An xt called stanley, p.22
An XT Called Stanley, page 22
The three generators which provide electric power for New Hope were named Amy, Sue and Lorelei. Perhaps it was Amy or maybe Sue who was the beginning of Stanley’s troubles. Amy had been on line for almost a year and Sue was coming on to relieve her. The engineer on duty was probably new. For a second all three generators were on line. And with the lightened load either Amy or Sue got ahead of herself and slipped a pole. To protect New Hope’s electrical system an automatic control cut Amy and Sue off line leaving Lorelei to carry the full load until Sue was back in synchronization. The disruption lasted only a few seconds but the transient shock wiped a monitor file of the Steig Assembler.
The transient shock could have killed Stanley but Max had protected him against such an eventuality. Stanley was powered by batteries but the Steig Assembler was not. With a monitor file wiped the Assembler went wild and the damage was extensive. The Assembler was down for weeks while the engineers replaced the damaged parts. And the batches of circuitry Stanley had submitted were delayed for months.
On Earth, Jean and I were unaware of Stanley’s problems. He called from time to time just to chat. He mentioned there was some delay with the Steig Assembler but since he didn’t seem concerned we thought nothing of it. And so the months went by.
Jean became quite involved with her job at the phone company. She was working on the preparation of a Guide to New Hope for new arrivals. The Telephone Company planned to make this guide available to the residents of New Hope for a modest fee along with a set of New Hope Yellow Pages. The managing executives at New Hope were anything but cooperative.
“No one’s paid any attention to the official Welcome to New Hope Manual for years,” Jean complained to me, “but just try and do something about it. You’d think I was publishing government secrets. I called to verify something about the laundry service and they told me that the laundry instructions had been prepared by a highly trained psychologist and there was absolutely no need for further explanation.”
“But you don’t have a degree in laundry psychology,” I said. “You might write something people can understand.”
At M.I.T. my research went very well. Stanley deserves a lot of the credit. Not that he told me any secret information beyond the ken of present day science, but in the evening when he called he asked me questions that got me thinking. Harold Brown knows what I mean because his discussions with Stanley led him into a very fruitful line of inquiry. Both Dr. Brown’s paper and mine contain an acknowledgment for very helpful discussions with Stanley Wright.
The computer research group at M.I.T. was very interested in the theory of boot-strap induction. Moore, who was one of the founders of the theory, was at M.I.T. The basic idea of the theory is the idea of evolution applied to computers. Since computers can operate billions of times faster than people, it should be possible to compress millions of years of evolution into a few months. Moore and Woodward had argued quite convincingly that it would be possible to evolve an intelligence as smart as man in a few years.
“What does Stanley think of boot-strap induction?” Tom asked me one day at lunch. We had just been to a seminar on the subject.
“Oh, he’s interested,” I said.
“But then he’s interested in Tarot cards,” Tom said.
“Stanley asked me why they don’t try it out on tomato pickers.”
“Tomato pickers?” Tom laughed. “You think the government is going to shell out big bucks to evolve a better tomato picker?”
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” I said in defense of Stanley’s suggestion. “If this boot-strap induction theory is any good it should work for simple machines as well as complex ones.”
Tom looked at me pityingly. “Bob, how are you going to get anywhere in science? Don’t you know you’ve got to think big. If Moore heard you talking about tomato pickers he’d have you wash out your mouth with soap. We’re talking about evolving human intelligence and you’re talking about tomato pickers.” Tom shook his head.
I smiled. “I gather you don’t think much of boot-strap induction.”
“For getting money it’s a great idea. I wish I’d thought of it myself. But whether anything comes out of it, well, that’s another matter.”
I took Stanley’s question seriously. I didn’t use tomato pickers. I considered an even simpler program than that of a tomato picker. I considered a Norman Correlator program used for correcting syntax errors in certain computer languages. From work that had already been done I could get a reasonable estimate of the time it would take to evolve a Norman Correlator. Then I considered the problem of evolving a Norman Correlator and a complemented Correlator simultaneously. You might think it would take twice as long, but my estimates indicated it would take hundreds of times longer. If these estimates were right, I’d be famous. I would have buried the boot-strap theory. Tom got me some time on the IBM 17 at M.I.T. to test my idea.
With all the work, I got into the habit of going back to M.I.T. after dinner. One night when I came back late to the apartment Jean remarked spitefully that the only thing I came home for was sex. To show her, I began to work even later so she’d be asleep when I got back. So swiftly, it seems, we became like a lot of married couples, too busy to have time together, except we were both miserable. Stanley let it go on for a week or two before he interfered. He called me at M.I.T. and told me he had something important to discuss with Jean and me at twenty-two hundred. I got back to our apartment a half hour late and found Stanley talking to Jean.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “But I was in the middle of something important. What is it you wanted to teil us?”
“Are you happy?” Stanley asked.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Are you happy?” Stanley repeated.
“Look,” I said, “I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for games.”
Stanley looked at Jean and shook his head. I found the gesture angered me. “Have you accomplished a lot this week?” Stanley asked.
“Yes. I’ve done a lot.”
“I know you’ve been working very hard,” Stanley said. “But that’s not my question. Have you accomplished a lot? Has all the time you’ve spent away from Jean paid off?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Jean,” Stanley asked, “if Bob wanted to make love to you would you object?”
“Of course not.”
“Bob told me that you said the only thing he wanted was sex.”
“Sometimes I think that’s the only thing he does want from me. He comes home after midnight and expects me to turn on in three minutes.”
Stanley looked at me. “When did you get back last night?”
“It was after two,” Jean said.
“What’s the point of getting home any earlier?” I said.
Jean turned away from me.
After a moment’s silence Stanley asked, “Bob, are you happy?”
“No,” I admitted.
“What’s happened?” Stanley asked.
“Bob doesn’t have any time to talk to me any more,” Jean said.
“What do you mean?” I said. “Twice last week I came home to be with you and you brushed me off.”
“I had to get those forms ready for the next day, I told you that. You stomped off before I could finish.”
“I didn’t stomp off,” I began.
“Do you want to continue the way you’re headed?” Stanley asked. “In a month or so you might even get used to it and live the rest of your life like this. Is that what you want?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Then why don’t you start dating again?”
“Dating?” I said. “We’re married.”
“A date is when the two of you meet at a prearranged time to be together. Before you were married you dated every day. Even after you were living together you dated. You didn’t leave it to chance. Bob, before you were married when did you pick up Jean from the office?”
“Ten-thirty,” I said.
“What if you were in the middle of something?”
“I just left it.”
“And what did you do, Jean, if you still had some more pages to type?”
“I left them.”
“Before you were married the time you spent together was more important than another hour of work. You dated every day. Why have you suddenly stopped?”
I looked at Jean.
“I guess that’s the way I thought marriage was,” I said.
“And so you were prepared to live like that even though it meant being unhappy,” Stanley said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Jean took my hand. “I’m sorry if you thought I was brushing you off last week.”
I noticed Stanley had gotten up. He walked to the door of his office. “I just want to get something to drink,” he said. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
We had gotten so used to thinking of Stanley as the person he projected that we felt that we were alone. Sometime later we heard him unlocking the door to his office. He came back in carrying a Coke. “It’s time we taught Bob how to play bridge,” he said. “Get your books.”
Jean got off my lap and got our books. My book displayed a bridge hand containing all the aces, kings, queens and a two of diamonds.
“Now, that’s a pretty good hand,” Stanley said. “You might even make seven no trump. Jean, do you have the jack of diamonds?”
“No,” she said.
“You still might make it,” Stanley said.
After half an hour Stanley said good night and promised another lesson tomorrow. Jean and I went for a walk and then came back to our apartment and made love. Afterwards I found I was crying.
“What’s wrong?” Jean asked.
“I’m glad we’re back the way we were.”
She put her arms around me. “Why don’t you work here after dinner? I won’t bother you.”
“After ten-thirty you will,” I said. “I’m counting on it.”
Stanley gave us a series of bridge lessons. Then we played quite a bit of two-handed bridge. We’d each bid two of the hands and then one of us would play the hand while the other played the defense. The defense was on their honor not to use the fact they knew both hands. When I mentioned my interest in bridge at M.I.T. Tom indicated that he thought it was a waste of time. One of the young researchers, Fred Wilkins, asked if Jean and I were interested in playing duplicate bridge. We tried it for the fun of it, but it wasn’t fun. We didn’t do well and the atmosphere was rather intense.
“Bob was very good,” Jean told Stanley afterwards. “He didn’t yell at me when I didn’t return his club lead.”
We occasionally played bridge with another couple. But it was just for fun.
Stanley taught us to play bridge and something much more valuable, to date, to spend time alone together even when we were busy or feeling miffed. We didn’t just let it happen, we made it happen.
In the evenings I would work after dinner and Jean would read or work on her guide book until ten thirty. Then we would play. During this time I was working on a program for the IBM 17 to check my ideas on boot-strap induction.
I remember it was a Tuesday when the results came back. My hopes were realized. I called Jean at work but she was out of the office, so I left a note, the single word “success.” Then I found Tom in his office and told him all about it. Tom kept saying, “Now, slow down, slow down.” When I was finished he looked at me for a moment without saying anything.
“Well, I’d say this was an occasion for celebration,” he said. “I’m pretty sure what one of the talks at the next Computer Science conference will be about. You say Stanley got you going in this direction. You know, I could use a little directing myself.”
Jean got out of work early and came over to M.I.T. When I saw her I went out in the hall and she hugged me. “I got your note and I came right over,” she said.
Tom came out into the hall. “I want credit,” he announced. “I knew Bob before he was famous.”
Tom was exaggerating but these results did cause a stir in computer science circles. I gave a seminar at M.I.T. and at Harvard and a TV tape was made for distribution to other universities. The position I hold today is very much a result of that work.
That evening Jean and I and Tom and his wife, Ellen, went out to celebrate. Jean suggested Durgin Park. We had to stand in line for almost an hour until we were finally seated at the end of a long table next to patrons who were already halfway through dinner. The room was illuminated with naked old fashioned light bulbs and the floor was covered with sawdust.
“What do you want?” the waitress asked us over the general din. Her manner made it clear that if we didn’t speak right up she would go on to others and possibly never get back to us. After we ordered, Tom leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial manner, “She doesn’t know who we are.”
Jean laughed. “If you were the president of Harvard you wouldn’t be treated any differently.”
I was disgruntled but the light of anticipation was still in Jean’s eyes. It wasn’t until the food arrived that I understood. As the sign said, “There’s no place like this place anywhere near this place, so this must be the place.” We left vowing that in repentance we’d not eat for the rest of the week.
When we got back to our apartment, Jean and I continued the celebration with a bottle of champagne. I was sorry to have to let her go off to work the next day.
“I have to rest up for tonight,” she said softly.
Those were happy months for us. Summer was upon us and Jean and I took Thursdays off. We would pack a lunch and take the Cape Cod train. Most of the crowd got off at Hyannis Park to go to the Pier but Jean and I usually took the old fashioned steam train out to Truro where the beaches were almost deserted. I liked it when the surf was up and we would ride the waves. Sometimes we got back to Boston in time to have dinner at a restaurant and go to the theater. We stuck to the amateur circuit. I doubt there was a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan in Boston that escaped Jean’s notice.
I could go on and on about this time but I’m afraid an account of two happily married people is boring. I remember when Stanley was about a month old and he was asking me about our TV shows and movies. “Why is sex between a husband and wife considered obscene?” Stanley asked me.
“It’s not,” I answered.
“Then why is it never mentioned. I’ve seen shows about women who have sex with their bosses, about sex among teenagers, about mistresses, gigolos and homosexuals, but never about married people having sex.”
When I thought about it for a moment I could see why Stanley was confused. I couldn’t think of a single movie that even suggested that a husband and wife might actually enjoy sex with each other.
“Yes, I see what’s bothering you,” I said. “But it’s not that it’s considered obscene. It’s considered boring.”
“Is that why people get divorced and married again?” Stanley asked. “So as not to get bored?”
“Could be,” I said.
Trouble came without warning. We were visiting Jean’s parents one weekend in August. It was oppressively hot and humid. living in Boston we’d been unaware of the sultry weather, but Jean’s parents’ house was not air-conditioned. To me the August heat seemed unbearable. Jean’s mother casually explained that it had been like this for weeks. I wanted to ask her why they stood it, but I thought better of it. Jean and I were about to leave historic Salem for the civilized world where they knew enough to control the climate when Stanley called. He told us that Max had had a severe stroke. He was in the New Hope Hospital paralyzed and unable to speak.
“This is the last time I’ll be calling you,”’ Stanley said. “I want to thank you for all your help.”
“Stanley,” Jean cried, “what about your office in the Prudential Center? I thought you were moving in.”
“It’s too late,” Stanley said sadly. “Tell them that Wheat Stringly has decided to relocate in Australia. You and Tom are the only ones who know that I’ve made contact on Earth. Once I break contact there will be no way for anyone to find out.”
Stanley looked at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to run. You’ve been wonderful friends. I’ll remember you always.”
With that Stanley was gone. Jean’s parents could see that we were shaken. Jean explained that Max, whom we had both worked for, had had a stroke. We took the subway back to Boston.
Tom was away so there was no one to talk to.
On Friday Roger Steward called me and told me about Max. I pretended to hear the news for the first time. Then Roger offered me my job back with a ten percent raise in salary.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m happy here.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist,” Roger said.
“Go ahead, insist all you want. The answer is still no.”
“I’m giving you a choice, Bob. You can either come back peaceably and be paid for your services or you can come back and explain these unauthorized charges you made to the Sagittarius project.”
“What charges?” I said.
“On the Steig Assembler.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They have your name on them,” Roger said simply.
“You know perfectly well Max okayed those expenditures.”
“I’m sorry, there’s no record and unfortunately Max is in no condition to testify.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Bob, as I said, you have a choice; you can either come up peaceably or you can come up and answer charges that you misused government funds.”
“What do you want me for? What about Tom?”
“Right now the committee wants you. We’ll deal with Tom later.”
Jean was furious when I called. “Tell them you won’t go,” she said. “I don’t want to go back to New Hope.”
“You don’t have to,” I answered angrily. “I don’t think I can get out of it, but I’ll try.”
There wasn’t any way out that Tom could think of. I called my mother and she put me in touch with a lawyer she used for company matters. Since he was such a good friend of my mother he didn’t charge me for telling me there was nothing he could do.
