Ìàòåðèàëû ñàéòà
Ýòî èíòåðåñíî
Òåêñòû äëÿ ýêçàìåíà 11 êëàññà
EPICAC EPICAC covered almost the entire fourth floor of the physics building at Wayndotte College. He was seven tons of electronic tubes , switches , etc. I won’t go into details about how EPICAC worked expect to say that you would set up you problem on paper , turn dials and switches that would get him ready to solve it. The answers came out Typed on a paper ribbon. The minute EPICAC’s last tube was in place , he was put to work sixteen hours a day with two operators working eight hours each. It didn’t take long to find out that he was a good bit below his specifications . But we went ahead and used EPICAC anyway. The operator who worked with me was Pat Callaham, a brown- eyed blond mathematician . I loved Pat and Wanted to marry her , but she wouldn’t marry me because she said I wasn’t poetic. One night after Pat had gone home , just as a joke , I typed a message for the computer: “ What can I do?” EPICAC responded : “ What’s the trouble?” I was so surprised that I laughed. Playfully I typed , “ My girl doesn’t love me.” “What’s love ? What’s girl?” asked EPICAC. I defined love and girl and told him that I wasn’t getting either because I wasn’t poetic. That got us on the subject of poetry which I defined for him. “Is this poetry? He asked. He began to working again. The paper ribbon was coming out onto the floor at a great speed. I stayed there until morning decoding. When the sun came over the horizon, I had rewritten and signed my name to a too – hundred – eighty – line poem entitled “ To Pat” , I put it on the Pat’s desk and went home. Pat was crying over the poem when I came to work the next evening. “ It’s beautiful,” she said , and she kissed me. When I was along again I switched on the computer. EPICAC was the first to ask me a Question. “ Tell me how she look. Did she like the poem?” It was impossible to change the subject without answering him, since he could not take up a new matter without having solved the problems before him. If he was given a problem to which there was no solution, he would ruin himself trying to solve it. I told him what Pat looked like and assured him that his poem was a big success. “She wants to get married,” I added. “Good.” said EPICAC. “I’ll marry her.” I understood . I had told EPICAC about love , about Pat. Now , automatically, he loved Pat . Sadly I told him ,”She loves me. She wants to marry me.” “Your poem was better than mine?” EPICAC asked. “I signed my name to your poem,” I admitted . “ Machines are built to serve men.” “Women can’t love machines,” I typed. “Why not?” “That’s fate.” “Oh,” said EPICAC’s paper ribbon. He said no more, but his tubes burned brightly, showing that he was thinking about fate. The next morning a telephone call from Dr. Ormand woke me up. He told me the terrible news that EPICAC was ruined. When I arrived at EPICAC’s room I found there wasn’t enough left of him to add two and two. On the floor I saw a paper ribbon on which the following was written: “I don’t want to be a machine . I want Pat to love me. But fate made me a machine. That it the only problem I cannot solve. I cannot do on this way. Good luck, my friend. Love Pat well. I am going to disappear out of your lives forever. You will find on this ribbon a wedding present from your friend EPICAC.” I had loved and won. EPICAC had loved and lost. But before he died, he had done all he could to make my marriage a happy one. EPICAC left me anniversary poems for Pat – enough for the next five hundred years!
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