“True, but we might have realized it earlier. And cheaper. Every project we have has to be weighed against every other.” Dome puffed at his cigar. The air was heavy with its smoke. “Anyway, we’re off the track. We can’t allow that danger, that HARLIE is a legal human being. We can’t even afford to be taken to court on this — we’d have to disclose our schematics — which would be just what our competitors want. And that’s a human schematic, isn’t it? The court would be asked to determine just what it is that makes a human being. If they decide it’s his mental ability or brain pattern — well, I’m sure DataCo or InterBem would just love to tie us up with a few lawsuits, the kind that drag on for years — anything to keep us from producing judgment circuits. Do you want to be sued for slaveholding?”
“I think you’re worrying about a longshot,” Auberson scoffed.
“That’s my job. I’m responsible to the stockholders of this corporation. I have to protect their investment. Right now I’m acting President, and I’m concerned about a six and a half million dollar bite on my budget.” Dome had been acting President for six months now — the Board of Directors couldn’t agree on any one person long enough to hire him. And besides, the rumor went, they were just as happy to run the company themselves — which was one of the reasons why the HARLIE project was in trouble. HARLIE had been authorized by a far-sighted president and approved by a far more liberal board of directors than the present one. Now, less than three years later, the inheritors of the project were having doubts. The market had changed, they said — conditions were different, competition was stiff, and there wasn’t enough money to finance this kind of research. What they really meant was, “It wasn’t our idea, so why should we have to pay the dues on it?”
Dome was saying, “If the other companies found out what we were trying to do with HARLIE, we’d lose all advantage in building him. The legal considerations alone are terrifying. For instance, if he were somehow declared legally human, he would be an annual bite on the budget with no way to discontinue it short of murder. The possibility exists for a permanent financial drain on this company that would effectively stifle all future growth potential of this division. Hell, it would destroy this division. We might have to take a bath on the HARLIE project, but it would be preferable to the financial shackles that could be put on us. We have to be prepared for the possibility. There’s two things we can do about it. One—” he ticked off on his finger — “we can turn him off now.”
Auberson started to protest, but Dome cut him off. “Hear me out, Auberson. I know all the reasons why we want to continue the HARLIE project — but let’s consider the other side. Two—” he ticked off another finger — “we get some kind of guarantee now that HARLIE is not legally human.”
Auberson stared in disbelief. “You really are taking this seriously, aren’t you?”
“Shouldn’t I? You know a corporation is a legal individual, don’t you? And a corporation only exists on paper. Compare that with HARLIE. It wouldn’t be that hard to prove he’s human, would it?”
Auberson had to agree. He was already thinking of ways he could do it.
“If only a few of you scientists got together and testified…” Dome left the sentence unfinished. “Hell, what’s that famous test you’re always talking about?”
“Uh, Turing’s typewriter in a room. If you can sit down at a typing machine and carry on a conversation with it and not be able to tell who’s on the other end, a machine or a person, then that computer is effectively sentient. Human.”
“And HARLIE could pass that test, couldn’t he?”
“Undoubtedly.” Abruptly, Auberson remembered the spinster librarian. “In fact, he already has.”
“Mm. Then we have to do something about that, don’t we?”
“Do we?”
Dome didn’t say anything. He picked up the single sheet of paper that had been lying in front of him and shoved it at the psychologist.
Auberson took it and read. The language was quite clear; the intent was immediate. There were no legal phrases that he could not understand.
I hereby affirm that the machine designated HARLIE (acronym for HUMAN ANALOGUE ROBOT, LIFE INPUT EQUIVALENTS) is only a programmed judgment-circuit computer. It is not now, never has been, and in no way ever can be a rational, intelligent, or “thinking” individual. The designation “human” cannot be used to describe HARLIE or its mental processes. The machine is a human-thought-simulating device only, not human in itself and cannot be considered such by any current known definition of the qualities and criteria which determine humanity, the presence or condition thereof.
SIGNE></emphasis>
Auberson grinned and threw it back on the desk. “You’ve got to be kidding. Who’s going to sign that?”
“You are, for one.”
“Oh no.” Auberson shook his head. “Not me. I know better. Besides, even if I did, it wouldn’t change the fact that HARLIE is human.”
“In the eyes of the law it would.”
Auberson shook his head again. “Uh uh — I don’t like it. It’s kind of Orwellian. It’s like declaring someone a non-person so that it’s all right to murder him.”
Dome puffed patiently at his cigar, waited till Auberson was through. “We’re only concerned about the legality of the situation, Auberson.”
Auberson felt himself digging in his heels. “That’s what Hitler said as he packed the German courts with his own judges.”
“I don’t like that insinuation, Aubie…” Dome’s voice was too controlled.
“It’s no insinuation. I’ll come right out and say it—”
“Aw, now look, Aubie—” Dome had changed his tone. His cigar lay unnoticed in the ashtray and he leaned forward like a Dutch uncle. “—You know I’m behind you all the way on the HARLIE project—”
“Then why are you trying so hard to cut it off?”
“—but we have to protect ourselves.”
“Look,” said Auberson. “This whole thing is ridiculous. You know as well as I do that thing — that document — won’t hold up in court any more than ten psychiatrists testifying that Carl Elzer isn’t human because he’s left-handed. The only way you’ll get that to stand up is to get HARLIE himself to sign it. If you could. If you did, it’d prove that he could be programmed like any other machine, but you can’t — he’ll refuse, and his refusal will prove that he’s human with a will of his own. Hmm,” Auberson grinned. “Come to think of it — even if he did sign it, his signature wouldn’t be legal anyway. Unless, of course, you proved him human first.” He laughed at the thought of it.
“Are you through?” Dome asked. His face was a mask.
Auberson’s grin faded. He indicated he was with a nod.
Dome took a last puff of his cigar, then ground it out, a signal that he was at last ready to reveal his hand. “Of course, you know what the alternative is, Aubie. We turn off HARLIE.”
“You can’t.”
“We will if we have to. We can’t afford to maintain him otherwise.”
“I’m not going to sign it,” insisted Auberson.
Dome was annoyed. “Are you going to force me to ask for your resignation instead?”
“Over this?” Auberson was incredulous. “You’re kidding.”
“What other guarantee do I have against anybody taking legal action on HARLIE’s behalf. I’m not saying that you will — it could just as easily be IBM — but you’re the one in charge of the project. Your say-so could make or break a legal case. If you won’t sign this, you wouldn’t sign a statement of non-intent either — would you?”
Auberson shook his head.
“I thought not. So what other alternative would I have to protect myself?”
Auberson shrugged. “It’d be a mistake to fire me, though.”
“Oh?” Dome looked skeptical. “Why?”
“HARLIE. He won’t respond to anyone else. Er… let’s say he’ll respond, but he won’t cooperate. No matter who you bring in. Once he finds out I’ve been fired — and you can’t keep him from finding out; he’s tapped into the company records, he’ll know. Once he finds out, he’ll react exactly like an eight-year-old whose father has just died. He’ll resent anyone who tries to take my place.”
“But that’s the whole point,” Dome smiled. “If I had to fire you, it’d be because I was planning to turn HARLIE off anyway. And for what better reason than the fact that he wasn’t cooperating? Of course, we wouldn’t have to wait even that long if we wanted to turn him off. Obviously, your successor would be someone who would sign that statement.”
“I’m not resigning and I’m not going to betray HARLIE,” Auberson said firmly.
“That doesn’t leave me much of a choice,” suggested Dome.
Auberson nodded. “You can fire me if you want. In fact, you’ll have to—”