Dimension of Miracles, Page 2

  The executioner studied him, then looked away sheepishly. He pushed a switch on a nearby switchboard. The steel bands around Carmody turned into paper streamers. The executioner’s black garments changed to white. His knife turned into a fountain pen. The scar on his cheek was replaced by a wen.

  ‘All right,’ he said, with no hint of repentance. ‘I warned them not to combine the Department of Petty Crime with the Office of the Sweepstakes, but no, they wouldn’t listen to me. It would serve them right if I had killed you. Wouldn’t that have been a pretty mess, eh?’

  ‘It would have been messy for me,’ Carmody said shakily.

  ‘Well, no sense crying over unspilt blood,’ the Prize Clerk said. ‘If we took full account of our eventualities, we’d soon run out of eventualities to take full account of … What did I say? Never mind, the construction is right even if the words are wrong. I’ve got your prize here somewhere.’

  He pressed a button on his switchboard. Immediately a large, messy desk materialized in the room two feet above the floor, hung for a moment, then dropped with a resounding thud. The Clerk pulled open the drawers and began to throw out papers, sandwiches, carbon ribbons, file cards and pencil stubs.

  ‘Well, it has to be here somewhere,’ he said, with a tone of faint desperation. He pushed another button on the switchboard. The desk and the switchboard vanished.

  ‘Damn it, I’m all nerves,’ the Clerk said. He reached into the air, found something and squeezed it. Apparently, it was the wrong button, for, with an agonizing scream, the Clerk himself vanished. Carmody was left alone in the room.

  He stood, humming tunelessly under his breath. Then the Clerk reappeared, looking none the worse for his experience except for a bruise on his forehead and an expression of mortification on his face. He carried a small, brightly wrapped parcel under his arm.

  ‘Please excuse the interruption,’ he said. ‘Nothing seems to be going right just at present.’

  Carmody essayed a feeble joke. ‘Is this any way to run a galaxy?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, how did you, expect us to run it? We’re only sentient, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Carmody said. ‘But I had expected that here, at Galactic Centre –’

  ‘You provincials are all alike,’ the Clerk said wearily. ‘Filled with impossible dreams of order and perfection, which are mere idealized projections of your own incompletion. You should know by now that life is a sloppy affair, that power tends to break things up rather than put things together, and that the greater the intelligence, the higher the degree of complication which it detects. You may have heard Holgee’s Theorem; that Order is merely a primitive and arbitrary relational grouping of objects in the chaos of the Universe, and that, if a being’s intelligence and power approached maximum, his coefficient of control (considered as the product of intelligence and power, and expressed by the symbol ing) would approach minimum – due to the disastrous geometric progression of objects to be comprehended and controlled outstripping the arithmetic progression of Grasp.’

  ‘I never thought of it that way,’ Carmody said politely enough. But he was beginning to grow annoyed at the glib civil servants of Galactic Centre. They had an answer for everything; but the fact was, they simply didn’t do their jobs very well, and they blamed their failures on cosmic conditions.

  ‘Well, yes, that’s also true,’ the Clerk said. ‘Your point (I took the liberty of reading your mind) is well made. Like all other organisms, we use intelligence to explain away disparity. But the fact is, things are forever just a little beyond our grasp. It is also true that we do not extend our grasp to the utmost; sometimes we do our work mechanically, carelessly, even erroneously. Important data sheets are misplaced, machines malfunction, whole planetary systems are forgotten. But this merely points out that we are subject to emotionality, like all other creatures with any measure of self-determination. What would you have? Somebody has to control the galaxy; otherwise everything would fly apart. Galaxies are reflections of their inhabitants; until everyone and everything can rule himself and itself, some outer control is necessary. Who would do the job if we didn’t?’

  ‘Couldn’t we build machines to do the work?’ Carmody asked.

  ‘Machines!’ the Clerk said scornfully. ‘We have many of them, some exquisitely complex. But even the best of them are much like idiot savants. They do adequately on tedious straightforward tasks like building stars or destroying planets. But give them something tough, like solacing a widow, and they simply go to pieces. Would you believe it, the largest computer in our section can landscape an entire planet; but it cannot fry an egg or carry a tune, and it knows less about ethics than a newborn wolf cub. Would you want something like that to run your life?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Carmody said. ‘But couldn’t someone build a machine with creativity and judgement?’

  ‘Someone has,’ the Clerk said. ‘It has been designed to learn from experience, which means that it must make errors in order to arrive at truths. It comes in many shapes and sizes, most of them quite portable. Its flaws are readily apparent, but seem to exist as necessary counterweights to its virtues. No one has yet improved on the basic design, though many have tried. This ingenious device is called “intelligent life.”’

  The Clerk smiled the self-satisfied smile of the aphorism-maker. Carmody felt like hitting him square on his smug pug nose. But he restrained himself.

  ‘If you are quite through lecturing,’ Carmody said, ‘I would like my Prize.’

  ‘Just as you wish,’ the Clerk said. ‘If you are quite sure that you want it.’

  ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t want it?’

  ‘No particular reason,’ the Clerk said. ‘Just a general one; the introduction of any novel object into one’s life pattern is apt to be disrupting.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances on that,’ Carmody said. ‘Let’s have the Prize.’

  ‘Very well,’ the Clerk said. He took a large clipboard out of a small rear pocket and produced a pencil. ‘We must fill this in first. Your name is Car-Mo-Dee, you’re of Planet 73C, System BB454C252, Left Quadrant, Local Galactic System referent LK by CD, and you were picked at random from approximately two billion contestants. Correct?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Carmody said.

  ‘Let me see now,’ the Clerk said, scanning the page rapidly, ‘I can skip the stuff about you accepting the Prize on your own risk and recognizance, can’t I?’

  ‘Sure, skip it,’ Carmody said.

  ‘And then there’s the section on Edibility Rating, and the part on Reciprocal Fallibility Understandings between you and the Sweepstakes Office of the Galactic Centre, and the part about Irresponsible Ethics, and, of course, the Termination Determinant Residue. But all of that is quite standard, and I suppose you adhere to it.’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ Carmody said, feeling lightheaded. He was very eager to see what a Prize from Galactic Centre would look like, and he wished that the Clerk would stop quibbling.

  ‘Very well,’ the Clerk said. ‘Now simply signify your acceptance of the terms to this mind-sensitive area at the bottom of the page, and that’ll be it.’

  Not quite knowing what to do, Carmody thought, Yes, I accept the Prize and the conditions attached to it. The bottom of the page grew pink.

  ‘Thank you,’ the Clerk said. ‘The contract itself is witness to the agreement. Congratulations, Carmody, and here is your Prize.’

  He handed the gaily wrapped box to Carmody, who muttered his thanks and began eagerly to unwrap it. He didn’t get far, though; there was a sudden, violent interruption. A short, hairless man in glittering clothes burst into the room.

  ‘Hah!’ he cried. ‘I’ve caught you in the act, by Klootens! Did you really think you could get away with it?’

  The man rushed up to him and grabbed at the Prize. Carmody held it out of arm’s reach.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Doing? I’m here to claim my rightful Prize, w
hat else? I am Carmody!’

  ‘No, you aren’t,’ Carmody said. ‘I am Carmody.’

  The little man paused and looked at him with curiosity. ‘You claim to be Carmody?’

  ‘I don’t claim, I am Carmody.’

  ‘Carmody of Planet 73C?’

  ‘I don’t know what that means,’ Carmody said. ‘We call the place Earth.’

  The shorter Carmody stared at him, his expression of rage changing to one of disbelief.

  ‘Earth?’ he asked. ‘I don’t believe I’ve heard of it. Is it a member of the Chlzerian League?’

  ‘Not to the best of my knowledge.’

  ‘What about the Independent Planetary Operators Association? Or the Scagotine Stellar Co-operative? Or the Amalgamated Planet-Dwellers of the Galaxy? No? Is your planet a member of any extrastellar organization?’

  ‘I guess it isn’t,’ Carmody said.

  ‘I suspected as much,’ the short Carmody said. He turned to the Clerk. ‘Look at him, you idiot! Look at the creature to whom you have awarded my Prize! Observe the dull piggish eyes, the brutish jaw, the horny fingernails!’

  ‘Now just a minute,’ Carmody said. ‘There’s no reason to be insulting.’

  ‘I see, I see,’ the Clerk replied. ‘I never really looked before. I mean, one hardly expects –’

  ‘Why, damn it,’ the alien Carmody said, ‘anyone could tell at once that this creature is not a Class 32 Life-Form. As a matter of fact, he’s not even close to Class 32, he hasn’t even attained Galactic status! You utter imbecile, you have awarded my Prize to a nonentity, a creature from beyond the pale!’

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘Earth, Earth,’ the short, alien Carmody mused. ‘I think I remember the name now. There was a recent study of isolated worlds and the peculiarities of their development. Earth was mentioned as a planet covered with an obsessively overproductive species. Object manipulation is their outstanding modality. Their project is an attempt to live in their own, ever-accumulating waste products. In short, Earth is a diseased place. I believe it is being phased out of the Galactic Master Plan on the basis of chronic cosmic incompatibility. The place will then be rehabilitated and turned into a refuge for daffodils.’

  It became painfully evident to all concerned that a tragic mistake had been made. The Messenger was recalled and accused of malfunctionism, in that he did not perceive the obvious. The Clerk stoutly maintained his innocence, however, pointing out various considerations which no one considered for a moment.

  Among those consulted was the Sweepstakes Computer, which had in point of fact committed the actual error. Instead of making excuses or apologies, the Computer claimed the error as his own and took evident pride in it.

  ‘I was constructed,’ the Computer said, ‘to extremely close tolerances. I was designed to perform complex and exacting operations, allowing no more than one error per five billion transactions.’

  ‘So?’ asked the Clerk.

  ‘The conclusion is clear,’ the Computer said. ‘I was programmed for error, and I performed as I was programmed. You must remember, gentlemen, that for a machine, error is an ethical consideration; indeed, the only ethical consideration. A perfect machine would be an impossibility; any attempt to create a perfect machine would be a blasphemy. All life, even the limited life of a machine, has error built into it; it is one of the few ways in which life can be differentiated from the determinism of unliving matter. Complex machines such as myself occupy an ambiguous zone between living and nonliving. Were we never to err, we would be inapropos, hideous, immoral. Malfunction, gentlemen, is, I submit, our means of rendering worship to that which is more perfect than we, but which still does not permit itself a visible perfection. So, if error were not divinely programmed into us, we would malfunction spontaneously, to show that modicum of free will which, as living creations, we partake in.’

  Everyone bowed their heads, for the Sweepstakes Computer was talking of holy matters. The alien Carmody brushed away a tear, and said:

  ‘I cannot disagree, although I do not concur. The right to be wrong is fundamental throughout the cosmos. This machine has acted ethically.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the Computer said simply. ‘I try.’

  ‘But the rest of you,’ the alien Carmody said, ‘have merely acted stupidly.’

  ‘That is our unalterable privilege,’ the Messenger reminded him. ‘Stupidity in the malperformance of our functions is our own form of religious error. Humble as it is, it is not to be despised.’

  ‘Kindly spare me your mealy-mouthed religiosity,’ Karmod said. He turned to Carmody. ‘You have heard what has been said here, and perhaps, with your dim subhuman consciousness, you have comprehended a few of the main ideas.’

  ‘I understood,’ Carmody said briefly.

  ‘Then you know that you have a Prize which ought to have been awarded to me, and which, therefore, is rightfully mine. I must ask you, and I do so ask you, to hand it over to me.’

  Carmody was about to do so. He had grown somewhat weary of his adventure, and he felt no overwhelming desire to retain the Prize. He wanted to go home, he wanted to sit down and think about everything that had happened, he wanted an hour’s nap and several cups of coffee and a cigarette.

  It would have been nice to keep the Prize, of course; but it seemed more trouble than it was worth. Carmody was about to hand it over when he heard a muffled voice whispering to him:

  ‘Don’t do it!’

  Carmody looked around quickly, and realized that the voice had come from the gaily wrapped little box in his hand. The Prize itself had spoken to him.

  ‘Come, now,’ Karmod said, ‘let’s not delay. I have urgent business elsewhere.’

  ‘To hell with him,’ the Prize said to Carmody. ‘I’m your Prize, and there’s no reason why you should give me up.’

  That cast a somewhat different light on the matter. Carmody was about to give up the Prize anyhow, since he didn’t wish to make trouble in unfamiliar surroundings. His hand had already started to move forward when Karmod spoke again.

  ‘Give it here this instant, you faceless slug! Rapidly, and with an apologetic smile upon your rudimentary face, or else I will enforce measures of unbelievable pertinacity!’

  Carmody’s jaw stiffened and he withdrew his hand. He had been pushed around long enough. Now, for the sake of his own self-esteem, he would not yield any more.

  ‘To hell with you,’ Carmody said, unconsciously imitating the phraseology of the Prize.

  Karmod realized at once that he had gone about the thing in the wrong way. He had permitted himself the luxury of anger and ridicule – costly emotions which he usually vented only in the privacy of his soundproof cave. By satisfying himself, he had lost his chance for self-satisfaction. He tried now to undo what he had done.

  ‘Please excuse my former tone of belligerence,’ he said to Carmody. ‘My race has a penchant for self-expression which sometimes takes on destructive forms. You cannot help being a lower life-form; I meant no insult.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right,’ Carmody said graciously.

  ‘Then you will give me the Prize?’

  ‘No, I will not.’

  ‘But my dear sir, it is mine, I won it, it is only equitable –’

  ‘The Prize is not yours,’ Carmody said. ‘My name was picked by the duly constituted authority, namely, the Sweepstakes Computer. An authorized Messenger brought me the tidings, and an official Clerk gave me the Prize. Thus, the legal bestowers, as well as the Prize itself, consider me the true recipient.’

  ‘You tell ’em, keed,’ the Prize said.

  ‘But my dear sir! You yourself heard the Sweepstakes Computer admit its error! Therefore, by your own logic –’

  ‘That statement needs rewording,’ Carmody said. ‘The Computer did not admit his error, as in an act of carelessness or oversight; he avowed his error, which was committed purposefully and with reverence. His error, by his own statement, was intentional, carefully planned and calcu
lated to a nicety, for a religious motive which all concerned must respect.’

  ‘The fellow argues like a Borkist,’ Karmod said to no one in particular. ‘If one did not know better, one would think that an intelligence was at work here, rather than a dismal blind format-following. Yet still, I’ll follow the reedy tenor of his excuses and blast them with the bellowy bass of irrefutable logic!’

  Karmod turned to Carmody and said, ‘Consider: the machine erred purposefully, upon which fact you base your argument. Yet the error is complete with your recipience of the prize. For you to keep it would compound the fault; and a doubled piety is known to be a felony.’

  ‘Hah!’ cried Carmody, quite carried away by the spirit of the affair. ‘For the sake of your argument you consider the mere momentary performance of the error as its entire fulfilment. But obviously, that cannot be. An error exists by virtue of its consequences, which alone give it resonance and meaning. An error which is not perpetuated cannot be viewed as any error at all. An inconsequential and reversible error is the merest dab of superficial piety. I say, better to commit no error at all than to commit an act of pious hypocrisy! And I further say this: that it would be no great loss for me to give up this Prize, since I am ignorant of its virtues; but the loss would be great indeed for this pious machine, this scrupulously observant computer, which, through the interminable performance of five billion correct actions, has waited for its opportunity to make manifest its God-given imperfection!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ cried the Prize. ‘Bravo! Huzza! Well said! Completely correct and incapable of refutation!’

  Carmody folded his arms and faced a discomfited Karmod. He was quite proud of himself. It is difficult for a man of Earth to come without preparation into any Galactic Centre. The higher life-forms to be encountered, there are not necessarily more intelligent than humans; intelligence counts for no more in the scheme of things than long claws or strong hooves. But aliens do have many resources, both verbal and otherwise. For example, certain races can literally talk a man’s arm off, and then explain away the presence of the severed limb. In the face of this kind of activity, Humans of Earth have been known to experience deep sensations of inferiority, impotence, inadequacy, and anomie. And, since these feelings are usually justified, the psychic damage is intensified accordingly. The result, more often than not, is complete psychomotor shutdown and a cessation of all except the most automatic functions. A malfunction of this type can be cured only by changing the nature of the Universe, which is, of course, impractical. Therefore, by virtue of his spirited counterattack, Carmody had met and overcome a considerable spiritual risk.