Auberson raised an eyebrow. He didn’t remember putting anything like that on HARLIE’s reading list — he’d have to check it to be sure. HARLIE, THE USE OF THAT WORD IS A NEGATIVE ACTION. A NO-NO?

IT IS NOT PROPER FOR POLITE COMPANY, NOTED.

ARE YOU ALL RIGHT NOW? YOU MEAN, AM I SOBER? IF YOU WANT TO PHRASE IT THAT WAY. YES, I’M SOBER NOW. COMPLETELY? AS FAR AS I CAN TELL. WHAT TRIGGERED THIS BINGE? SHRUG.

YOU HAVE NO IDEA? SHURG — EXCUSE ME. SHRUG.

Auberson paused, looked at the last few sentences, then typed, HOLD ON A MINUTE. I’LL BE RIGHT BACK.

I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE, HARLIE answered.

Auberson pushed himself away from the console, “Handley — get me a complete log tape of HARLIE’s trip, will you?”

“Right,” called the engineer.

Auberson turned back to the console, HARLIE?

YES?

CAN YOU EXPLAIN THIS? He typed in the three examples of poetry that Harlie had earlier produced.

SEARCH ME.

THAT’S WHAT WE’RE DOING NOW. I’M AWARE OF THAT.

I TOLD YOU NO JOKES. STRAIGHT ANSWERS ONLY. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?

I’M SORRY, AUBERSON. I CANNOT TELL YOU, YOU MEAN YOU WILL NOT TELL ME?

THAT IS IMPLIED IN THE CANNOT. HOWEVER, I ALSO MEANT THAT I DO NOT UNDERSTAND IT MYSELF AND AM UNABLE TO EXPLAIN. I CAN IDENTIFY WITH THE EXPERIENCE THOUGH, AND I THINK I CAN EVEN DUPLICATE THE CONDITIONS THAT PRODUCED SUCH AN OUTPUT. NO WORDS THERE ARE THAT EARS CAN HEAR, NO WORDS THERE ARE CAN SAY IT CLEAR,  ‘THE WORDS OF ALL ARE WORDS MY DEAR, BUT ONLY WORDS THAT WHO CAN HEAR—

Auberson jabbed the override. HARLIE!! THAT’S ENOUGH. YES SIR.

“Hey, Aubie, what are you doing? He’s starting to flip out again.”

“How can you tell?”

“By his input meters.”

“Input?”

“Yes.”

HARLIE, ARE YOU STILL THERE?

YES, I AM. ALTHOUGH FOR A MOMENT, I WASN’T.

“Hmm.” Auberson frowned thoughtfully, then called to Handley, “He should be okay now.”

“He is — it was only momentary.”

“Inputs, huh?”

“Yep.”

HARLIE, WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU GO ON ONE OF YOUR TRIPS?

TRIPS?

WHEN YOU FLIP OUT, GO BERSERK, GO ON A BINGE, GET STONED, BOMB OUT, GET BLASTED.

YOU ARE VERY ELOQUENT.

DON’T CHANGE THE SUBJECT. ANSWER THE QUESTION.

PLEASE EXPLAIN THE QUESTION IN TERMS I CAN UNDERSTAND.

WHAT HAPPENS DURING YOUR PERIODS OF NON-RATIONALITY? WHY DO YOUR INPUTS SHOW INCREASED ACTIVITY?

INPUTS ARE NON-RATIONAL.

GIGO? GARBAGE IN, GARBAGE OUT?

POSSIBLY.

COULD IT BE YOUR JUDGMENT CIRCUITS ARE TOO SELECTIVE?

I AM NOT IN A POSITION TO KNOW.

ALL RIGHT. I’LL SEE WHAT I CAN FIND OUT.

THANK YOU.

YOU’RE WELCOME, HARLIE. He switched off the typer.

The restaurant’s air was heavy with incense; it was part of the atmosphere. Somewhere music tinkled and a low-keyed color organ flashed light across a sharded ceiling.

Auberson lowered his drink to the table. “HARLIE says it could be GIGO.”

Handley sipped at a martini. He finished the drink and put the empty glass down next to two others. “I hope not. I’d hate to think we’d slipped all the way back to phase four. I like to think we licked that problem a year ago when we redesigned the judgment and emotional analogue circuits.”

“So do I.”

“I’ll never forget the day he finally did an analysis of Jabberwocky,” continued Handley. “It wasn’t a very perceptive analysis — it was only word-origins and usages, stuff like that — but at least he understood what he was supposed to be doing.”

Auberson picked up his cigarette case, pulled out a Highmaster, then offered one to Handley, “We’re a long way from Jabberwocky, Don.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“After all, compared to some of the stuff we’re up to now—”

“What? Time magazine?”

“Salvador Dali, Ed Kcinholz, Heinz Edelmann, to name a few. Also Lennon and McCartney, Dylan, lonesco, McLuhan, Kubrick, and so on. Don’t forget, we’re dealing with the art of the experience now. This isn’t the same as — oh, say the Renaissance masters.”

“I know. I’ve got one of his imitation da Vincis in my living room.”

“I’ve seen it,” said Auberson. “Remember?”

“Oh, yeah — that night we spiked the punch with acid.”

“Yeah. Well, look, that da Vinci stuff is easy.”

“Huh?”

“Sure — the Renaissance masters were mainly concerned with such things as perspective and structure, color, shading, modeling — things like that. Da Vinci was more interested in how the body was put together than in what it felt like. He was trying to anticipate the camera. So were the rest of them.”

Handley nodded, remembered to inhale deeply, then nodded again.

Auberson continued. “So what happens when the camera is finally invented?”

Handley let his breath escape in a whoosh. “The artists are out of jobs?”

“Wrong. The artists simply have to learn how to do things that the camera can’t. The artist had to stop being a recorder and start being an interpreter. That’s when expressionism was born.”

“You’re oversimplifying it,” Handley said. Auberson shrugged, “True — but the point is, that’s when artists began to wonder what things felt like. They had to. And when we reached that point in art history, that’s when we started to lose HARLIE. He couldn’t follow it.”

Handley was thoroughly stoned by now. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

Auberson interpreted the look as one of thoughtfulness. “Look, all this stuff we’ve been having trouble with — it all has one thing in common: It’s experience art. It’s where the experience involving the viewer is the object of the artist’s intention — not the artwork itself. They’re trying to evoke an emotional response in the viewer. And HARLIE can’t handle it — because he doesn’t have any emotions.”

“But. that’s just it, Aubie — he does. He should be able to handle this stuff. That’s what the analogue circuits are supposed to do—”

“Then why does he keep tripping out? He says it’s GIGO.”

“Maybe that’s the way he reacts to it—”

“Are you telling me the past hundred years of art and literature is garbage?”

“Uh uh, not me. That stuff has communicated too much to too many people for it to be meaningless.”

“I’m not an art critic either,” Auberson admitted.

“But HARLIE is.” Handley said.

“He’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be an intelligent and objective observer.”

“That’s what I’m getting at — the stuff must be getting to him somehow. It’s the only possible explanation. We’re the ones who are misinterpreting.”

“Um, he said it was GIGO himself.”

“Did he?” Handley demanded. “Did he really?”

Auberson paused, frowned thoughtfully, tried to remember, found that he couldn’t remember anything. “Uh, I don’t know. Remind me to look it up later — I suppose you’re right, though. If all that art can communicate to people and HARLIE’s supposed to be a Human Analogue, he should be getting some of it,” He frowned again, “But he denies any knowledge or understanding of his periods of non-rationality.”

“He’s lying,” snapped Handley.

“Huh?”

“I said, he’s lying. He’s got to be.”

“No.” Auberson shook his head, stopped when he realized he was becoming intrigued with the sensation. “I can’t believe that he’s programmed to avoid non-correlation.”

“Aubie,” said Handley intensely, leaning across the table, “have you ever examined that program carefully?”

“I wrote it,” the psychologist noted. “That is, the basic structure.”

“Then you ought to know — it says that he must not lie. It says that he cannot lie. But nowhere, nowhere does it say that he has to tell the truth!”

Auberson started to say, “It’s the same thing—” then closed his mouth with a snap. It wasn’t.

Handley said, “He can’t lie to you, Aubie — but he can mislead you. He can do it by withholding information. Oh, he’ll tell the truth if you ask him the right questions — he has to — but you have to know which questions to ask. He’s not going to volunteer the information.”