Adventures in time and space transcribed in future tense. The National Broadcasting Company, in cooperation with Street and Smith, publishers of astounding science fiction, bring you Dimension X. Nobody knows exactly when the nightmare began. They must have planned it for years though, because looking back you can find little incidents here and there. Of the concrete mixer in New Jersey that killed the bricklayer, and the time Senator Milburn was sucked into the roto press at the Capitol Office Building. Unrelated accidents we thought at the time, but they add up now. The day we really should have suspected was when the men walked off the construction job at the new Brookmeadow atomic pile on Long Island. I'll never forget that day. I was working as a statistical clerk in the project then. Operating one of those miracle computing machines developed to fill the requirements of army ordinance. They called it ENIAC. Mr. Gurney? Huh? Oh, uh, yes, Dola? The chief wants to see you in his office. Me? Unless you're no longer Samson Gurney, he wants to see you. Oh, well, of course. I do not read minds. Tea leaves or crystal balls. Of course. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Don't apologize. I'm sorry. And don't wait for me. Mr. Hawke is in a hurry. Yes, I'll go in right away, of course. Her name was Bella Roskob. She was Mr. Hawke's secretary. I had always thought her a very attractive woman, but for some reason she didn't seem to like me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. She didn't seem to like me. Of course, on a clerk's salary, I couldn't exactly afford to take ladies to the best places, but I've often thought that if there weren't such a disparity in our ages, I might have... But then... Coming. You wanted to see me, Mr. Hawke? Gurney, I thought those electronic computations were infallible. They are, sir. We've got a kickback from the chief physicist. These nuclear equations are inaccurate. No, they aren't, sir. I'm telling you what the memo says. Well, sir, occasionally if there's an overload, the machine goes haywire. Sort of has a nervous breakdown, you might say. We usually rest it up for 24 hours and it's okay again. Well, do whatever has to be done. Yes, sir. Owen Gurney. Yes, sir. You've been with the Bureau for over 15 years now. It would be a shame to have to remove you because you aren't keeping your mind on your work. Well, Mr. Hawke, I hardly think anyone... Excuse me. Hawke speaking. What? They what? All of them? Well, have you tried to talk to them? Yes, of course. I'll send one of the safety engineers over. This place is falling apart piece by piece. Ms. Roscoe? Yes, sir. The men in the construction gang at the new building have walked out on us. What? Someone slipped this morning and fell into a turbine. No. Get the chief safety engineer. Have him over there right away. Yes, sir. Oh, and contact the personnel office. Have them ask the union to order the men back to work. Get back to me. Yes, sir. I'm sorry, Gurney, I have no time to discuss anything further. Get on the job and stay awake or we'll have to make some changes. Mr. Hawke, I assure you... That's all, Gurney, that's all. Now, you probably gathered by this time that I wasn't a very important man at Brookmeadow. I hated Mr. Hawke with a passion because of his superior attitude and because I knew that Ms. Roscoe admired him as a man of strength and decision. I was secretly happy he was having trouble with his construction crews. That evening, I was told that Mr. Hawke was going to be a very important man That evening, I wandered over to the site of the new atomic pile to see where the man had fallen into the turbine. They had the construction area fenced off with barbed wire and a security guard stalking it. Hold it, buddy. You can't go in there. That's a restricted area. I'm Samson Gurney from the statistical section. Here's my identification. I'm sorry, Mr. Gurney, nobody's allowed in the area. I see. We had a lot of the employees come over tonight to take a look, but nobody gets in. What is it? Tell me, was he killed instantly? Like that. This guy was checking the magnetic field inside the turbine, see, right down inside it. It's all over. But if it wasn't hooked up... Look, Mr. Gurney, they got smarter guys than me trying to figure these things out. Yesterday it was a concrete mold. Wham! Two guys get sucked right into the mixer. My my. Three days ago, a bulldozer starts up by itself and runs wild. One killed, two almost. Go figure it out. You know what I think? Sabotage. Uh-uh. We got more guards and FBI men in here than we got workers. Flea couldn't get through without proving he didn't come off a Russian wolfhound. Now, I'm a statistician. All my life I've been interested in statistics. So a simple sounding thing like this started me off. I went back to the office that evening instead of going home. And for the next two and a half hours, I computed figures on the probability of industrial accidents for the types of machines we were using. I took one look at my figures and went down to Hawk's office. Just as I figured he was staying late working on a settlement with the construction workers. Yes? Oh, good evening. Um, I saw the light. Mr. Gurney, what are you doing here? Is Mr. Hawk working late? Yes, I am. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Mr. Gurney, what are you doing here? Is Mr. Hawk working late? Yes, I am too. Oh. I wonder if I could see him a moment. We're busy right now. Could you make it tomorrow? It's very urgent. I'll wait if you don't mind. Suit yourself. I have a date, Mr. Gurney. I was thinking we might go to Raymond's. They have very good spaghetti. Mr. Hawk has already asked me to have dinner with him at the Golden Shish Kebab. Oh. Well, of course, that's out of my class. Yes. Mr. Hawk, Mr. Gurney would like to see you a moment. He says it's very urgent. Urgent? All right, I'll give him a minute. Okay. Thank you, Miss Roscoe. Mr. Hawk, in the past three months, industrial accidents all over the country have taken a sharp, unexplained upswing. Why don't you stop playing FBI man and stick to your job, which incidentally you haven't been doing too well. You and our computing machines have made mistakes before. Now this is probably another. I'll have Miss Roscoe come so... What's the matter with this blasted buzzer? Miss Roscoe! Miss Roscoe! Yes, sir. Stop this blasted buzzer. Get a repairman, a mechanic. Anything but stop the thing. And you, Gurney, get out. I went back to my office to get my hat and coat, feeling about as unhappy and humiliated as a man can feel. He had thrown me out in front of her. Her office was dark and deserted. The whole building seemed oppressive and unnatural. I walked across to my desk. In front of me, the ENIAC glowed and chattered eerily as it worked on the equations we had fed it that morning. Its many-fingered circuits hung against the wall like some great octopus. And the thousands of tubes glowed orange and blue in the dark, like a thousand eyes staring at me. It almost seemed alive. Then it increased its tempo a moment, and a fleeting notion crossed my brain that it was laughing at me. Laughing like all the others. What was the matter with me? What? Oh, I shut my desk drawer and began to put the cover on my ENIAC typewriter when an amazing thing happened. The most amazing single incident of my life. Alone in the darkness with no one at the keyboard, the ENIAC typewriter began to type. Am I going crazy? This can't be. There's nobody here. There's nobody here. Oh, no, no, no. I'm just imagining it. It's in my mind. But I hadn't imagined it. The paper was there in the carriage. Did I dare read it? Or would the whole thing suddenly vanish and send me shrieking to the nearest psychiatrist? Samson Gurney, there are some equations better left unsolved. The answer to yours is death. It was not until I turned to go that I was suddenly aware of the utter and complete silence of the room. Then it dawned on me. The ENIAC had stopped working. The ENIAC had stopped working. Gurney, do you expect me to believe this? It's insane. Mr. Hawk, I'm a saint. Take it easy, Gurney. Now, this is just some practical joke someone in the office is playing. There was no one in the office. Of course not. They wired up the machine and left. I checked the machine myself, Mr. Hawk. All right, Gurney. You leave this note with me and I'll turn it over to the security force for further investigation. What? No buts, Gurney. The security men will handle it. Yes, sir. Maybe you've been working too hard lately. You've got to relax more. Now, now, here. Let me light that cigarette for you. I watched him trying to make the lighter work. I don't understand this. I just put fluid in it. There's a brand new flint. It seemed ridiculous. A little piece of mechanism like a cigarette lighter frustrating the big important executive. Oh, blast this lighter. Here's a match. It was such a small thing. And yet as I watched him, a thought began to take shape in my mind. Nebulous at first, incredible perhaps, but it grew. You just relax for a few days. Everything will turn out all right. The main thing is not to let little things upset you. It was the cigarette lighter that gave me the idea and what Hawk had said about little things. For the next week I observed the thousand petty little annoyances around the office. The door handle that wouldn't turn, the telephone connection that cut off in the middle of an important call, the power failure for no explainable reason. Suddenly these things began to fall into a pattern. I, Samson Gurney, knew that I had stumbled onto a secret so monstrous in its implications that I was almost afraid to pursue it. On October 12, 1956, I established communication with them. I will curse the moment to my dying breath. Who's there? Nice security guy. Oh, hello Henry. Oh, hello Mr. Gurney. What are you doing here so late? I'm just doing a little repair work on my Antiac computator. Sure is some mess of wires and tubes. Yes, yes it is. Well, I got to finish my rounds. Don't forget to turn off the light, will you Mr. Gurney? No, Henry, no, I won't forget. Good night. Good night. When you were a child, did you ever try to imagine that you were all powerful? I felt like that when I finished hooking the input of the typewriter to the main vacuum tube of the Antiac. Then I turned on the current that sent a million volts of pulsing energy into the electronic nerves of the machine. I am certain that if anybody were watching me in the next moment, he would have thought me a raving maniac. I still wonder if perhaps it is not all a nightmare. Now, you, if what I have guessed at is true, if there's life and intelligence in this room, make a sign. There was nothing, nothing but the hum of the machine and the dull glowing of the tubes. Then, suddenly, without provocation or explanation, it happened. The Antiac typewriter began to respond to the impulses from the machine. The letters were Y, E, S. Yes. It had happened. I, Samson Gurney, had communicated with a machine. I was about to try to communicate again when suddenly, on ball-bearing casters, a heavy metal filing cabinet began to roll away from the wall toward me. I started to move to one side when another cabinet slipped out from the wall and then another surrounding me. That was when I realized that they cooperate. We taught them that, you see, on the assembly lines and in the factories. There was no way out. How could a mere man reason with dumb machines? Still, they needed us. They needed us to oil them and repair them and build them. They hadn't gotten to the point yet where they could exist without man. I had to make them understand that before they killed me. Listen to me. You must listen. What good will it do you if you kill me? I'm only one man, but I can help you. I can be useful to you. Do you hear me? Do you hear me? Good. You're going to need men to oil you and repair you. I'll do anything. I'll do absolutely anything you want, but in the name of God, don't kill me. If you can understand this, answer me. Answer me. The appeal captured the longing of centuries. Man as slave to the machine. And after a moment, the circuits glowed more brightly. The cabinet slipped back to the walls. As I tore the tape from the machine and read it, the words were almost pathetic in their longing, but most ominous in their implication. They read, address me as master. My life for the next six months was a nightmare. The ENIAC gave me messages which I had to transmit into my telephone. I was frantic. I began to lose weight. I couldn't sleep. My nights were torture, a constant fear. It was in December, just after Christmas, and I was sitting in my room listening to a broadcast. Ladies and gentlemen, a special bulletin. Already, 24 hours before the peak of the New Year's traffic, over 1,000 deaths have been reported. This is an unprecedented figure. Again, if you... That very afternoon, I had transmitted a message to the telephones for relay to all machines of transportation. The message was one word, kill. The next morning, I avoided my office. Instead, I went directly to the office of Mr. Hawk. I was highly agitated. My lips trembled as I spoke. Well, Gurney. Mr. Hawk, what I'm going to tell you sounds crazy. I know it does, but I must say. All right, say it then, for heaven's sake. Mr. Hawk, have you ever heard of residentialism? Resist what? Residentialism. You're not making sense, Gurney. Mr. Hawk, I'm trying to tell you. All these accidents, the trouble with the machines, Mr. Hawk, they're alive. They think they cooperate and they hate us. Who? The machines. Gurney. You've got to believe me. I've communicated with them. I know... What are you doing? Now, just relax, Gurney. Everything will be all right. What are you doing? Ms. Roskopf sent for the plant physician at once. Mr. Gurney has had a nervous collapse. But Mr. Hawk... Everything will be all right, Gurney. We'll give you a nice long rest. You fool. You blind, stupid fool. Can't you see what you're doing? Fool, fool, fool! When the plant physician arrived a few moments later, Lucius Hawk was found at his desk, strangled to death in a nest of telephones. The wires were still humming softly. The wires were still humming softly. Samson Gurney, you stand accused to the crime of murder. How do you plead? I did not kill him. I didn't! So record. The prosecution will proceed with judgment. Now, Ms. Roskopf, did the accused kill Mr. Hawk? Now, Ms. Roskopf, did the accused quarrel with your employer on the morning of the murder? Oh, yes. He and Mr. Hawk quarreled violently. I could hear Mr. Gurney screaming at him. And Mr. Hawk asked me to send for the plant physician. What were his words? He said, Mr. Gurney has had a nervous collapse. Now, Mr. Simpson, you are a guard at the Brook Meadow Project? Yes, sir. When did you have occasion to meet the accused? Right after those accidents. He was snooping around the construction area. Samson Gurney, thought hereby finds you guilty of murder in the first degree. Recommendation that you be examined, committed to the state hospital for the criminally insane at Mattawai. And that's how I came to be here at the hospital, Dr. Klein. That's the whole story. Thank you, Mr. Gurney. You can see that I'm not insane. You must believe me, Doc. Of course I believe you, Mr. Gurney. Now tell me about this revolt. It will begin in Washington, then spread to New York. Yes. The Madison Avenue buses lead the charge. Picture it, Dr. Klein. Three thousand buses roaring rampant through the streets, people running like rats in a maze looking for manholes in the pavement. And you really believe this will happen, Mr. Gurney? I know it, doctor. The worst part of it is there's no way to stop them now. It's too late. Now you mustn't excite yourself, Mr. Gurney. But doctor, don't you see? It's fair enough, I suppose. We built them. We taught them to think for themselves. It was bound to come. I guess the female machines will be worst of all in the beauty parlors. They're more high strung, you know. Well, since there's nothing we can do about it, Mr. Gurney, suppose you go to your room and fight. Maybe if I went to my old Plymouth, I could make a deal before the police cars got me. Yes, doctor? Would you take Mr. Gurney to his room, guard? He's already been given sedation. Yes, sir. Those concrete mixers may have made a mistake, you know. Just high spirits and all that. But if they got so, they liked the flavor. We'll see you later, Mr. Gurney. Now try not to worry too much. All right, guard. This way, sir. Machines revolting. Telephones strangling people. Oh, a blasted cigarette lighter. Why won't it work? I just filled it. Flint is good. Oh, well, you can never trust this newfangled machinery. Next week, Dimension X will present a story of the future. A story of an insignificant pebble in the sky called Earth, and of a man from a distant star who grew to love this unimportant planet. Dimension X is transcribed each week by the National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with Breeden Smith, publishers of the magazine Astounding Science Fiction. Nightmare was written by George Lefferts and based on a poem, The Revolt of the Machines by Steven Vincent Bonnet. Featured players in the cast were John Gibson as Mr. Gurney and Rita Lynn as Bella Roscombe. Norman Rose is your host. Music by Albert Berman, engineer Bill Chambers. Dimension X is produced by William Welch and directed by Edward King.
