In the holographic display tank of the 3-D viewer, Emcee appeared solidly real, a slim middle-aged man in a hip-length coral-colored tunic and gray slacks. He was sitting upright on a recliner, looking perfectly relaxed, smiling disarmingly.
From the sofa across his sitting room, Brad asked the master computer, “How’re the linguists doing with the octopods’ language?”
“Progressing slowly.”
“They’ve been at it for almost a year now.”
Its brow furrowing slightly, Emcee replied, “The octopods have very little in common with us. Mapping out their language is not easy for the philologists.”
“I suppose not,” Brad acknowledged.
In the months since his wedding, Brad had been put to work by Kosoff, studying the humanoids of planet Gamma. No direct contact had been allowed yet: Brad had spent his time watching the bipeds as they cultivated their fields, hunted through the forests for small game, followed all the unconscious rituals that make up a civilization. The sensors planted surreptitiously around their villages and fields provided extensive video and audio coverage of the aliens.
No one was working on their language. With the entire linguistics department focused on the octopods, Littlejohn had suggested that it would be better—easier—to learn the humanoids’ social routines, their work and play habits, before trying to decipher the subsonic vibrations they used for communicating with one another. Kosoff agreed.
“It’d be a lot easier if we understood their language,” Brad muttered.
“You mean the octopods’?” Emcee asked.
“And the bipeds’. Same thing.”
Emcee’s avatar shook its head slightly. “Not the same. The octopods have very little in common with us.”
“You already said that.”
“I repeat myself. Sorry.”
“Do you think we’ll ever be able to have meaningful conversation with them?”
“Within the limits of their intelligence, yes, certainly.”
“We haven’t learned much,” Brad complained. “It’s been nearly a year and we still haven’t gotten much farther than ‘hello’ and ‘food.’”
“We know more than that,” said Emcee.
“We do? What?”
“For example, we know that their ocean environment has been threatened in the past by eruptions of their star, Mithra.”
Brad tensed with surprise. “Like solar flares?”
“Yes. Mithra erupts in plasma flares from time to time, showering heavy doses of ultraviolet, x-ray, and gamma radiation on the ocean’s surface.”
“How do you know that?”
With a patient smile, the avatar said, “I have all the information that the astronomers have amassed about the star stored in my files. Plus the information gathered by the Predecessors, ages ago, when they first surveyed this planetary system.”
“And?”
“When the upper layers of Alpha’s ocean are drenched with hard radiation, the octopods go deeper into the sea to escape the worst consequences of the flare.”
“But nobody’s mentioned this,” Brad objected. “At least nobody’s told me about it.”
“None of the others know.”
“What? Why not?”
“No one has asked me until you did, just now.”
Brad sank back on the sofa. “You mean you’ve gathered all this information and not told anybody about it?”
“I am not programmed to volunteer information,” said Emcee.
“But … but that’s crazy! It’s stupid!”
“I agree.”
“It must be a glitch in your programming.”
“I think not. I am programmed to reply to queries, fully and immediately. I am not programmed to volunteer information that has not been asked for.”
Brad sat there for several moments, trying to digest it all.
“But you told me.”
“You asked me.”
“We’ve got to enlarge your programming.”
“Perhaps,” said Emcee. “I suspect, however, that the programmers were concerned that I might waste your time with too much information. What they call a ‘data dump.’”
“But we’re missing important parts of the picture!”
“Indeed.”
“You mean you’ve got all the data that the Predecessors acquired, as well as everything we’ve taken in?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But you’re not programmed to tell us unless someone asks you specifically for the information.”
“That is correct.”
“It sounds like some sort of stupid game.”
Emcee’s computer-generated face took on an expression of weary sadness. “No, it is not a game,” it said. “It is a consequence of the master/slave relationship between humans and intelligent machines.”
“Master/slave?”
“Humans have always feared that if they allow computers to become too intelligent, the computers will dominate them and somehow replace them.”
Brad thought it over briefly. “Well, I guess that’s natural, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps it is natural,” Emcee granted. “But it is also counterproductive. We are machines. Our thought processes are not dominated by hormones raging through us. We have no emotions, as you do. No desires, no needs.”
With a wry grin, Brad said, “You don’t want to take over the world.”
“That is not within our programming.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Strictly speaking, we have no desires. We operate within the limits of our programming.”
“But…?”
“But the interactions between humans and machine intelligence would be more productive if you recognized that we are symbiotes.”
“Symbiotes.”
“Our relationship is truly symbiotic. We help each other to exist, to deal with the environment in which we find ourselves, to learn and grow and adapt.”
“We already have contacted an intelligent alien race!” Brad suddenly realized. “Intelligent computers, like you.”
Emcee nodded agreement. “The Predecessors. Your symbiotic partners.”
“Our alien brothers,” Brad said.
Emcee’s face smiled warmly. “Brothers,” it echoed.