In reply, for every figure of any type sent over the keyboard, the Cow sent back a half-yard of confused, rambling figures and would do nothing else.
General Elbertson snapped a single command. "Turn the thing off. We'll get to that later."
Busily the men switched the keys to the "off" position. Just as busily the Cow continued to pour out figures, interspersed with rambling pages of physics covering such odd subjects as the yak population of the Andes, the number of buffalo that were purported to be able to dance on the rim of the Grand Canyon—a fantastic figure—some confused statement about the birth rate in Indo-China, and an equally confused statement about the learning rate in schools in Haddock.
Eventually, if one cared to sort it out, the Cow might produce the entire Encyclopedia Britannica for the year 1911; and then again, possibly for the year 33,310. Actually, it only depended on what you wished to select. It was a vast mass of material that was being happily upchucked into the lap of the confused communications officer and his two, unhelpful assistants.
Not a single one of the view panels, either those at the computer's console or the ones at the captain's console, were presenting a readable picture. Hodgepodges and flickerings, yes. Scraps of star-lit sky—perhaps. Or vaguely wavy electronic patterns that would have been familiar to anyone who ever looked at a broken TV set.
The Cow was really wild.
Leaning back in the captain's chair, watching the screen casually, General Elbertson chuckled.
He didn't, he noticed, feel nearly so weary.
The position actually was good, even if those idiots didn't know what they were doing with the computer. That could be straightened out.