The Turing Option

Brian found himself shouting, sitting up in bed and soaked with sweat, blinking as the lights came on. He fumbled for the glass of water on the night table, drained most of it and dropped back onto the crumpled bed. What had happened? The experience had been so strong, the racing figures so clear that he could still see them. Too strong to be a dream -

“The IPMC. The implant processors!” he said aloud.

Had that been it? Had he in the dreaming state somehow accessed the computer that had been planted in his brain? Could he possibly have commanded it to run some procedure? Some program for solving the problem? This seemed to be what had happened. It had apparently solved the problem, then fed the solution back to him. Is this what had happened? Why not? It was the most logical, plausible, least frightening explanation. He called out to his computer to turn on, then spoke a description of what had happened into its memory, adding his theory as well. After this he fell into a deep and apparently dreamless sleep. It was well after eight before he woke again. He turned the coffeemaker on, then phoned Dr. Snaresbrook. Her phone answered him and said that she would ring him back. Her call came as he was crunching into a second slice of toast.

“Morning, Doc. I have some interesting news for you.” After he finished describing what had happened there was a long silence on the line. “You still there?”

“Yes, sorry, Brian, just thinking about what you said — and I believe you might very well be right.’’

“Then it is good news?”

“Incredibly good. Look — I’m going to shift some appointments around and see if I can’t get out there by noon. Is that all right with you?”

“Sounds great. I’ll be in the lab.”

He spent the morning skimming through his recovered backup notes, trying to get a feel for the work he had done, the research and construction — all of the memories the bullet had destroyed. It was a strange sensation reading what he had written, almost a message from the grave. Because the Brian who had written these notes was dead and would remain dead forever. He knew that there was no way that he at the age of fourteen would ever grow into the very same man of twenty who had written this first report, based on several years of research. In the end to build the world’s first humanlike intelligence.

Nor could he understand any of the shorthand notes and bits of program that his twenty-year-old self had written. He smiled ruefully at this and turned back to the first page. The only way to proceed was to follow everything, step by step. He would read ahead, whenever he could, to avoid dead ends and false starts. But basically he would have to recreate everything that he had done, do it all over again.

Dr. Snaresbrook phoned him at twelve-thirty when she arrived: he shut down his work and joined her in the Megalobe clinic.

“Come in, Brian,” she said, looking him up and down with a critical eye. “You’re looking remarkably fit.”

“I’m feeling that way as well. An hour or two reading in the sun every day — and a short walk like you said.”

“Eating well?”

“You bet — the army rations are very good. And look at this…” He took off his cap and rubbed the fuzz growing there. “A mini crew cut. It’ll be real hair one day soon.”

“Any pain from the incisions?”

“None.”

“Dizziness? Shortness of breath? Fatigue?”

“No, no and no.”

“I’m immensely pleased. Now — I want you to tell me exactly what happened, every detail.”

“Listen to this first,” he said, passing over a disk. “I recorded this just after I had the dream. If I sound sort of stoned it’s because I took that sleeping potion you gave me.”

“That fact alone is interesting. It was a tranquilizer and that might have been one of the contributing factors to the incident.”

Snaresbrook listened to the recording three times, making notes each time. Then she questioned Brian closely, going over the same ground again and again until she saw that he was tiring.

“Enough. Let’s have a cup of coffee and I’ll let you go.”

“Aren’t you going to see if I can do it again — but consciously this time?”

“Not today. Get some rest first—”

“I’m not tired! I was just falling asleep from saying the same things over and over again. Come on, Doc, be a sport. Let’s try it now while the whole thing is fresh in my mind.”

“You’re right — strike while the iron is hot! All right — let’s start with something simple. What would be the square of… of 123456?”

Brian visualized the number, tried to find somewhere to put it. He pulled and pushed mentally, twisting his thoughts about it. Tried harder, grunted aloud with the effort.

“15522411383936! That’s the square, I’m sure of it!”

“Do you know how you did it?” she asked excitedly.