 
volume), this story was written for a special purpose: It was to be part of an 
advertising campaign some visionary adman had dreamed up to run in the pages of 
Scientific American. True to form, about the time I finished the story I got a 
call from the adman to say, shamefacedly, that his boss had hated the campaign 
and so it was canceled as of that morning. This time the jinx did not stop 
there. About the time I was trying to decide whether I wanted to publish the 
story myself in Galaxy (which I was then editing) or offer it to some other 
publication, I discovered in the incoming manuscripts from authors a Stephen 
Goldin story called "Sweet Dreams, Melissa. To my horror, it was very like this 
one-worse, it was a good story. I could not honorably reject it; nor could I, I 
felt, allow my own to be published anywhere near it. So I tucked the story away 
for several years, until a magazine called Creative Computing asked me for 
something, and published it. So, unless you were a reader of computer magazines 
a decade ago, there's no way you could have seen this story before. . . and if 
it sounds at all familiar, it's probably because you've read "Sweet Dreams, 
Melissa. 
The time was 0900:00 A.M. and Charlie woke up. The first thing he had to do was 
to find out who he was that day, and so he explored his memory. He discovered 
that he was a white male American, thirty-two years old, married, employed in 
the sales department of a public utility company. He had two children, a boy and 
a girl. He had made $17,400 in the year just past, and if it hadn't been for 
Harriet's part-time teaching salary he didn't know how they would have managed. 
He still owed over $19,000 on their $38,000 house, $1,900 on the car, and nearly 
a thousand on the loan for modernizing the kitchen they had taken out two years 
before. Moreover, his daughter, Florence, had unfortunately inherited his bite, 
and so the orthodontist was going to cost him fifteen hundred dollars very soon. 
Charlie discovered that many of his thoughts were of money. 
However, his memory contained many other things. He became aware that he was a 
fan of the Los Angeles Dodgers, and that he had volunteered as a Little League 
coach against the day when his four-year-old son, Chuck, was old enough to play. 
Charlie remembered that he was inclined to favor Chuck over the girl. It was 
curious that he could not remember what color Chuck's hair was, or whether 
Florence was doing well in school, but Charlie didn't realize that it was 
curious and so he continued to explore his memory. 
He was a heavy smoker, drank a can of beer now and then, especially in hot 
weather, but didn't go much for the hard stuff. Although he liked looking at 
other women, he did not go beyond looking. Although he enjoyed a game of poker 
twice a month, he did not care to gamble heavy stakes. He drove a small foreign 
car (it was not clear whether it was a Datsun. a VW, or a Fiat), on which he got 
24.7 miles to the gallon in everyday use and nearly 29 miles a gallon on the 
road. (He did not know what color it was. it did not occur to him to wonder 
why.) Charlie remembered that he was active in his party's politics (he did not 
know whether it was Democrat or Republican) and that he thought the mayor of his 
town was a crook. But he could not have said the mayor's name. 
All these things about himself Charlie apprehended in a very short time indeed. 
He then spent somewhat longer remembering what brand of cigarettes he smoked, 
where he bought them, what had happened when he tried to give them up (his wife 
complained of his short temper and begged him to start again), and what other 
brands he had tried. He rehearsed the services offered by his neighborhood 
filling station, and what he looked for when he needed gas on the road; what 
kind of Scotch impressed him when he was offered it at a friend's home; and why 
he had decided against switching from lather to an electric razor. Charlie 
inventoried every purchase he and his family had made for the past year, swiftly 
and without error. He recalled what TV programs he watched, what magazines he 
read and which of the thousands of commercials and advertisements they contained 
had affected any of the purchases. 
At that point Charlie discovered that he had done everything he was required to 
do just then. He made a quick parity check on his instructions. When it revealed 
no gross error or failure on his part, he announced that he was ready for his 
next task and waited in standby mode for orders. 
He waited what was for Charlie a very, very long time. All of this had taken 
Charlie a period measured only in fractions of a second. Now he rested, neither 
wondering nor moving, for a stimulus to further action. Without it he would do 
nothing, ever. He was not impatient. He knew what "patience was in conceptual 
terms-he could relate it to his memory of himself waiting without "patience for 
a traffic light to change-but it did not occur to him to feel that way now. 
At 0901:30, give or take a few seconds, a young woman in a light gray dress, 
carrying a container of coffee, set the coffee down on her desk and seated 
herself before a large typewriter. She had heard the bell that announced Charlie 
was ready more than a minute before, but she was not quite ready for Charlie. 
She typed several rows of characters. checked them over, took a sip of her 
coffee, and stood up. 
She glanced at the various lights and dials on Charlie's front panel, saw 
nothing to cause concern. Her typewriter had produced not only the visible row 
of characters on the sheet of paper it held but, on a spool connected 
electrically to the keys, a strip of magnetic tape. She snipped a four-foot 
length of it free, taped it to another reel, rewound it, and fed it into a 
scanning device. She removed the rubber band from a packet of perforated cards 
and dropped them into a hopper. 
Then she pressed a button. Rubber-tipped fingers dealt the cards into sorting 
bins where, one by one, they were taken up again and read, like the music roll 
of an old player piano. The tape reel slid past its scanning head on a cushion 
of air and disappeared. The time was 0901:55. 
Charlie began work-not at 0901:55. exactly, but at a time so near to it that the 
difference was measurable only in picoseconds. 
His first problem, he was informed, had to do with cigarette package designs. He 
waited while the cards on that subject were scanned. There were forty-one 
alternate designs, and they were presented to him in pairs. First he was offered 
Package One and Package Two simultaneously; he compared them, made a value 
judgment based on what he knew of his own buying habits and preferences, and 
stated his preference. Then Package One and Package Three were offered to him, 
then Package One and Package Four, and so on until Package One had been compared 
with each of the others. Then he was offered Package Two with Package Three, 
Package Two with Package Four; and on and on until each prospective design on 
the list had been compared with each other. (There were 861 combinations in all, 
taken two at a time.) 
At that point Charlie went into a sort of reverie while another part of his 
mind-it could have been called his "subconscious -tabulated the results of his 
cross-pairing and established an order of preference. He wrote down. in order, 
the ten package designs he had most favored. He wrote it in the form of impulses 
recorded on a magnetic tape (this caused a reel by the desk of the girl in gray 
to spin rapidly for a moment, which she noticed out of the corner of her eye). 
Then he hummed for a moment, waiting for the card reader to allow him to begin 
his next task. 
Each of Charlie's value decisions had taken him only about four nanoseconds, but 
the evaluation and readout were much slower. It took him considerably longer to 
announce his results than to arrive at them, and so it was 0902:45 before he 
began his next job. 
The next assignment was to assess the merits of some proposed shaving-cream 
formulations. 
Here the task was considerably more difficult, for several reasons. The first 
part of his task was to rank his preferences among the fifty-five formulations 
as to their odors, textures, and visual appearances, each in combination with 
the other. Charlie did not, in fact, realize quite how difficult it was, since 
he had no idea that he possessed neither smell nor vision, and touch only in the 
sense that certain of his members were capable of probing a card or tape for 
punched holes. He then had to evaluate some twenty-four shapes and weights of 
pressure canisters in relation to each sort of lather. Here too, Charlie was 
unaware of his lacks. In fact he did not have thumb and fingers; the "grasp and 
"weight and feel of the canisters in his "hand was in fact only a locating of 
certain binary statistics within the parameters of certain other quantities that 
were a part of his memory. In order for Charlie to be able to express an opinion 
on any of the matters on which his verdict was sought, many subter fuges had 
been devised by the programmers on the staff of the advertising agency that 
owned Charlie. They materially prolonged the time for each comparison. However, 
he was in no way concerned by this. He did what he had always done. He did the 
task that was assigned to him, and when it was done he looked for, and did, the 
task that was next. 
In all of the hour and forty-odd minutes in which Charlie, husband of Harriet, 
father of Florence and Chuck, searched his responses to a wide range of 
offerings, he performed something over five thousand million separate 
operations, including parity checks and internal verifications. He faithfully 
reflected the customs and tastes of the average of a sample of some 4 million 
American males as they pertained to the purchase of tobacco, beer, gasoline, 
automotive accessories, soft drinks, airline tickets, motion picture admissions, 
sporting goods, hi-fl equipment, toilet articles, and power tools. When his 
final magnetic report was on the tape, he signaled by ringing a bell. That was 
the end of Charlie's working day. In a sense it was the end of his life. 
The girl in the light-gray dress was in the assistant division chief's office 
when Charlie's bell rang, and so she didn't react at once. Charlie waited like a 
man on a benzedrine high, his mind clear and capable, but disengaged. It was 
nearly 1100 when the girl got back to her desk. 
She took the spool of tape that held all his opinions and threaded it into a 
printer, where it began typing out plain copy at a rate of 350 words a minute. 
She replaced it with a blank spool, consulted her work sheet, and began to 
change Charlie with switch, with patch-cord, and with dial. 
As she worked whole banks of memories dropped out of circuit. Chuck and Florence 
fell out of his personality without leaving a mark. His wife disappeared, his 
house, his car; the Los Angeles Dodgers went, with the Little League and the 
dunning letters from the bank. 
She then checked the programming sheet and, following its instructions, selected 
new personality ingredients for Charlie: an economic level, an age, a set of 
buying habits, a profile of interests. She began to charge Able Charlie with the 
sum of these habits and biases. He was not yet aware of what he was, since he 
had not yet received the command to learn himself. For that matter, he was no 
longer "he. Now Able Charlie was a teenage girl, her principal interests 
cosmetics, soft drinks, clothes, records, and boys. 
When all the patches were complete and the new tapes were ready to roll, the 
girl in the gray dress double- checked, and pressed the "execute button. Able 
Charlie, AC-770, began to take up his-her-its new life. 
The girl in the gray dress idly examined the polish on her nails. Her mind was 
not far from standby mode, either; until the first readout came, or a trouble 
signal, she had nothing to do but wait for lunch. 
Inside the AC-770 Charlie, or Charlotte, was swiftly sniffing colognes whose 
fragrance was only the simulation of magnetic patterns on iron-oxide tape and 
comparing shades of lipstick whose colors were only a point on a hypothetical 
scale. The girl programmer was comparing colors, too. She wished idly that she 
had a friend to chat with-Rose Pink, after all? Or Catalina Coral ?-but when she 
thought she heard a low contralto sigh she dismissed it at once. She knew that 
she was alone.