Self-discovery

“But, Valery,” Lena said, “in your complex there's no room for people. How can that be?”

“Lena, you're an engineer.” Ivanov condescended. “Let's look at this subject, man I mean, from an engineering point of view. Why should there be room for him? Can a man receive radiosignals, ultra and infrared, heat, ultraviolet rays and X — rays, radiation? Can he withstand a vacuum, gas pressure at hundreds of Gs, vibrations, thermal shocks from minus 120 degrees Celsius to plus 120 with hourly frequency or the temperature of liquid helium? Can he fly with the speed of a jet, submerge to the ocean floor or plunge into molten metal? Can he figure out a problem with ten factors — only ten — in a fraction of a second? No.”

“He can with the help of machines,” Lena said, supporting humanity.

“Yes, but machines can do it without his help! So all that's left him in our harsh electronic and atomic age is to push buttons. But that's the easiest operation to automate. You know, in modern technology, man is the least dependable element. That's why there are all those breakers and buffers and other defenses against fools.”

“I'm not saying nothing,” the drunk growled.

“But man could be perfected,” I muttered.

“Perfected? Don't make me laugh! That's like perfecting steam engines — instead of replacing them with diesels or electric engines. The flaw is in the physical principles of man, the ion reactions and metabolism. Look around,” he said, waving his arm around the room.

“That damn process is draining all of man's strength.”

I looked around. At the joined tables the revelers were kissing the brand — new candidate, a bald youth, worn out by work and tension. Next to him was his wife. At a nearby table twelve tourists were feeding decorously. There were smoke and noise over every table. On the stage, a saxophonist, leaning over to the side and jutting out his belly, was wailing a solo with variations; the brass section was busy syncopating and the drummer was in a frenzy. The band was doing a rock version of an old folk song. Near the stage, without moving their feet, couples agitated all the parts of their bodies.

“I'm not saying nothing!” our neighbor announced, staring into the empty carafe.

“Actually, man's only redeeming feature is his universality,” Ivanov noted. “Even though he does it badly, he can do a lot. But universality is a product of complexity, and complexity is a quantitative factor. When we learn to make computers tens of billions of times more complex with the use of electro — ion beams, it'll be all over. Man's song will be sung.”

“What do you mean?” Lena demanded.

“Nothing terrible will happen, don't worry. Simply a situation will come about quietly, with dignity, in which machines will be able to do without man. Of course, the computers, respecting the memory of their creators, will be kind to all the rest. They'll satisfy their simple — minded needs in terms of metabolism and such. The majority of people will be very pleased with the situation. In their unflappable conceit they will even imagine that the machines are serving them. And for the computers it will be like a secondary unconditioned reflex, an inherited habit. And maybe the computers won't have habits like that. After all, the basis of a computer is rationality. What would they need habit for?”

“By the way, those rational machines are serving us now,” Lena interrupted hotly. “They satisfy our needs, no?”

I said nothing. Valery laughed.

“That depends on how you look at it, Lenochka! The computers have every reason to think that we satisfy their needs. If I were, say, a Ural — 4 I wouldn't have any grudges against people: you live in a bright air — conditioned room with a steady supply of alternating current — the equivalent of hot and cold water. A servant in a white lab coat scurries about, fulfilling your every whim, and they write about you in the papers. And the work is clean: switch those currents and transmit those impulses. What a life!”

“I'm not saying nothing!” our neighbor announced for the last time, then stood up and shouted an obscenity at the room.

The maitre d' and company ran over to him.

“So what if I'm drunk,” the man yelled, as he was assisted out of the restaurant. “I'm drinking on my own money — money I earned. Robbery is a job, too, you know.”

“There he is, the object of your concern, in all his glory!” Valery compressed his thin lips. “A worthy descendant of the parasite who shouted 'Man — that has a proud ring! Not any more. Well, how about it, Val?” he turned to me. “Come on over. Get in on the project. This way you and I will leave something for the future. Thinking computer — factories, active and omnipotent electronic brains — and in them your ideas, your work, the best of us all. What do you think? Man the creator — that still sounds good. And the best will stay on and develop even when that semiliterate broad, Nature, will finally uncrown her homo sapiens!”