MIND PROBE by Michael Abbott Short Story On our search for computer novelettes, we this time present to you a story called "Mind probe", written by Michael Abbott. 1984 by Business Press International, Ltd. Apparently, Taylor, a tall and cadaverous civil servant bemopped with sable hair, was not easily ruffled. The duty sergeant led him to the interview room - a bare chamber with two facing chairs, with a naked lamp hanging grotesquely from the ceiling. The stench of desinfectant clawed into Taylor's nostrils; for here, suspects were frequently sick with fright. The sergeant took up position by the door, slamming it meaningfully behind Chief Inspector Biles. "I'm bound to inform you of your rights, Mr. Taylor," the stubby Inspector said, abruptly. "You have the right to refuse our questioning you with the assistance of any technical equipment whatsoever, even a tape recorder. But if you insist on a conventional interview, you should know that I am empowered to detain you until completely satisfied with your statement." "Off the record," he added with a smirk, "this could be indefinitely." "What kind of equipment are you talking about?" said Taylor, who was suspecting that Biles was referring to a piece of apparatus commonly known as the mind probe. He resisted intimidation, and his low, resonant voice started up again. "Surely, this is only a simple enquiry?" Inspector Biles's frail quaver became almost defensive, "All equipment is routinely used, sir, including the disposition analyser, and has been since the 1989 Police Powers Act. If you'll agree to its use, sir, the full interview need take no more than 15 minutes, and there'll be no need to trouble your solicitor. There's no discomfort, and a police doctor will be present throughout. If you've nothing to hide, you'll consent." Biles became impatient. Why detainees needed to deliberate was a mystery to him. After all, he had made it clear that the conventional alternative would be stretched so as to detain Taylor beyond endurance. Taylor had barely consented when the equipment trolley was wheeled in, accompanied by a female doctor offering a mawkish smile. The transferral to a reclining touch, and the fitting of a hideous electrode cap, fractured Taylor's composure. His voice became as taught as a child's. "Let me get this straight. This machine merely extracts answers to your specific questions?" "Something like that," Inspector Biles twanged, buoyantly. The doctor raised an eyebrow. The approved procedure was inconvenient and lengthy. Without sufficient forethought, it could also be inconclusive. When under pressure, the common practice was to copy the subject's entire mind to memory, and examine it later. Taylor, who was simply helping Special Branch with their enquiries, could be sent home, and his surrogate mind probed for its secrets. Taylor was shown an unwiendly black card from which he was to read aloud the statements printed on it in large white characters. MY NAME IS JEREMY TAYLOR I AM A CIVIL SERVANT I AM A JUNIOR CYPHERS OFFICER AT THE GCHQ PROGRAMMING DEPARTMENT GCHQ STANDS FOR GOVERNMENT COMMUNICATIONS HEADQUARTERS I HAVE SIGNED THE OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT "Don't read it yet," said Biles, "Tell me about your fishing trips with Andrew Meredith." "What's to tell?" said Taylor. "We are colleagues, and we share an interest in angling." Bill straightened up, and issued a stern proclamation, "Meredith is here in New Scotland Yard, and is being charged under Section One of the Official Secrets Act, for leaking sensitive information to a foreign power." Taylor was genuinly surprised. His association with Meredith was one based purely on fishing. Chief Inspector Biles resumed his all-knowing smirk. "Long boat trips, eh? Ideal for exchanging information and ideas without being bugged. Surveillance is difficult, even for the security services, when you're sitting in a row-boat in the middle of a lake." Taylor twitched. Not at the accusation, but because the probe had been activated. Biles handed him the big black card. "Read it!" Taylor read it, and then repeated the alphabet three times, as requested. Chief Inspector Biles explained, "As a computing and cyphers operative, perhaps an explanation will not be wasted on you, Mr. Taylor." Biles lit a cigarette before continuing, "You see, the problem with reading a person's mind is that everyone thinks with a language of their own. Unlike computers, which think with the machine language they are designed to use, from birth we humans can evolve our own individual code -- what scientists now call a psychode. As a cyphers expert, you can appreciate the obstacle that this puts in the way of mind- reading." Biles took the card from Taylor and fondled it absent-mindedly. Yaylor insisted on knowing the purpose of this card, and the Chief Inspector became animated again. "Extracting information from the mind became possible when computers became intelligent enough to decypher an individual's psychode. But the computer needs a starting point - a set of clues, as it were. So, the computer monitors your brain's electrical activity whilst you read what's on this card. The signals from the electrode cap on your head are the same as those generated by electroencephalograph equipment used in hospitals. There is one departure from its clinical counterpart, however. The cap you're wearing is bi-directional. The whites of Biles's eyes seemed to bloat at this point. Cigarette smoke streamed from his nostrils. "Any minute now, this machine will have constructed an algorhythm that will allow it to monitor your conscious thoughts, directly access your memory by circumventing your conscious thoughts, and evoke memories in order to see what your conscious mind does with them." "In short, it can help itself to any, or all of my personal thoughts and experiences?" Taylor croaked, humiliated by the prospect. "Affirmative!" "I retract my consent," Taylor said breathlessly. Biles assumed a bored, irritated tone, "'Fraid not, sir. You've signed the form. If necessary, I can use restraint." He summoned the sergeant as a show of force. Phase two of the mind probe commenced. The subject's mouth hung open as the soporific tingling sensation intensified. He heard the computer's voice somewhere in his mind, saying blandly, "Relax, Mr. Taylor. Just relax." The experience is not one that can be meaningfully related, save to say that images, sounds, and long-abandoned memories spring in and out of consciousness like accelerated dreams. A peculiar awareness that something is helping itself to your private thoughts accompanies the waves of voices, faces and startling visions. Frequently, there are physical manifestations in the subject, and Taylor was no exception. He began talking to himself, then he cried out, sang and laughed heartily. The doctor mopped saliva from his chin. It was a sight that disturbed even Biles. When the probe was completed Taylor slept for three or four hours. By the time he awoke, Biles and the sergeant were at the probes console, studying their detainee's mind. Taylor's weaknesses and strenghts, be he incriminated by the probe or not, would be passed on to New Scotland Yard's database. Music floated down the corridor behind the sergeant, reaching Taylor's ears as the officer entered bearing a cup of tea. "Doctor says you can go as soon as you feel up to it," the sergeant said. "I must compliment you on your memory for music, sir. It's just like listening to the real thing." As Taylor left, the sergeant was recalled to the console. Biles had become excited about something. "Usual thing until now, sergeant," Biles was pointing a the screen. "Likes golf and fast card. Thinks his wife is sexually boring. Fancies himself at squash. But look at this one. She's a hooker. Our friend goes on regular sorties into the Earls Court red light district." Biles rubbed his chin angrily. "Guys like Taylor are time bombs waiting for a subversive somewhere to light the fuse. He's wide open to corruption. I'm going to ask the computer to set up a scenario. Mark my words, sergeant, you're about to see Taylor sell a state secret - not for money, nor in the face of violence, but for services rendered. I'm going to arrange a seduction, and see Taylor move in." "Not Taylor, sir, but his surrogate," the sergeant added plaintively. "It all happens inside the computer, not in real life." "Same thing," said Biles. "The computer is capable of simulating Taylor's decision-making processes. After all, a human being's thinking is conditioned entirely by his expreriences and our computer has all of Taylor's experiences at its disposal. The Taylors of this world are law abiding by default. They are circumstantially innocent. Anyone who is potentially willing to commit a crime at the right price is a criminal." The sergeant found his superior's attitude distasteful. "Hardly fair, sir. The computer can romp around Taylor's memory seeking out his weaknesses and fears. What chance would any human stand? So what if he perform as you suspect, sir? He can't be charged. He can thus hardly be regarded as a criminal." "No, but he'll cease to be a civil servant. In fact, he'll never hold a position of trust again. Either way, sergeant, the information concerning personality will be secured with Scotland Yard, and surveillance will do the rest." The sergeant cleared his throat in readiness to make an impertinent remark. "Are you sure such information would not be more secure left inside Taylor's head, sir - how secure is New Scotland Yard's database? I've heard worrying stories about unauthorised taps. If they're true, we could actually be giving our adversaries a leg-up." Chief Inspector Biles gave the young sergeant a long, hard look, before replying. "You've been with Special Branch five minutes, sergeant. What makes you think you're in a position to improve the procedures already? I'd be interested to hear. I don't care what you've read in the fringe press, you can take it from me, no one accesses police or government databanks without authorisation. No one. Every precaution is taken." Taylor was about to sip his coffee when he heard a noise in the hall. More mail? He switched off the TV, yawned, and went to the front door. There on the mat was the now commonplace pile of envelopes which he would have to sift through before his wife became curious. Three envelopes contained exotic funware catalogues; one other a West End contact magazine. There were also two golfing accesories special offers and a magazine for sports car owners. He rolled up the saucy brochures, furtively poked them into his dressing-gown pocket, and returned to the kitchen. There he sat with his toast and marmalade, reading the sports car journal. Since the police enquiry, Taylor had been dismissed from his job in Cheltenham, and had become the target of numerous commercial enterprises that seemed to know an awful lot about him. He had his suspicions, but like the other to whom this had happened, it was prudent to remain silent. Next time, a novelette called "Dumb oracle"...