The Turing Option

Brian found that old habits die hard. Three of the four opened at once to some of his favorite Irish code words. Nothing as gross as SHAMROCK, but ANLAR opened the first and LEITHRAS the other two.

“An Lar means city center, it’s on the front of all the buses. Leithras is the Gaelic word for toilet,” he explained. “Bathroom humor is greatly enjoyed by kids. But I have no idea what will open this last one. Can we save it for a bit and see what’s in the other three? It’s a little like getting my memory back, isn’t it?”

“Sure is,” Benicoff agreed. “I’ll tell you what — I’ll start the proceedings for a court order on the last one, just in case. More papers for you to sign.”

The first account turned out to be a letter box, only a little over two years old. Brian went to the oldest letters and read through them. It gave him an uneasy feeling. None of the correspondents was familiar — and his own letters had an alien ring to them. Yes, he had signed them — but, no, it did not sound like him at all. It was very much like reading someone else’s correspondence. There were occasional mentions of AI, but only in passing — and never in detail.

He pushed all of it into the computer’s memory for his attention at some other time, then looked at the other two. One held his financial statements and IRS reports and was fascinating in a depressing sort of way. He had started earning money from royalties when he was quite young, he remembered that, from software for the most part. Then there was a large deposit, from the sale of their house — then more from his father’s estate. He hurried on. So did the money. In a few years it was all gone — just before he went to work for Megalobe. The correspondence with the corporation made fascinating reading, particularly the details of his contract. There was much food for thought here. He stored this one as well and turned to the last account.

Ripped through a few screens, read very closely for a while — then wiped it. The doctor had gone out and Benicoff was bent over the phone, punching in a number. It was almost sunset and the room was growing dark.

“Ben — got a moment?”

“Sure thing.”

“I’m really getting tired. I’ll look at these in the morning.”

“Let me put the keyboard away. Find anything about AI?”

“Nothing in these.”

“Then I’ll accelerate the court order. After you get a night’s sleep try to think of more passwords, okay?”

“Sure thing. See you in the morning.”

“You are beginning to look tired. Get some rest.”

Brian nodded and watched the big man leave. Not tired. Totally depressed.

He had read just enough of the contents to know that he did not like it. The opening was familiar enough, the notes he had made after the disastrous end of his affair with Kim. Once the depression and hatred had ebbed a bit he had made more notes on his Managing Machine theory. This he remembered developing into his AI work — but he also remembered noting that it could be a means of personal control. Apparently he had carried this idea even further, developing it into a new mind science, more theory than fact from what he had seen in the file, called Zenome Therapy. It didn’t sound so way-out and nutty as Dianetics but there were, to put it kindly, large undercurrents of megalomania running through it. It had not made nice reading — and he was pretty sure that he did not like the person who had written it.

Some decisions are easy to make once the facts are in front of you. He had been thinking about this for the last week and the so-called science of Zenome Therapy made his mind up. One of the paging buttons was on the bedside table and he pressed it. The nurse entered a moment later.

“Do you know if Doc Snaresbrook is still here?”

“I believe that she is, supervising the equipment installation. The doctor is moving into a new office that has been assigned to her here.”

“Could I see her, please.”

“Of course.”

The last colors of twilight were fading and Brian overrode the lighting controls to watch them. When the sky was dark he allowed the blinking warning button to have its way. The curtains closed as the lights came on. The doctor came in a moment later.

“Well, Brian, you have had a busy day. Feeling the worst for it?”

“Not really. I was tired earlier but a nap fixed that. How about my vital readouts?”

“Couldn’t be better.”

“Good. Then you would say that I am on the road to recovery, reasonably sane other than suffering from the delusion that I am only fourteen years old — though I am really over twenty-one.”

“Take out the word ‘delusion’ and I would agree.”

“Have I ever thanked you for what you have done for me?”

“You have now and I’m grateful — and tremendously happy at the way things are turning out.”

“I don’t want to make you unhappy, Doc. But would you be terribly put out if we stopped the memory restoration sessions pretty soon?”

“I don’t understand—”