soon—your privilege, certainly!—what harm could there be in remembering the past now…and getting those memories on record for the benefit of your descendants? It would be a much greater legacy than leaving your wealth to us.”
Lazarus’ eyebrows shot up. “Son, you are beginning to bore me.”
“Your pardon, sire. May I have permission to leave?”
“Oh, shut up and sit down. Finish your dinner. You remind me of—Well, there was this man on Novo Brasil who complied with the local custom of serial bigamy but was always careful to see that one of his wives was as utterly homely as the other was startlingly beautiful, so that—Ira, that dingus you have listening to us: Can it be keyed to pick out particular statements and arrange them as a separate memorandum?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Good. There’s no point in telling how Ranch Master… Silva?—yes, I think ‘Silva’ was his name, Dom Pedro Silva—how he coped with it when he found himself stuck with two beautiful wives at once, except to note that when a computer makes a mistake, it is even more stupidly stubborn about correcting it than a man is. But if I thought long and hard, I might be able to dig out those ‘gems of wisdom’ you think I have. Paste diamonds, that is. Then we wouldn’t have to load up the machine with dull stories about Dom Pedro and the like. A key word?”
“‘Wisdom’?”
“Go wash out your mouth with soap.”
“I will not. You stuck your chin into that one, Senior. ‘Common sense’?”
“Son, that phrase is self-contradictory. ‘Sense’ is never ‘common.’ Make the keying word ‘Notebook’—that’s all I have in mind, just a notebook to jot down things I’ve noticed and which might be important enough to place on record.”
“Fine! Shall I amend the programming now?”
“You can do it from here? I don’t want you to interrupt your dinner.”
“It’s a very flexible machine, Lazarus; the total complex is the one I use to govern this planet—to the mild extent that I do govern it.”
“In that case I feel sure you can hang an auxiliary printout in here, one triggered for the keying word. I might want to revise my sparkling gems of wisdom—meaning that extemporaneous remarks sound better when they aren’t extemporaneous—or why politicians have ghost writers.”
“‘Ghost writers’? My command of Classic English is less than perfect; I don’t recognize the idiom.”
“Ira, don’t tell me you write your own speeches.”
“But, Lazarus, I don’t make speeches. Never. I just give orders, and—very seldom—make written reports to the Trustees.”
“Congratulations. You can bet that there are ghost writers on Felicity. Or soon will be.”
“I’ll have that printout installed at once, sir. Roman alphabet and twentieth-century spelling? If you intend to use the language we’ve been talking?”
“Unless it would place too much strain on a poor innocent machine. If so, I can read it in phonetics. I think.”
“It is a very flexible machine, sir; it taught me to speak this language—and earlier, to read it.”
“Good, do it that way. But tell it not to correct my grammar. Human editors are difficult enough; I won’t accept such upstart behavior from a machine.”
“Yes, sir. If you will excuse me one moment—” The Chairman Pro Tem raised his voice slightly and shifted to the New Rome variant of Lingua Galacta. Then he spoke in the same language to the taller technician.
The auxiliary printout was installed before the table served them coffee.
After it was switched on, it whirred briefly. “What’s it doing?” asked Lazarus. “Checking its circuits?”
“No, sir—printing. I tried an experiment. The machine has considerable judgment within the limits of its programs and memoried experience. In adding the extra program I told it also to go back, review everything you have said to me, and attempt to select all statements that sounded like aphorisms. I’m not sure
Lazarus’ eyebrows shot up. “Son, you are beginning to bore me.”
“Your pardon, sire. May I have permission to leave?”
“Oh, shut up and sit down. Finish your dinner. You remind me of—Well, there was this man on Novo Brasil who complied with the local custom of serial bigamy but was always careful to see that one of his wives was as utterly homely as the other was startlingly beautiful, so that—Ira, that dingus you have listening to us: Can it be keyed to pick out particular statements and arrange them as a separate memorandum?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Good. There’s no point in telling how Ranch Master… Silva?—yes, I think ‘Silva’ was his name, Dom Pedro Silva—how he coped with it when he found himself stuck with two beautiful wives at once, except to note that when a computer makes a mistake, it is even more stupidly stubborn about correcting it than a man is. But if I thought long and hard, I might be able to dig out those ‘gems of wisdom’ you think I have. Paste diamonds, that is. Then we wouldn’t have to load up the machine with dull stories about Dom Pedro and the like. A key word?”
“‘Wisdom’?”
“Go wash out your mouth with soap.”
“I will not. You stuck your chin into that one, Senior. ‘Common sense’?”
“Son, that phrase is self-contradictory. ‘Sense’ is never ‘common.’ Make the keying word ‘Notebook’—that’s all I have in mind, just a notebook to jot down things I’ve noticed and which might be important enough to place on record.”
“Fine! Shall I amend the programming now?”
“You can do it from here? I don’t want you to interrupt your dinner.”
“It’s a very flexible machine, Lazarus; the total complex is the one I use to govern this planet—to the mild extent that I do govern it.”
“In that case I feel sure you can hang an auxiliary printout in here, one triggered for the keying word. I might want to revise my sparkling gems of wisdom—meaning that extemporaneous remarks sound better when they aren’t extemporaneous—or why politicians have ghost writers.”
“‘Ghost writers’? My command of Classic English is less than perfect; I don’t recognize the idiom.”
“Ira, don’t tell me you write your own speeches.”
“But, Lazarus, I don’t make speeches. Never. I just give orders, and—very seldom—make written reports to the Trustees.”
“Congratulations. You can bet that there are ghost writers on Felicity. Or soon will be.”
“I’ll have that printout installed at once, sir. Roman alphabet and twentieth-century spelling? If you intend to use the language we’ve been talking?”
“Unless it would place too much strain on a poor innocent machine. If so, I can read it in phonetics. I think.”
“It is a very flexible machine, sir; it taught me to speak this language—and earlier, to read it.”
“Good, do it that way. But tell it not to correct my grammar. Human editors are difficult enough; I won’t accept such upstart behavior from a machine.”
“Yes, sir. If you will excuse me one moment—” The Chairman Pro Tem raised his voice slightly and shifted to the New Rome variant of Lingua Galacta. Then he spoke in the same language to the taller technician.
The auxiliary printout was installed before the table served them coffee.
After it was switched on, it whirred briefly. “What’s it doing?” asked Lazarus. “Checking its circuits?”
“No, sir—printing. I tried an experiment. The machine has considerable judgment within the limits of its programs and memoried experience. In adding the extra program I told it also to go back, review everything you have said to me, and attempt to select all statements that sounded like aphorisms. I’m not sure
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