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Back Life at the Top
Chapters (30)
  1. Introduction
  2. LIFE AT THE TOP
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. About the Author
  30. About the Cover

“That’s right,” I said. “Always take notice of your father. Don’t worry, old man. I’ll explain about the teething troubles.” I looked over his shoulder at the cabinet which housed the com­puter. The Computer Room was dismally plain with battle-ship grey walls and a floor covered with cheap lino. Middridge’s false economy again; a brighter colour scheme would have cost no more, and one of these days someone would trip over a hole in that lino and we’d have a compensation claim besides being a typist short.

“It’s not just teething troubles,” Hillington said. “You can’t run a project of the sort Mr. Brown has in mind with only two or three months planning.”

He knew more about it than Brown but he too was human­izing it; there was a note of genuine indignation in his voice, as if the computer were a human being driven too hard. It was only a machine, and an unusually anonymous-looking machine at that. The control panels with the array of dials and switches and buttons could have been for any purpose one cared to think of. Or didn’t care to think of; this computer hadn’t come into the market until 1955 since the firm which manufactured it had been busy with defence contracts. And there was no point in thinking about that on a sunny June morning. The control panel was the means of obtaining information about steel alloys and not the dropping of H-bombs and the four girls sitting around it wore library green overalls and not R.A.F. blue. But it was with an effort I reminded myself of this. I offered Hillington a cigarette; rather to my surprise, since he had the look of a non-smoker, if not also a teetotaller and a vegetarian, he accepted it.

“Look,” I said. “Supposing you tell me what all the fuss is about?”

“Mr. Brown had me come to his office. About the scrap fig­ures. He was furious. He said first of all that he couldn’t offer me a seat because the office was piled ceiling-high with scrap. The whole works were, he said—”

“I can imagine it. What was the figure?”

He handed me a slip of green card. I glanced at it and burst out laughing.

“Well, if that’s correct there really wouldn’t be room for you to sit down,” I said. “A billion tons is an awful lot of scrap.”

“It’s not the machine, Mr. Lampton.”