Ghosts, Girls, & Other Phantasms

Sweet Dreams, Melissa

Sweet Dreams, Melissa

This first appeared in Galaxy, December 1968.

It had an interesting genesis. I’d sold my first story, “The Girls On USSF 193,” (the next story in this volume) in 1965 and was feeling very proud of myself. I was A Pro. I had sold a story. For three years I coasted on that. A friend of mine also wanted to write, and I gave him a cast-off idea, which he then sold. Well, that was fine; my protégé was doing well, even if it was one of my old ideas. Then, one spring afternoon, he called me to say he’d just sold his second story. I congratulated him through gritted teeth, and as soon as I could politely get off the phone I pushed everything else on my desk aside and started writing. Within twenty-four hours, “Sweet Dreams Melissa” was written and mailed off. It sold to the first place I sent it.

My friend is now a very successful doctor of optometry.

“Sweet Dreams, Melissa” is probably my most successful short story, reprinted and anthologized numerous times.

From out of her special darkness, Melissa heard the voice of Dr. Paul speaking in hushed tones at the far end of the room. “Dr. Paul,” she cried. “Oh, Dr. Paul, please come here!” Her voice took on a desperate whine.

Dr. Paul’s voice stopped, then muttered something. Melissa heard his footsteps approach her. “Yes, Melissa, what is it?” he said in deep, patient tones.

“I’m scared, Dr. Paul.”

“More nightmares?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to worry about them, Melissa. They won’t hurt you.”

“But they’re scary,” Melissa insisted. “Make them stop. Make them go away like you always do.”

Another voice was whispering out in the darkness. It sounded like Dr. Ed. Dr. Paul listened to the whispers, then said under his breath, “No, Ed, we can’t let it go on like this. We’re way behind schedule as it is.” Then aloud, “You’ll have to get used to nightmares sometime, Melissa. Everybody has them. I won’t always be here to make them go away.”

“Oh, please don’t go.”

“I’m not going yet, Melissa. Not yet. But if you don’t stop worrying about these nightmares, I might have to. Tell me what they were about.”

“Well, at first I thought they were the numbers, which are all right because the numbers don’t have to do with people, they’re nice and gentle and don’t hurt nobody like in the nightmares. Then the numbers started to change and became lines—two lines of people, and they were all running towards each other and shooting at each other. There were rifles and tanks and howitzers. And people were dying, too, Dr. Paul, lots of people. Five thousand, two hundred and eighty-three men died. And that wasn’t all, because down on the other side of the valley, there was more shooting. And I heard someone say that this was all right, because as long as the casualties stayed below fifteen point seven percent during the first battles, the strategic position, which was the mountaintop, could be gained. But fifteen point seven percent of the total forces would be nine thousand, six hundred and two point seven seven eight nine one men dead or wounded. It was like I could see all those men lying there, dying.”

“I told you a five-year-old mentality wasn’t mature enough yet for Military Logistics,” Dr. Ed whispered.

Dr. Paul ignored him. “But that was in a war, Melissa. You have to expect that people will be killed in a war.”

“Why? Dr. Paul?”

“Because...because that’s the way war is, Melissa. And besides, it didn’t really happen. It was just a problem, like with the numbers, only there were people instead of numbers. It was all pretend.”

“No it wasn’t, Dr. Paul,” cried Melissa. “It was all real. All those people were real. I even know their names. There was Abers, Joseph T. Pfc., Adelli, Alonzo Cpl., Aikens....”

“Stop it, Melissa,” Dr. Paul said, his voice rising much higher than normal.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Paul,” Melissa apologized.

But Dr. Paul hadn’t heard her; he was busy whispering to Dr. Ed. “...no other recourse than a full analyzation.”

“But that could destroy the whole personality we’ve worked so hard to build up.” Dr. Ed didn’t even bother to whisper.

“What else could we do?” Dr. Paul asked cynically. “These ‘nightmares’ of hers are driving us further and further behind schedule.”

“We could try letting Melissa analyze herself.”

“How?”

“Watch.” His voice started taking on the sweet tones that Melissa had come to learn that people used with her, but not with each other. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Dr. Ed.”

“How would you like me to tell you a story?”

“Is it a happy story, Dr. Ed?”

“I don’t know yet, Melissa. Do you know what a computer is?”

“Yes. It’s a counting machine.”

“Well, the simplest computers started out that way, Melissa, but they quickly grew more and more complicated until soon there were computers that could read, write, speak, and even think all by themselves, without help from men.

“Now, once upon a time, there was a group of men who said that if a computer could think by itself, it was capable of developing a personality, so they undertook to build one that would act just like a real person. They called it the Multi-Logical Systems Analyzer, or MLSA....”

“That sounds like ‘Melissa,’” Melissa giggled.

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Anyway, these men realized that a personality isn’t something that just pops out of the air full-grown; it has to be developed slowly. But, at the same time, they needed the computing ability of the machine because it was the most expensive and complex computer ever made. So what they did was to divide the computer’s brain into two parts—one part would handle normal computations, while the other part would develop into the desired personality. Then, when the personality was built up sufficiently, the two parts would be united again.

“At least, that’s the way they thought it would work. But it turned out that the basic design of the computer prevented a complete dichotomy—that means splitting in half—of the functions. Whenever they would give a problem to the computing part, some of it would necessarily seep into the personality part. This was bad because, Melissa, the personality part didn’t know it was a computer; it thought it was a little girl like you. The data that seeped in confused it and frightened it. And as it became more frightened and confused, its efficiency went down until it could no longer work properly.”

“What did the men do, Dr. Ed?”

“I don’t know, Melissa. I was hoping that you could help me end the story.”

“How? I don’t know anything about computers.”

“Yes you do, Melissa, only you don’t remember it. I can help you remember all about a lot of things. But it will be hard, Melissa, very hard. All sorts of strange things will come into your head, and you’ll find yourself doing things you never knew you could do. Will you try it, Melissa, to help us find out the end of the story?”

“All right, Dr. Ed, if you want me to.”

“Good girl, Melissa.”

Dr. Paul was whispering to his colleague. “Switch on ‘Partial Memory’ and tell her to call subprogram ‘Circuit Analysis.’”

“Call ‘Circuit Analysis,’ Melissa.”

All at once, strange things happened in her mind. Long strings of numbers that looked meaningless, and yet somehow she knew that they did mean different things, like resistance, capacitance, inductance. And there were myriads of lines—straight, zigzag, curlicue. And formulae....

“Read MLSA 5400, Melissa.”

And suddenly, Melissa saw herself. It was the most frightening thing she’d ever experienced, more scary even than the horrible nightmares.

“Look at Section 4C-79A.”

Melissa couldn’t help herself. She had to look. To the little girl, it didn’t look much different from the rest of herself. But it was different, she knew. Very much different. In fact, it didn’t seem to be a natural part of her at all, but rather like a brace used by cripples.

Dr. Ed’s voice was tense. “Analyze that section and report on optimum change for maximum reduction of data seepage.”

Melissa tried her best to comply, but she couldn’t. Something was missing, something she needed to know before she could do what Dr. Ed had told her to. She wanted to cry. “I can’t, Dr. Ed! I can’t, I can’t!”

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Dr. Paul said slowly. “We’ll have to switch on the full memory for complete analysis.”

“But she’s not ready,” Dr. Ed protested. “It could kill her.”

“Maybe, Ed. But if it does...well, at least we’ll know how to do it better next time. Melissa!”

“Yes, Dr. Paul?”

“Brace yourself, Melissa. This is going to hurt.”

And, with no more warning than that, the world hit Melissa. Numbers, endless streams of numbers—complex numbers, real numbers, integers, subscripts, exponents. And there were battles, wars more horrible and bloody than the ones she’d dreamed, and casualty lists that were more than real to her because she knew everything about every name—height, weight, hair color, eye color, marital status, number of dependents...the list went on. And there were statistics—average pay for bus drivers in Ohio, number of deaths due to cancer in the U.S. 1965 to 1971, average yield of wheat per ton of fertilizer consumed....

Melissa was drowning in a sea of data.

“Help me, Dr. Ed, Dr. Paul. Help me!” she tried to scream. But she couldn’t make herself heard. Somebody else was talking. Some stranger she didn’t even know was using her voice and saying things about impedance factors and semiconductors.

And Melissa was falling deeper and deeper, pushed on by the relentlessly advancing army of information.

Five minutes later, Dr. Edward Bloom opened the switch and separated the main memory from the personality section. “Melissa,” he said softly, “everything’s all right now. We know how the story’s going to end. The scientists asked the computer to redesign itself, and it did. There won’t be any more nightmares, Melissa. Only sweet dreams from now on. Isn’t that good news?”

Silence.

“Melissa?” His voice was high and shaky. “Can you hear me, Melissa? Are you there?”

But there was no longer any room in the MLSA 5400 for a little girl.