The Computer That Cared

uter That Cared

  A Short Story

  by

  Randall McMullan

  www.pianobeach.com

  Copyright 1983, 2014 Randall McMullan

  I first wrote to the computer as a slightly desperate whimsy. Computers are not supposed have humanitarian feelings, at least not yet, but this one could read and I must have felt that the basic skill of literacy gave us something in common. If the computer was a little limited in its choice of literature then, after all, I was similarly limited in my mathematical powers.

  Our relationship began one evening as I sat in a pub, carefully matching my drinking to my dole money. I was redundant, I was bored, and I was worried. On that damp table alongside my beer I had spread the unpaid bills. Each payment card instructed me to write upon the amount of my payment. The computer would then automatically transfer funds from my account – that was the theory.

  For the mortgage I wrote, in dutiful pencil, a payment for the sum of nought pounds and nought pence. Then writing on the card I continued with the words, “This payment is a worry”. It was a memo for myself rather than for others, but I felt better for having shared this alcoholic little insight into my finances. On the way home I passed the bank and offered the payment cards into the metallic slot of the 24-hour automatic till. The bankomat hummed contentedly as it pulled the cards from my hand with a greedy grip.

  Two days later the postman delivered an envelope from the bank. It contained no letter, just another computer card, but its demands were now philosophical rather than fiscal. The printout read, “Have no record of term labelled worry. Do clarify. Make input on this card. Use restricted vocabulary.”

  I assumed that this message was a standard pre-programmed response. Yet I enjoyed receiving it, the morning post and the evening drink were the peak of my monotonous existence. So in the pub again that evening I replied to the computer. I used a terse form of cablegram prose laced with some words of computer jargon which I had taken on board during my orbit as a high-flying executive.

  The zero payment, I explained, was like a bad printout caused by incomplete input data, not enough money in my case. I equated worry to a computer having to run a faulty program which could never give a correct output. Then I asked this computer just how it was able to read and write. I did not really expect any answers, except perhaps from the computer staff or from the public relations department.

  However, the envelope that arrived by return of post came directly from the computer. The message was printed out onto lots of cards, some of which I could understand, but I needed help of reference books to decipher all the terms. I spent hours in the local library completely absorbed by my project, undistracted by the crackles and snores of newspapers readers nearby. The computer printout combined the challenge of a crossword puzzle with the grip of a good story.

  My computer, it seemed, had been among the most powerful of its generation when it had first pulsed at the heart of Central Banking. International monetary matters were transacted in its circuits, its memory banks had stored every trading trend, even a few financial fiddles had been played on its terminals. But these capabilities were no longer needed. As part of a scheme to minimise tax liability the bank had acquired another computer, a later generation machine. I felt a pang of almost electronic fellowship as I recognised the parallel with my own replacement by a younger-model executive.

  Unlike myself, the computer had not been completely written off. It now acted as a controller for the automated banking tills by checking the identity of magnetic cards, by opening slots, and by reading numbers on payments. But the computer now did nothing with this information except to pass it on to the new machine for processing. It had become a mere intermediary in the system, a digital messenger boy. However, no one had bothered to remove the original data files and their operating systems from the redundant parts of the computer. All that information, the best and worst of international banking knowledge, was stored unused, probably forgotten.

  By deciphering further printouts I discovered just how the computer had been able to communicate with me. While it had been scanning the endless number of payment cards it had begun to record the writing as well as the numbers written on the cards. The computer had stored this information in its under-used memory and had then analysed it for all possible trends, employing the various techniques that it had once used for financial analysis. By these means it had apparently taught itself to read. It had always been able to write and had access to an automatic mailing machine. Like myself, when redundant the computer had become bored.

  On the final card of its long message the computer stated that our future communications should be direct – I should obtain an appropriate terminal and connect it to the computer via my telephone. With a certain sharpness of tone in my programming language I replied that I had no input of money. In a few weeks time I would be lucky if my telephone was still connected, as a quick scan of its own data would verify. Furthermore, to keep my own circuits alive I needed rather more than the electricity supply that sufficed for itself.

  Having posted the reply I felt a little ashamed of its unfriendly tone, especially as these transactions had taught me a lot about computers. The knowledge could be useful. According the Minister for Unemployment computers were the key to the future.

  My own computer contacted me promptly with an envelope which bulged with bank statements for all my accounts. Each statement recorded that all arrears had been paid – nothing more was owing. On a card from the computer itself I read the following message: “Use credit card for all purchases. Make no payments. All accounts in balance. Do not worry.”

  So I did not worry. The payments had never been very tangible when they were deducted straight from my salary, paid with money that I had never seen. Now with my salary stopped it seemed appropriate that my payment should also stop. Besides, the tersity of our communications did not allow much room for moral debate and I was happy to obey the command not to worry. Instead, I travelled into the city centre and bought, on credit, a suitable terminal from one of the computer shops – by now I was fluent in computer talk. At home I connected the unit to my telephone and by sending certain codes I could communicate directly with the computer.

  We fell into a routine of linking up each morning before the banks opened and the computers became busy. I spent much of our time together in exploring the network of computers and the systems that they contained. At other times of the day I continued my interest by reading manuals, scrutinising printouts, learning new programming languages. My knowledge grew rapidly.

  I still walked to the pub in the evenings, but now I went for the exercise rather than from boredom. My mind tended to remain engaged with some aspect of computing even when I was drinking or walking. One evening I was passing a branch of the bank when I realised that the time had come to apply my expertise to a career, to start turning the key to the future. The very doors of the bank suddenly suggested an opening into a prosperous future.

  During the next few weeks I studied the programs stored in all the computers of the bank, and took copies of the ones that I thought useful. I gave particular attention to those forgotten systems in my computer which had been used for transactions of dubious legality, those which revealed the less creditable image of banking.

  Then I applied for a position with the bank. My history and references as an executive were respectable enough and I could manage a business lunch as astutely as anyone else. But because I had no formal background in computer banking systems I needed to prove my ability by signs and wonders, like Moses demonstrating to the Pharaoh.

  I did not need to go so far as to part the waters of the river that flowed near the headquarters of the bank. A small manifest
ation of computer plagues convinced the directors, to whom I demonstrated on their own computer display screens. First, I called up summaries of true profits for recent years and displayed them together with the profits that had been declared for tax purposes. The contrast between the two sets of figures was enhanced by my technique of colour display. Next, I showed the annual incomes of certain charitable trust accounts which the bank looked after. These figures were compared with the better incomes that other, less lethargic managements could have generated. In my final presentation most of the directors were surprised to learn the details of certain foreign currency transfers that would also have surprised the Treasury, had the Treasury known. I presented this information in the form of a typical tabloid newspaper article, complete with headlines.

  Immediately after my presentation the directors held a special board meeting of which no minutes were taken. Everyone present agreed that the bank computer system needed better security, and that I was the person who could best provide it.

  I now have an executive office suite to myself. The door displays my title as Director of Computing Services. I have furnished the rooms in an antique but comfortable manner, which focuses on the pleasant view across the City. The only hint of computing is the visual display unit, discreetly encased in real mahogany to match my desk.

  I am no longer bored, my days are as full or as empty as I care to make them. I have retained the morning habit of discourse with computers and I ensure that they are never bored. Good Iuncheons are baked into the lifestyle of a financial executive so the decor of my office is designed to be restful in the afternoon, and to give relief from the difficult decisions made about the Iunch menu.

  I am no longer redundant. The new security procedures that I have embedded into the computer systems not only protect the interests of the bank, they also protect me. I was given a free hand to design the new systems and I have made sure that my knowledge will always be vital. I am certainly not worried.

  But the computer that initiated this successful career program of mine. Does it have a new job? No, because I generated figures that justified completely replacing that computer. The day before it was finally disconnected I received a card from the computer, in the post, just like our early communications. The message queried the changes that it had detected and ended with a last sad statement, "This is a worry".

  A mercy killing really. Learning to read was clever, learning to worry was unnecessary. However, I am grateful to that first computer of mine for opening new doors in my life and I have ensured that it is not forgotten. The bank celebrates the achievements of that machine in our new slogan for automatic banking services, "Our Computers Care."

  They do not really care of course. But then, neither do they worry.

  ===================

  Thanks for reading this story. I welcome any feedback. www.pianobeach.com

  The short story, over 30 years old, is set in the context of banking computers of the 1970/80s. But it still works as a story, because the details of the technology don’t matter.

  The story was written on an Osborne 1 computer using WordStar software. It was published in London in 1983 by Practical Computing magazine. It was edited by Jack Scholfield who went on to found the computing section in The Guardian newspaper.

  The story was also broadcast in New Zealand on National Radio around 1983.