At four-fifteen in the afternoon, T.S.T., Garson Poole woke up in his hospital bed, knew that he lay in a hospital bed in a three-bed ward and realized in addition two things: that he no longer had a right hand and that he felt no pain.
They had given me a strong analgesic, he said to himself as he stared at the far wall with its window showing downtown New York. Webs in which vehicles and peds darted and wheeled glimmered in the late afternoon sun, and the brilliance of the aging light pleased him. It's not yet out, he thought. And neither am I.
A fone lay on the table beside his bed; he hesitated, then picked it up and dialed for an outside line. A moment later he was faced by Louis Danceman, in charge of Tri-Plan's activities while he, Garson Poole, was elsewhere.
"Thank God you're alive," Danceman said, seeing him; his big, fleshy face with its moon's surface of pock marks flattened with relief. "I've been calling all --"
"I just don't have a right hand," Poole said.
"But you'll be okay. I mean, they can graft another one on."
"How long have I been here?" Poole said. He wondered where the nurses and doctors had gone to; why weren't they clucking and fussing about him making a call?
"Four days," Danceman said. "Everything here at the plant is going splunkishly. In fact we've splunked orders from three separate police systems, all here on Terra. Two in Ohio, one in Wyoming. Good solid orders, with one third in advance and the usual three-year lease-option."
"Come get me out of here," Poole said.
"I can't get you out until the new hand --"
"I'll have it done later." He wanted desperately to get back to familiar surroundings; memory of the mercantile squib looming grotesquely on the pilot screen careened at the back of his mind; if he shut his eyes he felt himself back in his damaged craft as it plunged from one vehicle to another, piling up enormous damage as it went. The kinetic sensations. . . he winced, recalling them. I guess I'm lucky, he said to himself.
"Is Sarah Benton there with you?" Danceman asked.
"No." Of course; his personal secretary -- if only for job considerations -- would be hovering close by, mothering him in her jejune, infantile way. All heavy-set women like to mother people, he thought. And they're dangerous; if they fall on you they can kill you. "Maybe that's what happened to me," he said aloud. "Maybe Sarah fell on my squib."
"No, no; a tie rod in the steering fin of your squib split apart during the heavy rush-hour traffic and you --"
"I remember." He turned in his bed as the door of the ward opened; a white-clad doctor and two blue-clad nurses appeared, making their way toward his bed. "I'll talk to you later," Poole said and hung up the fone. He took a deep, expectant breath.
"You shouldn't be foning quite so soon," the doctor said as he studied his chart. "Mr. Garson Poole, owner of Tri-Plan Electronics. Maker of random ident darts that track their prey for a circle-radius of a thousand miles, responding to unique enceph wave patterns. You're a successful man, Mr. Poole. But, Mr. Poole, you're not a man. You're an electric ant."
"Christ," Poole said, stunned.
"So we can't really treat you here, now that we've found out. We knew, of course, as soon as we examined your injured right hand; we saw the electronic components and then we made torso x-rays and of course they bore out our hypothesis."
"What," Poole said, "is an 'electric ant'?" But he knew; he could decipher the term.
A nurse said, "An organic robot."
"I see," Poole said. Frigid perspiration rose to the surface of his skin, across all his body.
"You didn't know," the doctor said.
"No." Poole shook his head.
The doctor said, "We get an electric ant every week or so. Either brought in here from a squib accident -- like yourself -- or one seeking voluntary admission. . . one who, like yourself, has never been told, who has functioned alongside humans, believing himself -- itself -- human. As to your hand --" He paused.
"Forget my hand," Poole said savagely.
"Be calm." The doctor leaned over him, peered acutely down into Poole's face. "We'll have a hospital boat convey you over to a service facility where repairs, or replacement, on your hand can be made at a reasonable expense, either to yourself, if you're self-owned, or to your owners, if such there are. In any case you'll be back at your desk at Tri-Plan functioning just as before."
"Except," Poole said, "now I know." He wondered if Danceman or Sarah or any of the others at the office knew. Had they -- or one of them -- purchased him? Designed him? A figurehead, he said to himself; that's all I've been. I must never really have run the company; it was a delusion implanted in me when I was made. . . along with the delusion that I am human and alive.
"Before you leave for the repair facility," the doctor said, "could you kindly settle your bill at the front desk?"
Poole said acidly, "How can there be a bill if you don't treat ants here?"
"For our services," the nurse said. "Up until the point we knew."
"Bill me," Poole said, with furious, impotent anger. "Bill my firm." With massive effort he managed to sit up; his head swimming, he stepped haltingly from the bed and onto the floor. "I'll be glad to leave here," he said as he rose to a standing position. "And thank you for your humane attention."
"Thank you, too, Mr. Poole," the doctor said. "Or rather I should say just Poole."
At the repair facility he had his missing hand replaced.
It proved fascinating, the hand; he examined it for a long time before he let the technicians install it. On the surface it appeared organic -- in fact on the surface, it was. Natural skin covered natural flesh, and true blood filled the veins and capillaries. But, beneath that, wires and circuits, miniaturized components, gleamed. . . looking deep into the wrist he saw surge gates, motors, multi-stage valves, all very small. Intricate. And -- the hand cost forty frogs. A week's salary, insofar as he drew it from the company payroll.
"Is this guaranteed?" he asked the technicians as they fused the "bone" section of the hand to the balance of his body.
"Ninety days, parts and labor," one of the technicians said. "Unless subjected to unusual or intentional abuse."
"That sounds vaguely suggestive," Poole said.
The technician, a man -- all of them were men -- said, regarding him keenly, "You've been posing?"
"Unintentionally," Poole said.
"And now it's intentional?"
Poole said, "Exactly."
"Do you know why you never guessed? There must have been signs. . . clickings and whirrings from inside you, now and then. You never guessed because you were programmed not to notice. You'll now have the same difficulty finding out why you were built and for whom you've been operating."
"A slave," Poole said. "A mechanical slave."
"You've had fun."
"I've lived a good life," Poole said. "I've worked hard."
He paid the facility its forty frogs, flexed his new fingers, tested them out by picking up various objects such as coins, then departed. Ten minutes later he was aboard a public carrier, on his way home. It had been quite a day.
At home, in his one-room apartment, he poured himself a shot of Jack Daniel's Purple Label -- sixty years old -- and sat sipping it, meanwhile gazing through his sole window at the building on the opposite side of the street. Shall I go to the office? he asked himself. If so, why? If not, why? Choose one. Christ, he thought, it undermines you, knowing this. I'm a freak, he realized. An inanimate object mimicking an animate one. But -- he felt alive. Yet. . . he felt differently, now. About himself. Hence about everyone, especially Danceman and Sarah, everyone at Tri-Plan.
I think I'll kill myself, he said to himself. But I'm probably programmed not to do that; it would be a costly waste which my owner would have to absorb. And he wouldn't want to.
Programmed. In me somewhere, he thought, there is a matrix fitted in place, a grid screen that cuts me off from certain thoughts, certain actions. And forces me into others. I am not free. I never was, but now I know it; that makes it different.
Turning his window to opaque, he snapped on the overhead light, carefully set about removing his clothing, piece by piece. He had watched carefully as the technicians at the repair facility had attached his new hand: he had a rather clear idea, now, of how his body had been assembled. Two major panels, one in each thigh; the technicians had removed the panels to check the circuit complexes beneath. If I'm programmed, he decided, the matrix probably can be found there.
The maze of circuitry baffled him. I need help, he said to himself. Let's see. . . what's the fone code for the class BBB computer we hire at the office?
He picked up the fone, dialed the computer at its permanent location in Boise, Idaho.
"Use of this computer is prorated at a five frogs per minute basis," a mechanical voice from the fone said. "Please hold your mastercreditchargeplate before the screen."
He did so.
"At the sound of the buzzer you will be connected with the computer," the voice continued. "Please query it as rapidly as possible, taking into account the fact that its answer will be given in terms of a microsecond, while your query will --" He turned the sound down, then. But quickly turned it up as the blank audio input of the computer appeared on the screen. At this moment the computer had become a giant ear, listening to him -- as well as fifty thousand other queriers throughout Terra.
"Scan me visually," he instructed the computer. "And tell me where I will find the programming mechanism which controls my thoughts and behavior." He waited. On the fone's screen a great active eye, multi-lensed, peered at him; he displayed himself for it, there in his one-room apartment.
The computer said, "Remove your chest panel. Apply pressure at your breastbone and then ease outward."
He did so. A section of his chest came off; dizzily, he set it down on the floor.
"I can distinguish control modules," the computer said, "but I can't tell which --" It paused as its eye roved about on the fone screen. "I distinguish a roll of punched tape mounted above your heart mechanism. Do you see it?" Poole craned his neck, peered. He saw it, too. "I will have to sign off," the computer said. "After I have examined the data available to me I will contact you and give you an answer. Good day." The screen died out.
I'll yank the tape out of me, Poole said to himself. Tiny. . . no larger than two spools of thread, with a scanner mounted between the delivery drum and the take-up drum. He could not see any sign of motion; the spools seemed inert. They must cut in as override, he reflected, when specific situations occur. Override to my encephalic processes. And they've been doing it all my life.
He reached down, touched the delivery drum. All I have to do is tear this out, he thought, and --
The fone screen relit. "Mastercreditchargeplate number 3-BNX-882-HQR446-T," the computer's voice came. "This is BBB-307DR recontacting you in response to your query of sixteen seconds lapse, November 4, 1992. The punched tape roll above your heart mechanism is not a programming turret but is in fact a reality-supply construct. All sense stimuli received by your central neurological system emanate from that unit and tampering with it would be risky if not terminal." It added, "You appear to have no programming circuit. Query answered. Good day." It flicked off.
Poole, standing naked before the fone screen, touched the tape drum once again, with calculated, enormous caution. I see, he thought wildly. Or do I see? This unit --
If I cut the tape, he realized, my world will disappear. Reality will continue for others, but not for me. Because my reality, my universe, is coming to me from this minuscule unit. Fed into the scanner and then into my central nervous system as it snailishly unwinds.
It has been unwinding for years, he decided.
Getting his clothes, he redressed, seated himself in his big armchair -- a luxury imported into his apartment from Tri-Plan's main offices -- and lit a tobacco cigarette. His hands shook as he laid down his initialed lighter; leaning back, he blew smoke before himself, creating a nimbus of gray.
I have to go slowly, he said to himself. What am I trying to do? Bypass my programming? But the computer found no programming circuit. Do I want to interfere with the reality tape? And if so, why?
Because, he thought, if I control that, I control reality. At least so far as I'm concerned. My subjective reality. . . but that's all there is. Objective reality is a synthetic construct, dealing with a hypothetical universalization of a multitude of subjective realities.
My universe is lying within my fingers, he realized. If I can just figure out how the damn thing works. All I set out to do originally was to search for and locate my programming circuit so I could gain true homeostatic functioning: control of myself. But with this --
With this he did not merely gain control of himself; he gained control over everything.
And this sets me apart from every human who ever lived and died, he thought somberly.
Going over to the fone he dialed his office. When he had Danceman on the screen he said briskly, "I want you to send a complete set of microtools and enlarging screen over to my apartment. I have some microcircuitry to work on." Then he broke the connection, not wanting to discuss it.
A half hour later a knock sounded on his door. When he opened up he found himself facing one of the shop foremen, loaded down with microtools of every sort. "You didn't say exactly what you wanted," the foreman said, entering the apartment. "So Mr. Danceman had me bring everything."
"And the enlarging-lens system?"
"In the truck, up on the roof."
Maybe what I want to do, Poole thought, is die. He lit a cigarette, stood smoking and waiting as the shop foreman lugged the heavy enlarging screen, with its power-supply and control panel, into the apartment. This is suicide, what I'm doing here. He shuddered.
"Anything wrong, Mr. Poole?" the shop foreman said as he rose to his feet, relieved of the burden of the enlarging-lens system. "You must still be rickety on your pins from your accident."
"Yes," Poole said quietly. He stood tautly waiting until the foreman left. Under the enlarging-lens system the plastic tape assumed a new shape: a wide track along which hundreds of thousands of punch-holes worked their way. I thought so, Poole thought. Not recorded as charges on a ferrous oxide layer but actually punched-free slots.
Under the lens the strip of tape visibly oozed forward. Very slowly, but it did, at uniform velocity, move in the direction of the scanner.
The way I figure it, he thought, is that the punched holes are on gates. It functions like a player piano; solid is no, punch-hole is yes. How can I test this?
Obviously by filling in a number of holes.
He measured the amount of tape left on the delivery spool, calculated -- at great effort -- the velocity of the tape's movement, and then came up with a figure. If he altered the tape visible at the in-going edge of the scanner, five to seven hours would pass before that particular time period arrived. He would in effect be painting out stimuli due a few hours from now.
With a microbrush he swabbed a large -- relatively large -- section of tape with opaque varnish. . . obtained from the supply kit accompanying the microtools. I have smeared out stimuli for about half an hour, he pondered. Have covered at least a thousand punches.
It would be interesting to see what change, if any, overcame his environment, six hours from now.
Five and a half hours later he sat at Krackter's, a superb bar in Manhattan, having a drink with Danceman.
"You look bad," Danceman said.
"I am bad," Poole said. He finished his drink, a Scotch sour, and ordered another.
"From the accident?"
"In a sense, yes."
Danceman said, "Is it -- something you found out about yourself?"
Raising his head, Poole eyed him in the murky light of the bar. "Then you know."
"I know," Danceman said, "that I should call you 'Poole' instead of 'Mr. Poole.' But I prefer the latter, and will continue to do so."
"How long have you known?" Poole said.
"Since you took over the firm. I was told that the actual owners of Tri-Plan, who are located in the Prox System, wanted Tri-Plan run by an electric ant whom they could control. They wanted a brilliant and forceful --"
"The real owners?" This was the first he had heard about that. "We have two thousand stockholders. Scattered everywhere."
"Marvis Bey and her husband Ernan, on Prox 4, control fifty-one percent of the voting stock. This has been true from the start."
"Why didn't I know?"
"I was told not to tell you. You were to think that you yourself made all company policy. With my help. But actually I was feeding you what the Beys fed to me."
"I'm a figurehead," Poole said.
"In a sense, yes." Danceman nodded. "But you'll always be 'Mr. Poole' to me."
A section of the far wall vanished. And with it, several people at tables nearby. And --
Through the big glass side of the bar, the skyline of New York City flickered out of existence.
Seeing his face, Danceman said, "What is it?"
Poole said hoarsely, "Look around. Do you see any changes?"
After looking around the room, Danceman said, "No. What like?"
"You still see the skyline?"
"Sure. Smoggy as it is. The lights wink --"
"Now I know," Poole said. He had been right; every punch-hole covered up meant the disappearance of some object in his reality world. Standing, he said, "I'll see you later, Danceman. I have to get back to my apartment; there's some work I'm doing. Goodnight." He strode from the bar and out onto the street, searching for a cab.
No cabs.
Those, too, he thought. I wonder what else I painted over. Prostitutes? Flowers? Prisons?
There, in the bar's parking lot, Danceman's squib. I'll take that, he decided. There are still cabs in Danceman's world; he can get one later. Anyhow it's a company car, and I hold a copy of the key.
Presently he was in the air, turning toward his apartment.
New York City had not returned. To the left and right vehicles and buildings, streets, ped-runners, signs. . . and in the center nothing. How can I fly into that? he asked himself. I'd disappear.
Or would I? He flew toward the nothingness.
Smoking one cigarette after another he flew in a circle for fifteen minutes. . . and then, soundlessly, New York reappeared. He could finish his trip. He stubbed out his cigarette (a waste of something so valuable) and shot off in the direction of his apartment.
If I insert a narrow opaque strip, he pondered as he unlocked his apartment door, I can --
His thoughts ceased. Someone sat in his living room chair, watching a captain kirk on the TV. "Sarah," he said, nettled.
She rose, well-padded but graceful. "You weren't at the hospital, so I came here. I still have that key you gave me back in March after we had that awful argument. Oh. . . you look so depressed." She came up to him, peeped into his face anxiously. "Does your injury hurt that badly?"
"It's not that." He removed his coat, tie, shirt, and then his chest panel; kneeling down he began inserting his hands into the microtool gloves. Pausing, he looked up at her and said, "I found out I'm an electric ant. Which from one standpoint opens up certain possibilities, which I am exploring now." He flexed his fingers and, at the far end of the left waldo, a micro screwdriver moved, magnified into visibility by the enlarging-lens system. "You can watch," he informed her. "If you so desire."
She had begun to cry.
"What's the matter?" he demanded savagely, without looking up from his work.
"I -- it's just so sad. You've been such a good employer to all of us at Tri-Plan. We respect you so. And now it's all changed."
The plastic tape had an unpunched margin at top and bottom; he cut a horizontal strip, very narrow, then, after a moment of great concentration, cut the tape itself four hours away from the scanning head. He then rotated the cut strip into a right-angle piece in relation to the scanner, fused it in place with a micro heat element, then reattached the tape reel to its left and right sides. He had, in effect, inserted a dead twenty minutes into the unfolding flow of his reality. It would take effect -- according to his calculations -- a few minutes after midnight.
"Are you fixing yourself?" Sarah asked timidly.
Poole said, "I'm freeing myself." Beyond this he had several alterations in mind. But first he had to test his theory; blank, unpunched tape meant no stimuli, in which case the lack of tape. . .
"That look on your face," Sarah said. She began gathering up her purse, coat, rolled-up aud-vid magazine. "I'll go; I can see how you feel about finding me here."
"Stay," he said. "I'll watch the captain kirk with you." He got into his shirt. "Remember years ago when there were -- what was it? -- twenty or twenty-two TV channels? Before the government shut down the independents?"
She nodded.
"What would it have looked like," he said, "if this TV set projected all channels onto the cathode ray screen at the same time? Could we have distinguished anything, in the mixture?"
"I don't think so."
"Maybe we could learn to. Learn to be selective; do our own job of perceiving what we wanted to and what we didn't. Think of the possibilities, if our brains could handle twenty images at once; think of the amount of knowledge which could be stored during a given period. I wonder if the brain, the human brain --" He broke off. "the human brain couldn't do it," he said, presently, reflecting to himself. "But in theory a quasi-organic brain might."
"Is that what you have?" Sarah asked.
"Yes," Poole said.
They watched the captain kirk to its end, and then they went to bed. But Poole sat up against his pillows, smoking and brooding. Beside him, Sarah stirred restlessly, wondering why he did not turn off the light.
Eleven-fifty. It would happen anytime, now.
"Sarah," he said. "I want your help. In a very few minutes something strange will happen to me. It won't last long, but I want you to watch me carefully. See if I --" He gestured. "Show any changes. If I seem to go to sleep, or if I talk nonsense, or --" He wanted to say, if I disappear. But he did not. "I won't do you any harm, but I think it might be a good idea if you armed yourself. Do you have your anti-mugging gun with you?"
"In my purse." She had become fully awake now; sitting up in bed, she gazed at him with wild fright, her ample shoulders tanned and freckled in the light of the room.
He got her gun for her.
The room stiffened into paralyzed immobility. Then the colors began to drain away. Objects diminished until, smoke-like, they flitted away into shadows. Darkness filmed everything as the objects in the room became weaker and weaker.
The last stimuli are dying out, Poole realized. He squinted, trying to see. He made out Sarah Benton, sitting in the bed: a two-dimensional figure that doll-like had been propped up, there to fade and dwindle. Random gusts of dematerialized substance eddied about in unstable clouds; the elements collected, fell apart, then collected once again. And then the last heat, energy and light dissipated; the room closed over and fell into itself, as if sealed off from reality. And at that point absolute blackness replaced everything, space without depth, not nocturnal but rather stiff and unyielding. And in addition he heard nothing.
Reaching, he tried to touch something. But he had nothing to reach with. Awareness of his own body had departed along with everything else in the universe. He had no hands, and even if he had, there would be nothing for them to feel.
I am still right about the way the damn tape works, he said to himself, using a nonexistent mouth to communicate an invisible message.
Will this pass in ten minutes? he asked himself. Am I right about that, too? He waited. . . but knew intuitively that his time sense had departed with everything else. I can only wait, he realized. And hope it won't be long.
To pace himself, he thought, I'll make up an encyclopedia; I'll try to list everything that begins with an "a." Let's see. He pondered. Apple, automobile, acksetron, atmosphere, Atlantic, tomato aspic, advertising -- he thought on and on, categories slithering through his fright-haunted mind.
All at once light flickered on.
He lay on the couch in the living room, and mild sunlight spilled in through the single window. Two men bent over him, their hands full of tools. Maintenance men, he realized. They've been working on me.
"He's conscious," one of the technicians said. He rose, stood back; Sarah Benton, dithering with anxiety, replaced him.
"Thank God!" she said, breathing wetly in Poole's ear. "I was so afraid; I called Mr. Danceman finally about --"
"What happened?" Poole broke in harshly. "Start from the beginning and for God's sake speak slowly. So I can assimilate it all."
Sarah composed herself, paused to rub her nose, and then plunged on nervously, "You passed out. You just lay there, as if you were dead. I waited until two-thirty and you did nothing. I called Mr. Danceman, waking him up unfortunately, and he called the electric-ant maintenance -- I mean, the organic-roby maintenance people, and these two men came about four forty-five, and they've been working on you ever since. It's now six fifteen in the morning. And I'm very cold and I want to go to bed; I can't make it in to the office today; I really can't." She turned away, sniffling. The sound annoyed him.
One of the uniformed maintenance men said, "You've been playing around with your reality tape."
"Yes," Poole said. Why deny it? Obviously they had found the inserted solid strip. "I shouldn't have been out that long," he said. "I inserted a ten minute strip only."
"It shut off the tape transport," the technician explained. "The tape stopped moving forward; your insertion jammed it, and it automatically shut down to avoid tearing the tape. Why would you want to fiddle around with that? Don't you know what you could do?"
"I'm not sure," Poole said.
"But you have a good idea."
Poole said acridly, "That's why I'm doing it."
"Your bill," the maintenance man said, "is going to be ninety-five frogs. Payable in installments, if you so desire."
"Okay," he said; he sat up groggily, rubbed his eyes and grimaced. His head ached and his stomach felt totally empty.
"Shave the tape next time," the primary technician told him. "That way it won't jam. Didn't it occur to you that it had a safety factor built into it? So it would stop rather than --"
"What happens," Poole interrupted, his voice low and intently careful, "if no tape passed under the scanner? No tape -- nothing at all. The photocell shining upward without impedance?"
The technicians glanced at each other. One said, "All the neuro circuits jump their gaps and short out."
"Meaning what?" Poole said.
"Meaning it's the end of the mechanism."
Poole said, "I've examined the circuit. It doesn't carry enough voltage to do that. Metal won't fuse under such slight loads of current, even if the terminals are touching. We're talking about a millionth of a watt along a cesium channel perhaps a sixteenth of an inch in length. Let's assume there are a billion possible combinations at one instant arising from the punch-outs on the tape. The total output isn't cumulative; the amount of current depends on what the battery details for that module, and it's not much. With all gates open and going."
"Would we lie?" one of the technicians asked wearily.
"Why not?" Poole said. "Here I have an opportunity to experience everything. Simultaneously. To know the universe and its entirety, to be momentarily in contact with all reality. Something that no human can do. A symphonic score entering my brain outside of time, all notes, all instruments sounding at once. And all symphonies. Do you see?"
"It'll burn you out," both technicians said, together.
"I don't think so," Poole said.
Sarah said, "Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Poole?"
"Yes," he said; he lowered his legs, pressed his cold feet against the floor, shuddered. He then stood up. His body ached. They had me lying all night on the couch, he realized. All things considered, they could have done better than that.
At the kitchen table in the far corner of the room, Garson Poole sat sipping coffee across from Sarah. The technicians had long since gone.
"You're not going to try any more experiments on yourself, are you?" Sarah asked wistfully.
Poole grated, "I would like to control time. To reverse it." I will cut a segment of tape out, he thought, and fuse it in upside down. The causal sequences will then flow the other way. Thereupon I will walk backward down the steps from the roof field, back up to my door, push a locked door open, walk backward to the sink, where I will get out a stack of dirty dishes. I will seat myself at this table before the stack, fill each dish with food produced from my stomach. . . I will then transfer the food to the refrigerator. The next day I will take the food out of the refrigerator, pack it in bags, carry the bags to a supermarket, distribute the food here and there in the store. And at last, at the front counter, they will pay me money for this, from their cash register. The food will be packed with other food in big plastic boxes, shipped out of the city into the hydroponic plants on the Atlantic, there to be joined back to trees and bushes or the bodies of dead animals or pushed deep into the ground. But what would all that prove? A video tape running backward. . . I would know no more than I know now, which is not enough.
What I want, he realized, is ultimate and absolute reality, for one microsecond. After that it doesn't matter, because all will be known; nothing will be left to understand or see.
I might try one other change, he said to himself. Before I try cutting the tape. I will prick new punch-holes in the tape and see what presently emerges. It will be interesting because I will not know what the holes I make mean.
Using the tip of a microtool, he punched several holes, at random, on the tape. As close to the scanner as he could manage. . . he did not want to wait.
"I wonder if you'll see it," he said to Sarah. Apparently not, insofar as he could extrapolate. "Something may show up," he said to her. "I just want to warn you; I don't want you to be afraid."
"Oh dear," Sarah said tinnily.
He examined his wristwatch. One minute passed, then a second, a third.
And then --
In the center of the room appeared a flock of green and black ducks. They quacked excitedly, rose from the floor, fluttered against the ceiling in a dithering mass of feathers and wings and frantic in their vast urge, their instinct, to get away.
"Ducks," Poole said, marveling. "I punched a hole for a flight of wild ducks."
Now something else appeared. A park bench with an elderly, tattered man seated on it, reading a torn, bent newspaper. He looked up, dimly made out Poole, smiled briefly at him with badly made dentures, and then returned to his folded-back newspaper. He read on.
"Do you see him?" Poole asked Sarah. "And the ducks." At that moment the ducks and the park bum disappeared. Nothing remained of them. The interval of their punch-holes had quickly passed.
"They weren't real," Sarah said. "Were they? So how --"
"You're not real," he told Sarah. "You're a stimulus-factor on my reality tape. A punch-hole that can be glazed over. Do you also have an existence in another reality tape, or one in an objective reality?" He did not know; he couldn't tell. Perhaps Sarah did not know, either. Perhaps she existed in a thousand reality tapes; perhaps on every reality tape ever manufactured. "If I cut the tape," he said, "you will be everywhere and nowhere. Like everything else in the universe. At least as far as I am aware of it."
Sarah faltered, "I am real."
"I want to know you completely," Poole said. "To do that I must cut the tape. If I don't do it now, I'll do it some other time; it's inevitable that eventually I'll do it." So why wait? he asked himself. And there is always the possibility that Danceman has reported back to my maker, that they will be making moves to head me off. Because, perhaps, I'm endangering their property -- myself.
"You make me wish I had gone to the office after all," Sarah said, her mouth turned down with dimpled gloom.
"Go," Poole said.
"I don't want to leave you alone."
"I'll be fine," Poole said.
"No, you're not going to be fine. You're going to unplug yourself or something, kill yourself because you've found out you're just an electric ant and not a human being."
He said, presently, "Maybe so." Maybe it boiled down to that.
"And I can't stop you," she said.
"No." He nodded in agreement.
"But I'm going to stay," Sarah said. "Even if I can't stop you. Because if I do leave and you do kill yourself, I'll always ask myself for the rest of my life what would have happened if I had stayed. You see?"
Again he nodded.
"Go ahead," Sarah said.
He rose to his feet. "It's not pain I'm going to feel," he told her. "Although it may look like that to you. Keep in mind the fact that organic robots have minimal pain-circuits in them. I will be experiencing the most intense --"
"Don't tell me any more," she broke in. "Just do it if you're going to, or don't do it if you're not."
Clumsily -- because he was frightened -- he wriggled his hands into the microglove assembly, reached to pick up a tiny tool: a sharp cutting blade. "I am going to cut a tape mounted inside my chest panel," he said, as he gazed through the enlarging-lens system. "That's all." His hand shook as it lifted the cutting blade. In a second it can be done, he realized. All over. And -- I will have time to fuse the cut ends of the tape back together, he realized. A half hour at least. If I change my mind.
He cut the tape.
Staring at him, cowering, Sarah whispered, "Nothing happened."
"I have thirty or forty minutes." He reseated himself at the table, having drawn his hands from the gloves. His voice, he noticed, shook; undoubtedly Sarah was aware of it, and he felt anger at himself, knowing that he had alarmed her. "I'm sorry," he said, irrationally; he wanted to apologize to her. "Maybe you ought to leave," he said in panic; again he stood up. So did she, reflexively, as if imitating him; bloated and nervous she stood there palpitating. "Go away," he said thickly. "Back to the office where you ought to be. Where we both ought to be." I'm going to fuse the tape-ends together, he told himself; the tension is too great for me to stand.
Reaching his hands toward the gloves he groped to pull them over his straining fingers. Peering into the enlarging screen, he saw the beam from the photoelectric gleam upward, pointed directly into the scanner; at the same time he saw the end of the tape disappearing under the scanner... he saw this, understood it; I'm too late, he realized. It has passed through. God, he thought, help me. It has begun winding at a rate greater than I calculated. So it's now that --
He saw apples, and cobblestones and zebras. He felt warmth, the silky texture of cloth; he felt the ocean lapping at him and a great wind, from the north, plucking at him as if to lead him somewhere. Sarah was all around him, so was Danceman. New York glowed in the night, and the squibs about him scuttled and bounced through night skies and daytime and flooding and drought. Butter relaxed into liquid on his tongue, and at the same time hideous odors and tastes assailed him: the bitter presence of poisons and lemons and blades of summer grass. He drowned; he fell; he lay in the arms of a woman in a vast white bed which at the same time dinned shrilly in his ear: the warning noise of a defective elevator in one of the ancient, ruined downtown hotels. I am living, I have lived, I will never live, he said to himself, and with his thoughts came every word, every sound; insects squeaked and raced, and he half sank into a complex body of homeostatic machinery located somewhere in Tri-Plan's labs.
He wanted to say something to Sarah. Opening his mouth he tried to bring forth words -- a specific string of them out of the enormous mass of them brilliantly lighting his mind, scorching him with their utter meaning.
His mouth burned. He wondered why.
Frozen against the wall, Sarah Benton opened her eyes and saw the curl of smoke ascending from Poole's half-opened mouth. Then the roby sank down, knelt on elbows and knees, then slowly spread out in a broken, crumpled heap. She knew without examining it that it had "died."
Poole did it to itself, she realized. And it couldn't feel pain; it said so itself. Or at least not very much pain; maybe a little. Anyhow, now it is over.
I had better call Mr. Danceman and tell him what's happened, she decided. Still shaky, she made her way across the room to the fone; picking it up, she dialed from memory.
It thought I was a stimulus-factor on its reality tape, she said to herself. So it thought I would die when it "died." How strange, she thought. Why did it imagine that? It had never been plugged into the real world; it had "lived" in an electronic world of its own. How bizarre.
"Mr. Danceman," she said when the circuit to his office had been put through. "Poole is gone. It destroyed itself right in front of my eyes. You'd better come over."
"So we're finally free of it."
"Yes, won't it be nice?"
Danceman said, "I'll send a couple of men over from the shop." He saw past her, made out the sight of Poole lying by the kitchen table. "You go home and rest," he instructed Sarah. "You must be worn out by all this."
"Yes," she said. "Thank you, Mr. Danceman." She hung up and stood, aimlessly.
And then she noticed something.
My hands, she thought. She held them up. Why is it I can see through them?
The walls of the room, too, had become ill-defined.
Trembling, she walked back to the inert roby, stood by it, not knowing what to do. Through her legs the carpet showed, and then the carpet became dim, and she saw, through it, farther layers of disintegrating matter beyond.
Maybe if I can fuse the tape-ends back together, she thought. But she did not know how. And already Poole had become vague.
The wind of early morning blew about her. She did not feel it; she had begun, now, to cease to feel.
The winds blew on.