Title: Information please
Author: Whiteside, Stanley
Language: English
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                          INFORMATION PLEASE

                         By STANLEY WHITESIDE

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                 Thrilling Wonder Stories Winter 1946.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


This is the story of how Joe Squeeb lost his job and got a better one,
all because he threw a monkey wrench into the greatest scientific
marvel of the twenty-first century. I know the story because I used to
break news on the teletype for the B. J. News Agency.

The B. J. News Agency has no ear for euphony, however, so I had to
leave them and I'm writing these memoirs while I wait for old B. J. to
apologize.

The first release that touched on Joe Squeeb's case was ticked off by
me on the master sender. I still got a copy, as follows:

SASSOON SEIZES SOLVER. PROFESSOR CONNOR CLAIMS IN COURT THAT
CONFISCATION OF BRAIN MACHINE IS ILLEGAL.

I remember I paused a couple of minutes for dramatic effect before I
sent out the rest of it:

SCIENTIFIC CIRCLES SEEK SOLACE IN SAFE SILENCE. ODDS 10 TO 1 ON
SASSOON. AP.

The AP stands for me, Alfred Pennyfeather, and the B. J. News Agency
always quotes odds for its customers so they'll know how to write up
the stuff in their papers.

A little while after I sent out the release, old B. J. himself prodded
me in the ribs. B. J. is a beetle-browed person with gruff voice and a
red face which can wear a very unpleasant expression. Also he has pale
blue eyes like chilled marbles.

"Pennyfeather," he says, "cut the comic headlines. Let our customers
think up their own. You just give 'em the story."

"Yessir," I agree. But I don't like that crack about comic headlines.

"And get some dope on the Solver," he growls as he stamps out. "Make it
brief."

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, our files had plenty on the Solver, since it was a hot news item.
They claimed it could answer anything. It was a machine that covered an
acre of floor and stood about thirty feet high--all full of wires and
relays and counters. Also there were tanks of stuff that the inventor
called the bio-chemical conceptors. These tanks were hooked up with a
million fine wires, from one tank to the next, and all tied in with
electronic tubes. It was a sort of super-brain.

The Solver was invented because the human brain is limited to a few
concepts at one time. Science needed a brain that could juggle a whole
bunch of ideas simultaneously. And since the Solver was fed only facts,
its multi-brain wasn't cluttered with useless junk.

It had taken months to build it--and a lot of dough. So the scientists
weren't anxious to have it snitched from them by any politician like
Sassoon.

I called up Professor Connor, the inventor, and told him who I was.

"I have no comments for the press!" he says tartly. In the visiplate,
his beard was thrust forward so pugnaciously that it was all out of
focus and I had to peer through the brush in order to see his face.

"Take it easy, Professor." I smiled suavely. "The Press is your best
friend. If you're getting a dirty deal we will tell the whole world
about it! Are you going to appeal the court decision?"

"Yes," he says after a pause. "I am!" He strokes his beard so that it
clears from the visiplate and I can see a fairly benign looking old
geezer. "I was only defeated on a technicality today. As inventor and
owner of the Solver, my rights are patent."

"How come Sassoon grabbed your gadget, Professor?"

"The Solver is not a gadget!" he snaps. "It's a delicate machine--and
dangerous! The man who controls it can solve any riddle, given time.
Therefore, it should remain under scientific control. It belongs
rightfully to the Science Department."

"Yeah--but how about Sassoon?"

The professor's snort rattled the receiver.

"Sassoon is already head of Geo-politics. The other departments of
government won't last long if Geo-politics controls the Solver. Sassoon
is an unscrupulous bandit!" And the professor snapped off his set.

Maybe he was right. In the news room it was no secret that Sassoon was
going to be the Big Shot or bust. In fact, I had a dilly of a headline
all cooked up for the day Sassoon seized the scepter.

The following morning, however, the news wasn't so funny. Professor
Connor was going to see his lawyer that day. Here's the teletype copy:

PROFESSOR CONNOR KILLED IN CRASH. CAR COLLIDES WITH CAB AT CORNER OF
5TH AND GRAND. CONNOR'S CORPSE CONSIGNED TO CREMATORY. ODDS 50 TO 1 ON
SASSOON. AP.

Old B. J. raised holy cain over that one!

"Connor's corpse consigned to crematory!" he yowled. "One more crack
like that and you, Pennyweight, are fired!"

"Pennyfeather," I correct B. J.

"Featherweight, Pennyweather, Periwinkle!" he foams. "What's the odds!
You Featherbrain!"

Before I can answer, he's gone, slamming the door and blowing papers
off my desk.

Well, a couple of days later Sassoon announces that the Solver will be
unveiled to the public with due ceremony, come Wednesday. The Science
Department is invited to attend at the Solver Building. Which is very
magnanimous, considering that the Science Department paid for the
building and the Solver too!

"Jellyfeather," says old B. J. "You go down and cover this unveiling."

That's how I came to witness the Joe Squeeb incident.

I had a seat in the hall right down in front--just behind the
disgruntled-looking scientists. Maybe they had a right to feel that
way, but they knew better than to ignore Sassoon's invitation. Sassoon
was very sensitive about such things as being snubbed. So they were all
there, sitting like a row of hungry blackbirds.

Up on the platform, the chairman opened the proceedings with a nice
little speech which safely said nothing, and then he handed over the
meeting to Sassoon.

Sassoon was a big, fat man with slick black hair and eyes that reminded
me of old B. J.'s. Fishy. Sassoon, however, put on the jolly act--big
smile and breezy manner, the "we're-all-one-big-family" touch.

Most of the people fell for it, and gave him a laugh when he sprung
his warming-up joke. But the boys with the brains in front of me just
gloomed. I saw Sassoon give them a quick once-over before he went on to
describe the wonders of the Solver. He gave a pretty good speech, too,
if you didn't know what was behind it.

"Mankind," he finally ended, "will look back on this day as on the dawn
of a new era. Posterity will bathe in the flow of a new wisdom that has
come from our hands!"

Then he pulled a cord that opened a huge curtain behind him, and the
Solver was unveiled. Appropriate oh's and ah's followed. It did look
impressive at that. Like a gigantic calculating machine.

       *       *       *       *       *

In front of it there was a wide platform with several desks. These
were occupied by attendants ready to feed data which the Solver might
require. Each desk had a microphone for that purpose, and there was one
gilded microphone near Sassoon. This one was for stating the question.
A large loudspeaker was suspended high up to deliver the Solver's
answers.

I once read that the ancient Greeks had a similar setup, called the
Delphic Oracle. Only some fellow got the wrong answer once and blew the
whole works some way.

"And now," Sassoon beamed on his audience, "we will demonstrate the
Solver in action. Perhaps we should allow our scientific friends the
honor of asking it the first riddle. After all, we owe science a great
deal, ha-ha!"

But none of the savants made a move. Maybe they felt balky. However,
Sassoon was too smart to allow any awkward pauses.

"But then, perhaps the honor should go to some less illustrious
person." His cold eyes had spotted the figure of a little man in
overalls, standing in a half-open doorway. The little man leaned on a
broom. I found out later he was Joe Squeeb, the janitor of Solver Hall.

"Since we must always remember our democratic traditions," Sassoon's
voice was slick as warm margarine, "I think our humblest worker should
have the great honor of asking the Solver its first public question.
Come here--you!"

The janitor dropped his broom and turned to flee, but Sassoon's voice,
with just a slight grate to it, pinned him in his tracks like a
mesmerized rabbit.

"Come, come. You, with the broom. Step up here!"

Joe Squeeb moved as if pulled by invisible chains. On the stage with
Sassoon, he blinked nervously at the audience. Then he suddenly
grinned, showing snaggy teeth, like a man who feels he's a goner.
Sassoon towered over him as they talked together for a moment before
Sassoon turned to face the audience again.

"This, ah, gentleman, is Joe Squeeb, our janitor. He has agreed to try
and stump the Solver, ha-ha!"

Sassoon's great hand smacked Squeeb on the back and nearly sent the
little man sprawling into the row of stony-faced scientists.

"And now, Mr. Squeeb--ask your question." Sassoon pushed him to the
gilded microphone.

[Illustration: "Ask it a question."]

Squeeb's Adam's apple bobbed. He shuffled his feet and twisted his
scrawny neck. I heard his panicky whisper to Sassoon.

"What'll I ask it?"

"Come, come!" Sassoon frowned heavily. "Don't jump around like that!
Ask it some question in arithmetic. Or maybe you know all the answers,
ho-ho!"

Squeeb rolled his eyes. I guess he wasn't used to thinking because he
acted as if he was in pain. Then, suddenly, his face lighted up.

"I got it," he said triumphantly. "I remember a problem that stuck all
of us."

Evidently he had dredged the depths of his mind for some long forgotten
problem of high school days.

"All right." Sassoon switched on the control. "Ask it, man, and get it
over!"

Squeeb gulped, gave his waiting audience a last hopeless grin, and
cleared his throat.

"Exactly what is the area of a circle," he asked brightly, "with a
radius of one inch?"

Bertrand, the great mathematician, sitting just in front of me, gave a
sort of gasp. Then the raspy notes of the Solver squawked a reply.

"The area of a circle with a radius of one inch is exactly--Three point
one, four, one, five--nine--two--six--"

Bertrand, the mathematician, had a notebook and pen out, scribbling as
the Solver announced the figures in a plodding monotone. He covered one
line and started on the next.

The audience began to stir impatiently. This was not very entertaining.
Sassoon frowned, quickly smiled again.

"How long does this go on?" he asked jocularly.

One of the desk attendants moved forward.

"It'll be quite a long time," he said. "The answer has never been
completed."

"Oh--six-- --nine-- -- --five," the Solver intoned persistently.

"Switch the blasted thing off!" Sassoon ordered irritably.

The Solver gurgled to silence.

"Now." Sassoon cleared his throat. "We will ask it another question."

The same attendant coughed discreetly.

"Just a minute, Mr. Sassoon," he said apologetically as the boss
of Geo-politics swung around to face him. "The Solver is not purely
mechanical, you know. The actual work is done by the bio-chemical cells
and these cannot be reset to zero without discharging their concept
energy."

"Huh?" Sassoon frowned at the interruption. "Well, discharge 'em!"

"That's the trouble, sir. A Solver cell is like a human brain cell,
it must complete its function in order to relapse into inactivity.
Shutting off the Solver merely holds its processes in abeyance. When we
switch on the power again, the cells will continue where they left off
till their task is completed."

       *       *       *       *       *

Sassoon thought that one over.

"Then switch it back on again. Let's get this over," he snapped, and
turned to look for Joe Squeeb. But the janitor had discreetly faded.
His broom leaned, deserted, in the doorway. Squeeb wasn't so dumb as he
looked!

"Nine-- --Six-- -- --Four--" The Solver was slowing down a little as
the calculations became more involved with unwieldy quotients. But
there was grim resolve in the metallic tone.

I tapped Bertrand on the shoulder.

"How long will this take?" I asked.

"Couldn't say." He smiled thinly. "We once wore out several machines
on that problem. Imagine a Joe Squeeb saving us from--" He stopped
abruptly.

"Can't you tell the Solver some way that the present answer is close
enough?"

Bertrand shook his head.

"As you may recall, Joe Squeeb definitely asked for an exact answer.
The Solver will give it--regardless!"

"Eight-- --one-- --two--" The Solver was beginning to sound labored.
Inside the great machine relays were madly racing.

"I guess Joe Squeeb just lost a job," I murmured.

"He has another job waiting for him." Bertrand almost grinned. "We need
someone to dust our equipment--someone who knows enough not to monkey
with things. It'll really be a pension job."

I looked at Sassoon. He appeared very unhappy. Not only had he made
a chump of himself, but it looked as if he'd spiked his own guns by
gumming up the Solver. He couldn't use the machine for his own ends and
he'd have no excuse for stealing the next one to be built.

When I left Solver Hall the machine was gurgling a number about
every twenty seconds and slowing down all the time. Sassoon had
asked Bertrand to get busy and shut it up some way, and Bertrand was
gently explaining to him that it was merely a matter of time--lots of
time--before the Solver would stop. Unless Sassoon wanted it torn apart.

I sent out a teletype release to the waiting world. It read:

SASSOON SUMMONS SCIENTISTS FOR SOLUTION AS SOLVER STRANGLES ON SQUARING
OF CIRCLE. SASSOON SWEARS TO SILENCE SOLVER. ODDS 1,000,000 TO 1 ON
SOLVER. AP.

Ten seconds after the release, old B. J. was at my desk. Red eyed!

"Pinfeather," he roars, "you're fired!"

"It's Pennyfeather," I retort. "And I quit two seconds before you
spoke!"

"All right, all right! Bunnyweather, then!" He clutches the edge of my
desk. "Only get out of my sight! Quick!"

And that is Joe Squeeb's story. Right now he's working for swell wages
at Science Hall. They all call him Joe and ask him all the time how
is his family and how is his arthritis. He's even putting on a little
weight.

As for old B. J.--I figure he'll come around to me, apologizing, some
day. Unless apoplexy gets him first. I'm just waiting while I write
these memoirs.



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