The Turing Option

The uniformed barmaid was not as cool. She would not come out from behind the counter to take the order. If she spoke English she seemed to have forgotten every word of it when Brian asked for a beer.

“Min vän vill ha en öl,” Sven said. “En svensk öl, tack.”

“Ja,…” she gasped and fled into the rear. She was under better control when she reappeared with a bottle and glass, but would not pass Sven. Instead went the long way out and around the next table to serve Brian, returned the same way.

“This is a very interesting experience,” Sven said. “Are you enjoying the beer?”

“Very much so.”

“Then you will tell me what you are planning?”

“Just what you see. I have based my plan of attack upon the fact that the military love secrecy, hate the spotlight. Toward the end of the last century, before the truth was revealed, the black budget in the United States concealed expenditures of over eighty billion dollars every year for things like the totally worthless Stealth bomber. It is obvious that General Schorcht was playing the same kind of game with me, in the name of national security, to keep me in prison, my existence secret. Well, now I have escaped. The world will soon know that I am here, know that you exist. We’re out of the closet and in the sunshine now. I’m not going to give away any details on AI construction — that’s a commercial secret that is in my own best interest to keep my mouth shut about. I’ll ask you not to go into any of those details as well.”

“Or it is back into the trunk?”

“Sven — you made a joke!”

“Thank you. I have been working to perfect the technique. At the risk of appearing maudlin I am forced to say that I owe my life, my very existence, to you. For this reason alone I would do nothing to harm you.”

“You have other reasons?”

“Many. I hope you won’t think I’m being anthropomorphic when I say that I like you. And consider you a close friend.”

“A feeling that I share.”

“Thank you. So speaking as a friend, aren’t you fearful about your personal safety? There were previous attempts on your life. And the. military… ?”

“Since the dissolution of the CIA I think that assassination is no longer an American weapon. As to the other lot — I’m going to blow the whistle on them. Tell the press everything I know about them. Let the enemy know that they got the wrong AI, that the improved AI is now the property of Megalobe and the United States government. They, whoever they are, can only get a share of the action now by buying shares in the company. The cat is out of the bag. Killing me now would be counterproductive. Kidnaping me — or you — would be more in the line of what has now become a case of industrial espionage. I am sure that the Swedish government would not take kindly to that. Particularly after I assure them that they will be head of the queue for AI purchase in return for their cooperation. Megalobe will go along with that in return for our safety. A firm can only make a profit by selling — and Sweden has got a lot of kroner.”

The first reporter arrived twenty minutes later; someone had obviously phoned in a tip. Even before he could turn on his recorder a video cameraman was behind him shooting the scene.

“My name is Lundwall of Dagens Nyheter, this is my identification. Could you tell me, sir, what is that machine that is — sitting, is that the correct word — in the chair across from you?”

“That machine is a machine intelligence. The first one in existence.”

“It’s a… Can it speak?”

“Possibly better than you can,” Sven said. “Should I tell him anything more?”

“No. Not until after our conversation with Ben. Let’s go up to our room now.”

When they emerged they discovered mat the lobby was filling with excited journalists. Cameras flashed and questions were shouted at them. Brian pushed through to the receptionist. “I’m sorry about the fuss.”

“Please don’t be, sir. The police are on their way. We are not used to this sort of thing in the Lady Hamilton, and are not pleased by it. Order will be restored shortly. Will you be accepting incoming calls?”

“No, I don’t think so. But I am expecting a visitor, a Mr. Benicoff. I’ll see him when he comes. Sometime tomorrow I hope.”

Brian switched on the television as soon as they were back in the room to see that he and Sven were the subjects of a news flash on Swedish television. Within minutes the item had been picked up by other stations and was being flashed around the world. The cat was well and truly out of the bag.

Later, when he became hungry, he ordered a sandwich from room service. When he answered the knock on the door he saw mat the tiny oriental waiter was flanked by two policemen — each at least two heads taller than he was.

Less than five hours after he had called Benicoff the phone rang. “It’s the desk,” Sven said. Surprised, Brian picked it up.

“The gentleman you mentioned, Mr. Benicoff, is here. Do you wish to see him?”