Reality Matrix Effect (9781310151330)

by Mitchell, Laura Remson

  “Because he’s too controversial. Don’t you remember? Zorne lost his job at Western Tech three years ago because he was taking public stands against the war and in favor of looser drug laws at the same time that he was running some drug-related experiments. The foundation paying for Zorne’s research threatened to pull all their grant money unless the university made him shape up. Not just Zorne’s grant. Everything the foundation was paying for at the university. On top of that, the alumni were complaining that Zorne made it look as if the university condoned drug use and radical politics.”

  Vickie nodded grudgingly. “So?”

  “So the university board gave Zorne an ultimatum: Drop the political activity and stop using drugs in his research or else find himself another position. Zorne quit. He’s been trying to get backers for his research ever since, but since he’s still politically active, most outfits with the kind of money he needs won’t touch him. According to a biographical note in the book, he lives on a small salary he makes as a physics teacher at a little experimental college up the coast, plus whatever he can raise from giving these lectures.”

  Al paused. “Look, I’m not saying Zorne’s a pillar of the community or your typical college professor. I’m just saying that being controversial doesn’t make the guy wrong.”

  “It doesn’t necessarily make him right, either,” Vickie said, “but go ahead. I’ll listen.”

  As clearly as he could, and referring frequently to his pocket notebook, Al summarized what Zorne had said the night before.

  “I’ll admit it sounds intriguing in an abstract sort of way, but—”

  “Wait. There’s more. I went up to Zorne after the lecture and told him what happened. And he believed me, Vick! He wants to use me in some of his experiments. He figures he can get enough funding for the initial work sometime in the next couple of weeks. Then, if we can produce some results, he says he thinks he can get a full grant!”

  Vickie simply stared at him.

  “Well? Say something.”

  “I can’t,” she said finally. “At least, nothing you want to hear.”

  Al shifted uncomfortably and stared blankly into the corner of the room as he tried to respond.

  “Somehow, I thought that if we knew how.... That is, if we could figure out what really.... If I could just show you that I’m not losing my mind, that I really did change things for Roberts.... I don’t know. I thought maybe things could be the way they used to be between us.”

  “Al, you’re a dear, sweet man who lets the world get to him too much. I love you. But I can tell you right now that I’m not about to follow you into Wonderland.”

  Al took a long, slow breath and nodded unhappily. “So. Where does that leave us? You can’t expect me to just pretend the Roberts incident never happened.”

  “That’s just the point, Al. There wasn’t any Roberts ‘incident,’ as you call it. It was all in your head.”

  “Damn it, Vickie! Something happened! Something out of the ordinary. And I have to find out what that something was. I have to find out for sure whether it was all an illusion brought on by overwork, or whether I really did—”

  “It was an illusion,” Vickie interrupted.

  “You don’t know that for certain anymore than I know it was real!” he said angrily.

  “All right, Al. You do what you have to do.”

  He looked at Vickie with a probing, penetrating gaze that laid bare the unwelcome message beneath her words. She turned away as she saw the hurt in his eyes.

  “I’m leaving town in a few weeks,” she said. “I’ll be gone four or five months for that special fellowship program in New York. By time I get back, maybe you’ll have gotten it all out of your system.”

  “Or I’ll have some hard evidence for you based on Zorne’s experiments.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  They stood there awkwardly, looking at each other. Gradually, Al worked his way to the door.

  “See you at work tomorrow,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. “Roland’s for lunch?” he added hopefully, naming a favorite hangout of the Star staff.

  “I can’t,” she said simply, gazing at her shoe tops. “Don’t forget your book.”

  Al forced a smile and nodded, then backed out the door, clutching the book tightly in his hand.

  Chapter 6: Merchanters’ Retreat

  “Charlie Wraggon, I want ya ta meet Hank Tauber,” Barnard said as he gestured for his companion to slide into the booth, where Wraggon already sat nursing a drink.

  “Hey! How ’bout a bottle o’ Spacefarer’s over here!” Barnard hollered at the bartender.

  “Come get it yourself, pal,” the bartender answered, placing a bottle and two glasses on the bar. “You and your friend’ve been in here enough by now to know we don’t provide service this time of day. And I want cash this time, or you don’t get the booze! Your account’s screwed up my payments the last three times!”

  Barnard turned to look at Wraggon, who nodded in disgust. “What do you expect in a world run by robbies and computers?” Wraggon grumbled.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Tauber said, handing Barnard his universal transaction card.

  “Thanks,” Barnard said before walking to the bar. “Here, friend,” he said with sarcasm, sliding the card across the counter. “‘Milk of Human Kindness.’ Hah! When ya gonna give this bar a decent name? The one ya got’s a lie. You’re like everybody else in this world. All ya care about’s what the damn computers tell ya!”

  “Whatever you say, pal,” the bartender sighed after charging Tauber’s account. He shook his head in amusement as he replaced the card on the bar top. Barnard shot an unpleasant gesture at the bartender’s back, dropped the card into his pocket and picked up the bottle and glasses.

  “Now let’s get down ta some serious drinkin’,” he said, depositing the bottle and glasses on the table as he slipped into the booth next to Tauber.

  “My card, please,” Tauber said quietly.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah.” Barnard took the card from his pocket and handed it back to the other man. Then he poured each of them a drink.

  Tauber was 32 years old, about six feet tall and 180 pounds of muscle. His light brown hair framed a strong, almost arrogant face dominated by cold, blue eyes. Wraggon regarded him uneasily. Even before he spoke, the man radiated a quiet—and vaguely threatening—power.

  “I figured you two oughtta meet,” Barnard said. “The way Hank talks, and the way you talk, you guys oughtta really hit it off. Hank here was in the Merchant Fleet for about.... Eight years, wasn’t it, Hank?”

  Tauber nodded and sipped some of his whiskey.

  “Yeah,” Barnard continued. “Eight years. Anyway, last week they went and threw ’im out! Told ’im he oughtta quit ‘for the good of the service.’”

  Tauber’s jaw muscles tightened, but he said nothing.

  “So did you do it?” Wraggon asked Tauber after a moment of silence. “Did you quit?”

  Tauber hesitated before answering. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Wasn’t going to at first, but then I realized there wasn’t much point in staying with the service anymore. Every time I tried to do something, the higher-ups would block me. Sometimes, I just went ahead and did what I wanted without their okay. Usually just small stuff. Cutting corners on paper work—that sort of thing.” He paused, his eyes gauging Wraggon’s reactions. “They never said much about it. But last week, they decided to give me a hard time.” He shrugged. “I said the wrong thing to some of the wrong people. So they put me down for gross insubordination.”

  Wraggon nodded appreciatively. He knew what it felt like to have numbskulls telling you what to do when you knew more than they did.

  “Tell Charlie about the deal you set up in the Asteroid Belt,” Barnard urged, downing his drink and then pouring himself another.

  Wraggon looked at Tauber expectantly, but the other man remained silent.

  “C’mon, Hank,” Barnard cajoled. “I told you, Charlie here�
��s okay.”

  “Well,” Tauber began hesitantly, “I guess it doesn’t really matter if I tell you. It’s all history now, anyway.”

  He took another sip of his drink before continuing. “What happened was, I got tired of the way the rock farmers were treating the guys in the merchant crews. Just like robbies. Seemed to me the bowl-squatters needed a lesson—a little demonstration of the fact that they couldn’t just order us around. That’s when I got this idea: Hold back some of the colonists’ supplies and make ’em pay the crew a bonus to get the stuff back.”

  “Terrific idea, ain’t it?” Barnard said to Wraggon, nudging him with an elbow.

  “So what happened?” Wraggon asked, ignoring Barnard.

  “Fleet didn’t think it was such a good idea,” Tauber said. “‘A violation both of Fleet’s contracts and of the Merchanters Code of Ethics.’ That’s what they told me nine months ago when I went through channels before my last run. And at first I bought that garbage.” Tauber shook his head and sipped his drink. “Anyway, when I was up there last time—I don’t know. I just decided to go ahead and do it. I was the senior merchanter on the run, so it was easy to get the others to go along. Hell, they wanted to show those rock farmers up as much as I did! Anyhow, we held out some of the supplies and got a nice bonus for ourselves in colonial trade goods. Even got some of the newest molecular computer components.”

  “Hey,” Wraggon interjected, “those things are hard to get! The CDN has top priority. MECs are kind of expensive, too. We use ’em to make some of the advanced experimental robbies at the plant, and we’re always having trouble getting enough of ’em.”

  “What are MECs?” Barnard asked, looking confused.

  “Molecular electronic components,” Wraggon said unceremoniously.

  “The point is,” Tauber resumed, “by time we got back to Earth, the rock farmers had filed a complaint with Fleet. That’s when they called me in. After that, they turned me into a desk pilot.”

  “You didn’t expect the colonists to file a complaint?” asked Wraggon.

  Tauber shook his head. “No. You see, the rock farmers can’t survive without the supply ships. We know it, and we assumed they knew it. They can’t afford to alienate Fleet. So I told them that we were implementing a new Fleet policy. Any sensible people would be more worried about offending Fleet than about losing a little in trade goods. But then rock farmers aren’t very bright. After all, their ancestors were Earth’s failures and rejects. I should’ve known they’d be too thick to realize how much trouble they’d be in if I was leveling about Fleet policy.”

  “Howdaya like that, Charlie?” Barnard yelped. “They’re too dumb to know when they’re in trouble, but they go around lording it over us merchanters. They’re so damned used to ordering robbies around. Makes ’em think they’re better’n we are. And they get away with it. It’s just like you been sayin’. The robbies are lettin’ the dummies and the weaklings have too much power!”

  “That’s for sure!” Wraggon put in as he drained his glass and reached for the bottle.

  “Is that what you think?” Tauber asked in a controlled, low-pitched voice.

  “Damn right! Don’t you?”

  Tauber looked thoughtful for a moment as Barnard refilled the ex-merchanter’s glass.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Tauber finally answered. “Never really thought of it quite that way, but maybe you’re right. There’s more to it, though. Has to be. This whole country—the whole world—depends on robots and computers. Just like you said before. They’re kind of the foundation of the power structure that runs things these days.”

  “Yeah?” said Wraggon. He had the feeling that there was more on Tauber’s mind.

  “I don’t know for sure. Just seems to me that superior people should be able to find some way of changing that—or at least a way of turning it to our own advantage.”

  Wraggon looked closely at Tauber. The former merchanter’s forehead was creased in concentration. Like he’s trying to come up with some sort of plan, Wraggon mused.

  Wraggon’s thoughts were cut short as Barnard lifted his glass in a toast.

  “Down with the robbies!” the big man said.

  Wraggon and Tauber glanced at Barnard, then at each other, and smiled indulgently.

  “Down with the robbies!” they chimed in as they clinked glasses.

  Chapter 7: Perceptions

  The sudden “click” of the tape player’s automatic shutoff interrupted a rush of disjointed thoughts that had begun competing for Rayna’s attention as Al Frederick’s transcribed voice fell silent.

  What was she to make of this? Did Al have what they used to call a “nervous breakdown”? Did he crack from overwork? How could Al Frederick—an experienced newspaperman whose job had both demanded and reinforced a healthy dose of skepticism—have taken that Zorne mumbo-jumbo seriously? Poor Aunt Vickie! No wonder they broke up!

  As Rayna removed the tape from the machine, she noticed Al’s letter, which she had tossed onto the coffee table when she removed the cassettes from the permastore container. What was it he had said? Something about listening to all the tapes? She withdrew the letter from its envelope. Ah, yes. Here it was: “Please listen to all the tapes before you draw any conclusions.” Well, if Al was a little space happy at the time he recorded those tapes, at least he seemed to recognize the fact later on. He realized all this stuff would sound crazy. Still, he wanted me to hear him out, she thought. I suppose I owe him that much. He was always willing to listen to me.

  “Okay, Al,” she said aloud. “Let’s try another one.”

  She leaned forward, picked up the next tape in the sequence and examined it briefly before inserting it into the machine. Glancing up, she found herself momentarily distracted by sunlight dancing across the gently undulating water of her holographic seascape. Soothed by the peaceful scene, she smiled, pressed the “play” key, and settled back.

  “Today is Monday, Nov. 1, 1971,” Al’s voice began. “It’s been quite awhile since my last log entry, but I’ll try to bring things up to date. The thing is, I’ve been awfully busy. A whole new world is opening up for me, and I just can’t seem to get a handle on it. I spent my three-week vacation up north working with Alec Zorne. Since then, I’ve been going to his place just about every weekend. In fact, I just got back last night. With Vickie in New York until late January, there isn’t much else I want to do with my time anyway.

  “Zorne’s not at all what I expected a guy with his public image to be. He’s very serious about his work. He’s either a complete nut or else some kind of genius. Trouble is, his ideas are so tough for me to follow that I’m not sure I can tell whether he’s the one or the other. At least I have his book as some sort of kind of written guideline. That helps a little.”

  A clicking sound indicated that Al had stopped and then restarted the machine.

  “I’ve got to get myself a little more organized here. There’s so much to tell, and I’m still not sure I have it clear in my own mind. I suppose the best place to start is when I first went to see Zorne in his lab at the Bryant Institute, the experimental college where he teaches. Hard to believe that was just a month and a half ago....”

  * * *

  “Not much of a laboratory,” Al commented as Zorne ushered him into the room. “I was expecting something more like the pictures I’ve seen of labs at the big universities.”

  “I don’t know about your expectations, but we operate pretty much on a shoestring,” Zorne said. “We have the essentials here—” he gestured about the room “—but no frills.” He stopped walking and scratched his head, his face wrinkled in reflection. “Well-l-l-l, come to think of it, there are some things we could use that are more than just frills. Faster, more efficient computers, for instance. But we manage.” He smiled. “When we win that new grant money based on the work we’re going to do together, we’ll be able to expand our facilities.”

  Al nodded expressionlessly and looked around. The lab was
larger than a classroom but smaller than the newsman had imagined it would be. Along the back wall was a tank Al recognized as a cloud chamber. The left wall was dominated by computer equipment. There were two workbenches toward the front of the room, and a large storage cabinet shared the back portion of the right wall with several file cabinets.

  “This is where we’ll be doing most of our work together,” Zorne said, patting a table in the left rear corner of the room. These electrodes are going to become old friends.”

  Zorne was holding what looked like a mass of colored spaghetti attached to a number of small discs.

  “What’s this thing?” Al asked, indicating the unfamiliar piece of equipment to which the electrodes were attached.

  “A cousin of the electroencephalograph. I call it an ‘electroscan.’ I designed it to measure certain characteristics of the electromagnetic waves in the brain—characteristics that an EEG doesn’t pick up. I did my early experiments using an EEG, but it wasn’t telling me what I needed to know. The EEG was never intended to monitor the kind of oscillations that my equations were predicting. All you really need to know is that this gadget here measures the activity that I think is responsible for psychic phenomena.”

  Suddenly, the lights flickered, went out briefly, and then brightened once more.

  “Damn!” Zorne erupted, rushing to the computers. “Not again!” He inspected the equipment with a quickness born of repeated experience.

  “Well, at least this time the auxiliary kicked in!”

  Al raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

  “It’s the wiring in here,” Zorne explained. “When we set up the lab, they had to change the electrical system. The company that gave us the low bid on the job told us they could use the existing wiring, but now it turns out that my equipment is creating too much of a load. It all has to be changed, and it looks like that’s going to take months. Meanwhile, we keep getting these short-circuits and blackouts.”

  Zorne shook his head unhappily. “Cost me some valuable information when this first started happening.” He gazed silently at nothing in particular for a moment, as if mourning the loss of his data.