He sat up in bed, fuming to himself. Gloria didn’t move a muscle, except to breathe. Her belly made a giant mound in the bedsheet.
No sense trying to go back to sleep. He swung his legs out of the bed and got to his feet. Stretching, he felt his vertebrae pop and heard himself grunt with the pain-pleasure that goes with it. He padded into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later he was booming down the Freeway, heading for the Titanic Tower, listening to the early morning news:
“...and smog levels will be at their usual moderate to heavy concentrations, depending on location, as the morning traffic builds up. Today’s smog scent will be jasmine...”
It was still clear enough to see where you were driving. The automatic Freeway guidance system hadn’t turned on yet. Music came on the radio and began to soothe Sheldon slightly. Then; he saw the Titanic Tower rising impressively from the Valley.
“I’ll ask Murray what to do,” Sheldon said to himself. “Murray will know.”
It was still hours before most of the work force would stream into the Tower. Sheldon nodded grimly to the bored guards sitting at the surveillance station in the lobby. They were surrounded by an insect’s eye of fifty TV screens showing every conceivable entryway into the building.
As Sheldon passed the guard, a solitary TV screen built into the wall alongside the main elevator bank flashed the words:
GOOD MORNING MR. FAD. YOU’RE IN QUITE EARLY.
“Good morning, Murray,” said Sheldon Fad. Then he punched the button for an elevator.
The Multi-Unit Reactive Reasoning and Analysis Yoke was rather more than just another business computer. In an industry where insecurity is a major driving force and more money has been spent on psychoanalyses than scripts, Murray was inevitable. One small segment of the huge computer’s capacity was devoted to mundane chores such as handling accounts and sorting out bills and paychecks. Most of the giant computer complex was devoted to helping executives make business decisions. It was inevitable that the feedback loops in the computer’s basic programming—the “Reactive Reasoning” function—would eventually come to be used as a surrogate psychotechnician, advisor and father confessor by Titanic’s haggard executives.
Sheldon Fad didn’t think of Murray as a machine. Murray was someone you could talk to, just like he talked to so many other people on the phone without ever meeting them in the flesh. Murray was kindly, sympathetic, and damned smart. He had helped Sheldon over more than one business-emotional crisis.
Well, there was one machine-like quality to Murray that Sheldon recognized. And appreciated. His memory could be erased. And was, often. It made for a certain amount of repetition when you talked to Murray, but that was better than running the risk of having someone else “accidentally” listen to your conversations. Someone like Bernard Finger, who wasn’t above such things, despite the privacy laws.
In all, talking to Murray was like talking to a wise and friendly old uncle. A forgetful uncle, because of the erasures. But somehow that made Murray seem all the more human. He even adapted his speech patterns to fit comfortably with the user’s style of speaking.
At precisely 7:32 Sheldon plopped tiredly into his desk chair. He felt as if he’d been working nonstop for forty days and nights. He took a deep breath, held it for twenty heartbeats, then exhaled through his mouth. He punched buttons on his desk-side console for orange juice and vitamin supplements. A small wall panel slid open, a soft chime sounded and the cold cup and pills were waiting for him.
Sheldon swallowed and gulped, then touched the sequence of buttons on the keyboard that summoned Murray.
GOOD MORNING SHELDON, the desktop viewing screen flashed, chartreuse letters against a gray background. WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU THIS MORNING?
“This conversation is strictly private,” Sheldon said. He noticed that his voice was trembling a little.
OF COURSE. PLEASE GIVE ME THE CORRECT ERASURE CODE.
“‘Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen,’” replied Sheldon.
THAT’S FINE, Murray printed, NOW WE CAN TALK IN PRIVATE AND THE TAPE WILL BE ERASED BETTER THAN THEY DO IN WASHINGTON.
Sheldon couldn’t help grinning. He had told Murray all about Washington politics long ago.
“This is a personal problem,” he began, “but I guess it affects my work, as well....”
A PERSONAL PROBLEM IS A BUSINESS PROBLEM, Murray answered.
Sheldon outlined his feelings about Gloria, omitting nothing. Finally, feeling more exhausted than ever, he asked, “Well?”
Murray’s screen stayed blank for a heartbeat—a long time for the computer to consider a problem. Then:
ABOUT THE SEX I DON’T KNOW. I’M BEYOND THAT SORT OF THING, YOU KNOW. BUT IF THE GIRL ISN’T MAKING YOU HAPPY AND YOU’RE NOT MARRIED TO HER, WHY DON’T YOU JUST TELL HER YOU WANT TO SPLIT.
“It’s not that easy. She’d make a scene. It’d get into the news.”
OH. SO. AND THAT WOULD BE BAD FOR BUSINESS.
“That’s right. B.F. doesn’t like to hear about rising young producers making messes of their personal lives.”
BUT YOU’RE ONE OF HIS FAIR-HAIRED BOYS!
“That was last season. I had the only Titanic show to be renewed for this year.”
FORTY-SIX SHOWS TITANIC PUTS ON LAST SEASON AND YOURS IS THE ONE RENEWED. GOOD WORK.
That came from Murray’s general business memory bank, Sheldon realized. “That’s about average for the industry,” he said defensively. “Titanic didn’t do any worse than Fox or Universal.”
WE’RE GETTING SIDETRACKED, Murray pointed out.
“Right Well... in addition to trying to figure out what to do with Gloria, I’ve got this new project on my hands... and it’s a crucial one. The whole future of Titanic depends on it.”
SEE? THEY’RE DEPENDING ON YOU!
“Yes, but...” Sheldon felt miserable. “Look at it from my point of view. If I don’t get rid of Gloria somehow, I’m not going to be able to give my best to this new show. If I do get rid of her and she raises a stink, and the new show flops, B.F. will blame it all on me.”
YOU’RE IN A DOUBLE BIND, ALL RIGHT.
