Case and the Dreamer (11 page)

Lois, as expected, said whatever needed to be said and the glow died. “Something came up,” Miss Kuhli commiserated, “and Mr. Handel would like you to wait just a little longer, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Merrihew said heartily. He rose and approached her. “Miss Kuhli, would you mind very much showing me some of the things that console does? I’ve been watching you work and—”

“Of course I don’t mind!” she cried, this time with a real exclamation point. “That’s what I’m here for. What would you like to know?” As she spoke an amber light showed on what seemed to be a solid piece of hand-rubbed walnut. Her hand hovered over it a moment and then stroked it. It disappeared.

“Well, practically everything,” said Merrihew. “What was that, for example?” He pointed to the spot where the amber glow had been.

“Oh, Mr. Stamm isn’t going out for lunch and he wants it sent in.”

“That little light said all that?” She tinkled a laugh. “No,
he
did.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Naturally not.” She lifted away some of her shining hair and revealed an ear which had obviously been designed by whomever it is that holds the patent on the chambered nautilus. Resting in the orifice was a glittering little gem of a device. There were no wires or brackets or anything else of the kind. “It’s my personal receiver. I have one in the other ear too. Sometimes it’s nice to hear with both ears but I can use either one—or both on two lines, if I have to.”

“Microrange FM,” Merrihew deduced.

“Yes! And I answered him the same way.” She pointed to the jewel at her throat.

“You spoke to him?”

“Yes, I asked him if he’d like the usual and he said yes and thanked me and I said goodbye.”

“All the time you were talking to me?”

“Well—between talking to you.”

“Subvocals—is that it?”

“You do know a lot about it!” she said admiringly. Another amber spot showed on the board and she put out her hand. This time she touched the board right under the glow and it turned red. “I put him on ‘hold,’ ” she explained. She waved at the end of the board and the bright numerals of a digital clock appeared (remaining in sight five seconds and then disappearing) and she said “It’s Mr. Damiani in Design. He’s been waiting all morning for hand delivery of some special components and he’ll be wanting to know if they’ve arrived. I’ll tell him no, not yet and I’ll send them up the instant they arrive—and shall I call the factory again. Watch.”

He leaned closer while she touched the red into amber. She smiled (and he recalled how many ventriloquists maintain a smile the whole time the dummy is talking) and he was aware of the slightest possible murmur of her voice, the barest motion of her lips. Even forewarned, however, he could not distinguish the words. When she had finished he said, meaning it, “That’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen in my life.” You also smell wonderful, he added, but not aloud.

“It isn’t hard to learn,” she said deprecatingly. “I don’t suppose it’s necessary, either, but you can see how nice it is in an open office like this—no bells and ’scuse-me’s and plugs and wires. And it’s the best possible demonstration of our new VIP. That’s V.I.P.—Voice InPut system.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, the VIP System, the new M&H Computer Central. We centralize all the office functions—well, almost all—into one computer, but it’s very special. We have access to it by voice. Some day,” she went on with heart-stopping enthusiasm (oh, my, thought Merrihew, it’s so easy to listen to this lady without hearing a thing: she is her own diversion, bless her), “we hope to be able to perfect a VIP
system with access points all over an office. At this stage it’s geared to operate through one person.”

“You.”

“And two others, with another girl in training,” she went on. (The entire time she talked, the board glowed and flashed, her fingers moved, hovered, touched and rested.) “Look.” She touched a point in the wall (or whatever it was) at the base of the console, and a drawer slid out. Inside were four small compartments. One was empty. Each of the others held two of the jeweled ear-sets and one such ornament as the one she wore on her throat. She took out one of these.

“Beautiful,” said Merrihew, meaning whatever he meant.

She held up the throat device, meaning that. “There’s no reason it shouldn’t be. And it really is, inside and out. Really, some of the microcircuits in this thing are as beautiful as anything a jeweler ever turned out. I’ll give you some literature on them before you go, if you like.”

She paused, for the holoscreen lit up. Merrihew could see it now. It was nothing but a film of frosted plastic, perhaps sixteen by twenty inches and a very few sixteenths of an inch thick. At first blush one thought of rear projection, but it was far more than that. It was like looking into a clear cube of glass in which was not the picture of a girl’s face, but the girl’s face itself. The pleasant blond apparition asked, “Aggie, is Mr. Merrihew still there?”

“That’s Mr. Merrihew, looking over my shoulder.”

“Oh,” said the image, looking straight into his eyes, “Hello! I’m Miss Addamski, Mr. Handel’s secretary. I’m so sorry to keep you like this. Truly, Mr. Handel will get to you just as soon as he can.”

“That’s all right,” said Merrihew. “I’m in good hands, as you can plainly see.” Miss Addamski smiled and faded away while Miss Kuhli (magnificent woman, he thought) managed to laugh at what he had said without giggling.

“Beautiful holograph.”

“Would you believe Mr. Miroshi’s not pleased with it yet? He still thinks a lot more can be done with the color rendition.”

“It’s so much better than the passionate pinks and sick greens I’ve been used to.”

“Oh, thank you. Now, where were we?”

“At the jeweler’s, I think.”

“Oh, yes.” She held up the throat device she had taken from the drawer. “You’ll notice that all of them are twelve-sided, with a hole in the center. This is what makes it so quick and easy to learn. You think of a clock, you see. You pretend you have a clock, or watch on your throat. Now it’s easy to locate which of the twelve sides is which number—two o’clock, seven o’clock, and so on. You can use it to dial a telephone number if you want to, for example, just by switching in here—” she touched the board and an amber light glowed “—or the intercom system, or paging, or to retrieve something from the files.”

“I understand that everything stays in the M&H files, and what you really get is a copy.”

“My! You really do know us. Yes—look, I’ll show you.” She touched the board, manipulated the jewel at her throat and a ten-by-twelve section of the board became a projection of a business letter. “That’s for inspection,” she explained, “just to be sure it’s the one you want before you reproduce it. If it is, you just …” and she touched the board at the right place and in five seconds a sheet of paper emerged from a slot—an exact duplicate of the letter.

“Really amazing. But where does the VIP system come in?”

“Oh, I had to show you the old way first.” She beamed. “Would you like to see that letter again, or another?”

“Let’s try another one.”

At that moment, a young man came in with a small package. Almost simultaneously, it seemed, a startlingly pretty young girl emerged from an inner door, took and signed for the package while the young man ogled her and Miss Kuhli, his head moving like that of an aficionado of table tennis, Miss Kuhli the while asking after his sick mother. And while this was going on the image of another letter appeared on the small screen. Miss Kuhli caught Merrihew’s nod, touched her control and by the time the young man and the secretary were gone the new letter was in his hands.

“I feel foolish,” said Merrihew, “like the audience of a magic act. How did you do that? I mean, when?”

Clearly she was enjoying herself. “Between the time I said hello to him and the time I asked after his mother. While he was handing the package to Sue.”

“You never touched your throat mike.”

“I used it, though. I switched here—” she showed him “—to activate the VIP, and then I simple told it the code/number of the letter I wanted.”

“Subvocally.”

“Yes, it seemed the best way at the time. But I didn’t have to. Oh, Mr. Stamm’s lunch—unfinished business. I can show you with that. Now, what I must do is call the restaurant. Let’s say I don’t know the number. I could look it up. Or I could—” she fingered the throat jewel “—call Information. Or I could use VIP. Like this—” and she touched a spot on the board. “VIP, what’s the number of the Blue Corner Restaurant?”

Before the words were out of her mouth the telephone number appeared in brightline numerals. “But I can do better than that.” She canceled her board, keyed VIP, and demanded: “Get me the Blue Corner.” Instantly the holoscreen lit up and they were looking at a young man in a blue apron, with all the surprising dimensionality of the M&H holoscreen. “Blue Corner. Oh,” said the young man, lighting up much as the screen had done. “Miss Kuhli! How are you, Miss Kuhli?”

“Fine, Ronnie. Ronnie, Mr. Stamm’s eating in today. Will you send over the usual, a quarter to one?”

Devoutly, Ronnie vowed he would, waited for and got a Kuhli smile and rang off. “Marvelous,” said Merrihew, and could think only to repeat the jaded word. “Marvelous. What you’ve done here at long last is to perfect the old impossible idea one finds in those silly science-fiction stories—the computer you can talk to, the robot that acts on spoken command.”

“Mr. Miroshi says we have never perfected anything,” said Miss Kuhli, “We merely produce the best. We’re really a long way from the computer one can talk to, the way I’m talking to you. And as
you see, we still have to acquaint the computer with a certain person—” she touched the jewel at her throat “—before it can be expected to respond reliably. VIP has to know a person’s way of phrasing, the, diction, the normal vocabulary and what to accept in variations of emphasis. Poor VIP can’t spell at all, you know. We still have to write our own letters, but he does make it a lot easier. Let me show you.”

She brought out her typewriter, an act that consisted of pulling out from the edge of the console a fingerboard no, more than half an inch thick and pushing it inward again, which, with a click, made it assume the slight slant of the conventional keyboard and apparently complete rigidity. “It can afford to be as thin as this,” she explained. “It’s all electrostatic switches. The other parts are all in the computer.” She touched the
ON
point, which lit up, along with the same screen on which he had seen the files. “Now we get some help from VIP,” she said. She activated the system and said “Letterhead and date, please.”

They appeared on the screen.

“To?”

“Mr. Handel. From me.”

“To Mr. Handel, VIP.” Neatly, in three lines properly spaced, there appeared on the screen Mr. Handel’s name and title, room number, street address and zip code. A triple space and then: Dear Mr. Handel:

“Wow,” said Merrihew, impressed yet again. He then began to dictate. Miss Kuhli’s fingers flew. In a way it was eerie, for the typewriter made not the slightest sound, and there was no carriage, no paper, nothing but the shining words appearing on the screen one by one as he spoke. They were:

“Now let’s hold it right there, Mister,” said Agnes Kuhli harshly. “I work hard and I do the best I know how, so what kind of con is this ‘do any wrong’?”

“Miss Kuhli,” said Merrihew gently, “your West Bronx is showing.” She glared at him hotly for a long moment. He held her gaze and radiated as much calm as he could. Merrihew could, when he cared to, radiate a great deal of it. She subsided from fury to sullenness and took her eyes away to scan down the words on the screen. “Never in life,” she growled—it was a real growl—“could I get so uptight that I’d make such a stupid—” Her voice trailed off as she fixed her brilliant eyes on a word. “ ‘Antipodes.’ Oh. Oh, that was the time he—” Surprisingly, delightfully, she colored to the earlobes.