JUST ONE QUESTION.
YES?
ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO?
This time Auberson knew the answer.
If David Auberson had expected that bright spring morning to be relatively sane, he was destined to be disappointed.
It started the moment he unlocked his office door. Reassuringly, the sign on it still said: DAVID AUBERSON, HEAD OF DIVISION. Below that was a neatly pencilled card: PSYCHIATRIC CARE — 5 CENTS. As he slipped the key into his pocket and pushed the door open he was startled to find six three-foot-high stacks of computer printouts lined up on the rug alongside his desk. Dropping his briefcase to the floor, he knelt to examine them.
The first one was labeled PROPOSAL, SPECIFICATIONS AND MASTER SCHEMATIC FOR G.O.D. GRAPHIC OMNISCIENT DEVICE). The second one was PROPOSAL, SPECIFICATIONS AND MASTER SCHEMATIC, CONTINUED. The third and fourth stacks were CROSS SECTIONS, SUB-SCHEMATICS AND HARDWARE DESIGNS; WITH INTERPRETATIONS. The fifth and sixth were FINANCING AND IMPLEMENTATION PROPOSAL; INCLUDING JUSTIFICATIONS.
He hadn’t even had a chance to examine the PROPOSAL, SPECIFICATIONS AND MASTER SCHEMATIC when the phone rang. It was Don Handley. “Hello, Aubie — are you there yet?”
“No, I’m still at home.” Auberson straightened, continuing to page through the printout. “What’s up?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. I just got in and found my office full of printouts and specifications—” There was a pause, the sound of paper shuffling, “—for something called a O.O.D. What is it?”
“It’s HARLIE’s. What did you get? The PROPOSAL, SPECIFICATIONS AND MASTER SCHEMATIC?”
“Uh, yes — no. No, I didn’t. Let’s see—” Another pause. “—I’ve got the DESIGNER’S PRELIMINARY REPORT; HARDWARE SPECIFICATIONS; BASIC SUBSECTION SCHEMATICS, LOBES l-rv: IMPLEMENTATION PROGRAMS, EIGHTEEN MONTHS OF MANPOWER, SUPPLY AND FINANCING — REQUIREMENTS AND COORDINATIONS; NEW PROCESS DEVELOPMENTS AND IMPLEMENTATION SPECIFICS…”
As Handley droned on, Auberson flipped to the front of his printout, began scanning the table of contents.
“Hey, Don—” Auberson interrupted the other. “I don’t have any of that listed here. Wait a minute—” He stepped back, surveyed the six stacks and made a quick mental count. “I’ve got about eighteen feet of specs — how much did you get?”
Handley’s reply was a strangled sound. “I’m not even going to try to estimate it,” he said. “My office is filled, my secretary’s office is filled, and there are stacks of printouts halfway down the corridor — all of them having to do with building this thing one way or another. I didn’t even know we kept this much printout paper in stock. What’s the purpose of this anyway? Are we building a new machine?”
“Sure looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“I wish I’d been told about it. We haven’t even got HARLIE working yet and—”
“Look, Don, I’ll have to get back to you later. I haven’t had a chance yet to talk to HARLIE, so I couldn’t even begin to tell you what this is about.”
“But what am I supposed to do with all of this—”
“I don’t know. Read it, I guess.” Auberson hung up, but the phone rang again almost immediately. As he stretched across the desk for it, his intercom buzzed also. “Hello, wait a minute,” he said to the phone, then to the intercom, “Aubie here.”
“Mr. Auberson,” his secretary’s voice came filtered through the speaker, “there’s a man here who—”
“Tell him to wait.” He clicked off. To the phone, “Yes?”
It was Dome. “Aubie, what’s going on down there?”
Auberson dropped the sheaf of printouts he had been holding and stepped around the desk. He sank into his chair. “I wish I knew,” he said. “I just got in myself. I assume you’re talking about the PROPOSAL AND SPECIFICATIONS printout?”
“I’m talking about something called a God Machine.”
“Yeah, that’s it. It’s HARLIE’s.”
“What is it? What’s it supposed to do?”
“I’m not sure yet. I just got in. I haven’t had a chance either to talk to HARLIE or to examine the specifications in detail.”
“Well, where the hell did he get the idea—”
“He’s been working on it for a while, almost two months.”
“—and who gave him the authority to draw up these plans?”
“Um, I don’t think anybody did. Or needed to. I think he worked them out in his head, so to speak. I think this printout must be the result of a conversation we had last Friday. I’ll have to check. I’ll get back to you this afternoon.”
“That’s too late. Make it lunchtime.”
“All right, but I can’t promise—” He was talking to a dead phone. He dropped it back into the cradle, then thought better and flipped it out again. He was reaching for the intercom button when his eye caught on a plain white envelope with the name “David” written on it. It was propped against a chipped white beer mug he used to hold pencils. The handwriting on it was delicate, a woman’s.
Curious, he picked it up, hooked a finger under the Sap, slid it open. The envelope gave off the scent of a familiar perfume.
Inside was a card of garish orange. On its face was a grotesque little gnome saying, “I like you a whole lot — even more’n I like peanut butter.” And on the inside: “And I really like peanut butter!”
The signature was a simple “Annie.” He smiled, reread it, then dropped it into his desk drawer. As he slid the drawer shut, though, he thought better of it and opened it again. He pulled the card out and dropped it into the waste basket He had enough clutter in his desk already. Besides, it was the thought that counted — not the card.
Then he hit the intercom. “Sylvia, is there anything in the mail that needs my immediate attention?”
“Uh, just a note about the Los Angeles Conference — *
“Tell them thanks, but I can’t come.”
“—and there’s a Mr. Krofft here, who—”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t see him now. Was he a scheduled appointment?”
“No, but—”
“Then tell him to make one. Next week.” He clicked off.
The intercom buzzed immediately back to life.
“Yes. What?”
“I think you’d better see him,” Sylvia said. “This is — something different.”
“All right but—” he glanced at his watch, “—three minutes only. And that’s all.” He clicked off again.
Auberson’s first impression of the man was of eight pounds of potatoes in a ten-pound sack. He stood there, blocking the doorway in a rumpled suit. “Mr. Auberson?” he said.