-8-

 

 

 

Doesn't hotel mean a place to sleep and eat? he thought. What kind of food would a hotel have? Suddenly Grey wondered if the moonbase might be something more than a playground.

He changed direction and entered a wide corridor decorated with a variety of impressive travel posters. Paris, St. Petersburg, San Francisco. All the mythical places he had read about. At the end of the corridor, he found a lobby with padded benches and a reception counter. Off to his right, he saw the entrance to the Restaurant D'Oasis.

"Food service, please," Grey said to the main desk terminal. He was unprepared for the response.

"Register, please," the Hotel Computer said with cool politeness.

Grey stopped to think, taken off-guard by the machine's odd request. The monitor screen flux lacked any green signature patterns, but that shouldn't have delayed food service. Grey concluded Computer had failed to record his request.

"Computer," he asked again. "Please provide food service."

"Register, please," the Hotel Computer repeated.

What's wrong? Grey wondered. This was confusing. Often he had dealt with difficult problems during his studies, but rarely was he confused.

"Computer, clarify instructions. Identify register," he asked carefully, leaning close to watch the unfamiliar signature patterns.

"Register. Mandatory procedure of identification prior to use of hotel services," was the matter-of-fact reply.

"Computer, present register and initiate procedure," Grey commanded.

A pressure sensitive screen rose up from the counter and tilted down into his reach. Grey looked at the screen quizzically, wondering what was expected of him.

"Would you like to borrow a writer?" the Hotel Computer asked.

"Affirmative," Grey said, accepting a writing utensil from the counter appendage.

He studied the register and noticed the screen already had writing on it. Names, addresses, and dates. Very curious ones, too. The last entry was for a Mr. and Mrs. Smith of Somewhere, Montana, dated July 18th, 2049. From the pattern of entries, Grey guessed he was expected to sign his name and provide similar data. He had no idea why, but decided to follow the program and see if an explanation appeared.

Grey wasn't accustomed to writing his name, usually he just entered his identity code through a input screen, but he finally managed a tight shaky scrawl. Then he had to pause. Where was he from? The question was ridiculous, of course, but he possessed no ready answer. Then he remembered the postcards in his pocket and took one out.

"Tranquility Lunar Colony," he whispered, writing the words out slowly.

Then the date. What was the date? He recalled historical dates, but as for his own, the thought had never occurred to him.

"Computer? What is the date?" he asked.

"Today is Thursday, July 30th, 2054. I should think even a child of your age would know that," the Hotel Computer said, signature patterns blinking impatiently.

Embarrassed, Grey quickly wrote the date on the screen and prepared himself for food service. Again he was disappointed.

"Credit number, please," the Hotel Computer requested.

"Computer, clarify request. Identify credit number," Grey said angrily.

"Credit number. Mandatory data used to verify source of remuneration," the monitor responded, gold tinted signature patterns going to standby.

"Ah, yes. Remuneration. Of course," Grey responded in mock contemplation. "Computer? What's wrong? Request malfunction check."

The computer wouldn't like that. They never did. But the machine's obstinate behavior completely ignored the fact that he was hungry. What could possibly explain such an intolerable attitude except malfunction?

"Response negative, malfunction negative," the Hotel Computer said. "Credit number, please." The tone was no longer polite.

Grey concentrated intently, but it was useless. Credit number simply didn't correlate.

Realizing he'd come to an impasse, Grey decided to try something different. He stepped back from the counter, dropped his hands to his side, and spread his stance, giving the terminal a steely-eyed look just like Dashing Dangerous Dan would do. As the hotel monitor fluttered with curiosity, Grey drew his six-shooter and fired a burst into the screen.

The computer didn't react. No surge of green signature patterns appeared in the flux. He fired another shot, just to make sure. There was a flinch due to the sustained contact, but nothing more. The gold tinted signature patterns returned to standby.

"That settles it," Grey said to himself. "This isn't Computer. It's not an integrated system at all!"

Knowing that Computer would never have tolerated such insolence, Grey surmised the Hotel Computer must be a completely disassociated system. He remembered hearing about such computers but never thought he would actually meet one.

Thinking back on his day, he began to recall other computers that had reacted with similar detachment, only he'd been too excited to give them much thought. Obviously there were many such systems. It was a strange idea, but somehow Grey knew it must be true. Of all the new things he had learned that day, this was the most incredible.

"Credit number, please," the Hotel Computer repeated haughtily.

– End Chapter Eight –