by Migration
Closer up, Istella resolved into a squat dumbbell composed of two wheels connected by a short, thick cylinder. The cylinder housed such support functions as power generation and environmental control, as well as carrying the docking ports for the ferries. The nightlife that Istella had been built to provide took place in the wheels, which were named Haydon and Bruso, after the project’s two leading instigators and architects from years back. Haydon’s plazas and arcades were dominated by a central domed structure containing a number of restaurants and bars, a casino, and a theater. The dome was floodlit in rich blue and known as the Blue Palace. This was the end of Istella that featured shows and clubs catering to most people’s ideas of a night out that was “exciting,” “different,” and even acceptably “daring” – but observing unspoken, yet generally recognized limits. The raunchier stuff was to be found in Bruso.
That was the direction in which Korshak and Ronti headed after disembarking from the Aurora ferry and clearing the docking bay. The name blazed as a hologram, repeating and moving above one of the two illuminated archways on opposite sides of the reception concourse. The promenade beyond led to Bruso’s central “Square” and was lined on both sides by bars, a variety of eateries and shops, and animated signs advertising everything from current shows and attractions to specialty clubs and sex partners given to various penchants.
Plenty of people were about, the regular numbers of browsers and sidewalk-table patrons swollen by the new arrivals from the ferry and others on their way to catch it before it departed. There were colorfully dressed groups, here to party and have fun; guys checking the scene; girls doing their best to get checked; and the inevitable sprinkling of loners keeping to the background behind the anonymity of pulled-down hats, enveloping clothes, and a proliferation of beards that challenged the statistical norm of the population.
“I guess the Happy Feet must have walked,” Ronti commented as they strolled through the throng, looking around and taking in the sights. That had been the name of a dance studio that doubled as a popular party venue. In its place had appeared an establishment billing itself as the “Oyster Bar,” its interior dark, with blue lighting and aquarium tanks in the walls. Marine-related names and decorative themes were widespread, reflecting a commonly felt nostalgia for the oceans of Earth. Nobody aged twelve or under had ever seen one.
“That’s probably a better place for a bar anyway,” Korshak said. “Good spot for meeting people when they come off the ferries. And maybe a last drink on the way home if they’ve got time to kill.”
“So at least we don’t have to wonder if Tek decided to take up dancing,” Ronti joked.
“Oh, I don’t know. If I ran the Feet, I’d have moved it closer to the Square.”
“We’ll see.”
Of all the unlikely situations that Korshak had found himself in through his varied and colorful life, looking for a lost robot was perhaps the strangest. Agreeing to take on the task had been more than simply helping a friend in need, or choosing the easier between accepting and refusing. True, he was compulsively curious by nature, and attraction to anything out of the ordinary had been ingrained into him long enough to qualify as an instinct. But beyond that, he and Masumichi had developed a strong professional working relationship, in which each was able to benefit from the specialized knowledge and experience of the other.
It had to do with communication. In many ways, the art of the illusionist depended on subtly communicating the suggestion of something being seen that in fact was not seen, which equated to defining the conceptual framework within which a spectacle would be judged. Or, put another way, setting the assumptions by which a communicated message would be interpreted. And assumptions were all-important in communicating. Because of the world knowledge that all humans shared, humans communicating with each other tended to supply only the information that they didn’t assume the other already had. And the amount they assumed was enormous. In one of their discussions on the subject, Masumichi had illustrated the point with the simple dialog:
“I’m leaving you.”
“Who is she?”
Just six words in total, but capturing a panorama of emotions, tragedy, conflict, and drama that any human would understand immediately. An artificial mind, however, not grounded in the same reality by experience, would have either to be given explicitly every fact about human existence that was necessary to comprehend the exchange in all its depth and shades of meaning, or alternatively, some set of rules for inferring them from more general principles. Masumichi had finally conceded that the first was not practical; whatever approach was tried, the amount of data that needed to be supplied exploded exponentially with increasing complexity of the situation being addressed. The only other way, then, was to build into the software a process for integrating new items of knowledge into a network of associations that would grow and modify itself as experience directed – in a way, attempting to mimic the uncanny, universal learning ability that every human baby was born with. Masumichi’s earlier attempts had run into difficulties because of his failure to appreciate the extent to which associations are formed unconsciously through suggestion, and it was in this area that Korshak’s insights had proved invaluable.
On the other hand, Masumichi’s analytical methods were frequently able to provide Korshak with a more precise understanding of what was happening to produce effects which he knew from long practice worked, but until now had never tried to discover exactly why. Indeed, without the introduction to the ways of Sofian science that Masumichi more than anyone had given him, Korshak wouldn’t have known where to begin looking to discover such things, even if he had wanted to.
They emerged into the bustle and life of the Square, with its lights and color and music on every side. Terrace bars and restaurants overlooked the scene against a background of show houses and storefronts, while above, the grandeur of space and stars unfolded beyond the enclosing sky window. Korshak nudged Ronti and indicated a direction with a nod of his head. The Happy Feet was alive and well, secure in a new location next to an establishment illuminated in red and purple but not deigning to announce itself with a sign.
The Rainbow bar was in a secluded niche on one of the upper terraces. Inside, small, shadowy booths lined the walls on either side of the door, with a brighter, more open area of tables and chairs taking up the center. The place was moderately busy. Korshak and Ronti barely had time to take two of the bar stools before a voice bellowed, “Well, I’ll be! Korshak and his fellow rogue!” A figure who was presumably the proprietor came out from behind a partition dividing off a space at the rear. He was short, balding, and sported an immense mustache covering his lower face in a pair of curving waves. His eyes were brown and beady, and just at this moment glinting with genuine pleasure at seeing them.
“Osgar!” Korshak exclaimed.
“What happened?” Ronti asked him. “Did you get tired of cleaning pipes and raking weeds?” The last they’d known, Osgar had been a maintenance worker on Plantation, the low-tech agricultural and wildlife world.
Osgar shrugged. “You know how it is. Everyone needs a change sometime. I figured it was time to get out of the coveralls and the boots. Anyway, they’ve got enough younger people coming along now to do that kind of stuff.”
“So, how long has it been?” Korshak asked.
“Aw, three months, I’d say. Maybe a little more.”
“Different, anyhow,” Ronti commented.
“That’s true enough. You meet all the characters here. And there are a few stories I could tell you if you’re ever stuck for ways to spend your time.” Osgar leaned forward, and his voice fell. “There are some names here in Bruso right now who wouldn’t like it to be general knowledge. You wouldn’t believe how fast news travels in the trade.” He straightened up, spreading his arms along the edge of the bar. “Anyway, what can I getcha?”
Korshak ran a curious eye over the display of offerings. “How about a bartender’s recommendation?”
“Ever tried Envoy?”
“What’s that?”
“A new beer that they brew out on Plantation. That’s what they’re calling it – to celebrate the star probe. It’s supposed to be the way it was done back on Earth, without the synthetics. Getting good ratings. Dark and not too sweet, with a touch of tangy.”
“Sure, I’ll try it,” Korshak said.
Ronti nodded. “Make it two.”
Osgar took down two glasses and placed one under a bar tap. “So, what brings you guys here? Somehow I can’t see it as recreation or to find out things you don’t already know about.”
“Business… kind of, I suppose you’d call it,” Korshak replied.
“Uh-huh.”
“To do with the scientist that I work with, who lives in Jakka.”
Osgar nodded. “The guy who works with robots?”
“Right. Well, the fact of the matter is, one of them has gone missing.”
“A robot,” Osgar said, pushing one glass across the bar. Korshak waved for Ronti to take it as Osgar moved the other one under the tap. Somehow, he didn’t seem especially surprised.
“Yes,” Korshak said.
“And you think it might have been here.”
“Now, how would you know that?” Ronti asked. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing I’d expect people to be telling you every day.”
“True,” Osgar agreed. “But you’re not the first. There was a guy in about a week or two ago saying the same thing. He even showed me a picture of it – as if I needed one. He said it was supposed to meet somebody here, but it never showed up.” Osgar shrugged as he handed the second glass to Korshak. “That’s about all I can tell you.”
“And it didn’t appear later?” Ronti checked.
“Not earlier, or later, or while whoever the somebody it was supposed to meet was here – assuming he was here. We haven’t had any robots.” Osgar inclined his head to indicate Korshak’s glass as Korshak tried a taste. “What do you think?”
“Not bad. So who was this other person who was in here, wanting to know?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“Okay, what did he look like?”
“Like he didn’t want anybody to know. Short – about like me, but skinnier. Big black coat, black hat, dark glasses, with a little beard. The beard wasn’t real; when you work on Istella, you get to tell. But his face had that kind of yellow-brown color with high cheeks, the way people from Parthesa used to be. You’ve got a touch of it, Ronti. And he had small hands.”
Korshak was smiling to himself, already picturing Masumichi in disguise. Parthesa had been the general name for the eastern half of Asia, over which he had roamed for many years. Korshak caught Ronti’s eye and saw he was thinking the same thing.
“So did you ever hear from him again?” Korshak asked, keeping a straight face.
Osgar shook his head. “What would have been the point? All I could tell him was the same as I’ve just told you. He went away, and that was the last I heard of it.” He paused and reflected for a moment, then emitted a snort that bordered on a snigger. “So, what’s going on? I wouldn’t have thought that much around here would interest robots, if you know what I mean. But anyway, how can you lose one? It’s not exactly something that’s going to blend into the crowd.”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Osgar,” Korshak said.
A low pinggg sounded somewhere below the level of the bar. Osgar glanced down. “Oh, someone needs service. I’ll be back in a moment.” He came around the bar and went away to take an order at one of the booths. Korshak tried more of the Envoy. Ronti did likewise.
“Not bad,” Korshak pronounced. “Os was right. Almost a taste of the old brews.”
“It reminds me of the one you liked in that tavern we used to stay at in Belamon,” Ronti said.
“Ah yes, Belamon.” Korshak smiled at the recollection.
“One of the most profitable pieces of magic we ever did.”
The town’s councilors had invited Korshak to put on a show in a festival that they were organizing, and then quibbled over the payment that they had agreed to. Within twenty-four hours of Korshak and Ronti’s leaving, the town was hit by a freak storm that devastated the seafront and harbor. The townspeople attributed it to Korshak’s powers and insisted on reparation, and an emissary from the council caught up with Korshak’s wagon the following day to deliver double the amount owed.
“So Masumichi has already been here,” Ronti said. “It would have saved us a lot of trouble if he’d told us.”
“Maybe he credits us with greater powers of divination than…” Korshak began, and then stopped as he realized that a girl who had been alone at one of the nearby tables had got up and was coming over to them. She was maybe in her mid-twenties, slimly built, with long dark hair tied back in a clip, and wearing a short, capelike jacket over a sparkly top and tight-fitting pants. Her face had the undecided look of someone not wanting to intrude but needing to say something. Korshak twitched his mouth upward at the corners and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“You’re the illusionist,” she said. “I saw that levitation act with your wife about a month ago, when she was dressed as a princess. They say you’ll be doing a show at Beach.”
“We hope so, anyway,” Korshak replied. “It’s still being talked about.” Inwardly, he prepared himself for an explanation of how he had done this trick or that trick, or perhaps being solicited to take on an apprentice. It happened all the time.
But the girl continued, “I recognized you, so I was interested, and I couldn’t help overhearing a bit. It sounded as if you were asking about a robot.”
“That’s right,” Korshak confirmed. “One was brought to Istella as part of a research program. It was supposed to meet someone here but didn’t show up. We’re trying to get a lead on it.”
“I saw one here,” the girl said.
“In the Rainbow?”
“No, but in Bruso, near here.”
“When was this?”
“Around a couple of weeks ago.”
Korshak shot Ronti a quick glance and looked back. “That sounds like the one. Where did you see it?”
“Do you know the place where the Mediators come and preach?”
Korshak shook his head. “Not really. We only come here once in a while.”
The Mediators were a mystical-religious cult that had roots in a variety of practices and belief systems brought from Earth. They had opposed the Istella project but been too small at the time of its inception to change the outcome. Since then, they had grown sufficiently to jointly found their own daughter world, called Etanne, along with several other sects professing a similar need for seclusion and an environment unimpaired by worldly distractions.
“It’s just off the Square,” the girl told them. “There was a robot there, watching them. It seemed really interested. There are probably Mediators down there today. I can take you there if you like.”
FIFTEEN
The girl’s name was Brel. She lived and worked on Istella, she said, but didn’t go into details. Originally from Sofi, she had been brought up to the Aurora as a young girl, spent most of the time since then in Jakka, and moved out to be on her own a little over a year ago. Her family back there were “okay, but kind of stifling.” She had a twin sister who was “Miss Perfect,” she added, making a face, as if that explained everything.
A small crowd had collected in a corner of the Square, where broad steps led down into a sunken rectangular area below a terrace bathed in light from the entrance to a casino and club. A platform with a rostrum was set up at the end opposite the steps, around which several figures in long robes with the hoods thrown back were proffering leaflets. On the platform a bearded man, similarly clad, was speaking below a sign that read: transcend!
“He’s the same one who was talking when the robot was here,” Brel said.
“How about the others with him?” Korshak asked.
“I’m… not su
re.”
Korshak glanced at Ronti, who returned a what’s-to-lose? look. They descended the few steps and moved closer behind the small crowd of listeners. The expressions and attitudes told mainly of the curiosity that draws people to anything different. An incenselike fragrance pervaded the air, no doubt associated with a bluish smoke arising from a source somewhere at the front.
“Yes, brothers and sisters, on all sides you see man-made wonders. Indeed, the very worlds you live among are wonders, every inch of them the product of human ingenuity that can only be described as breathtaking. It would be foolish to deny that, and Mediators would be the last to belittle achievements of which every one of you has the right to be proud – and should be proud!” The speaker’s tone was rich and powerful. He paused and looked around, dark eyes scanning the faces, and then raised a warning finger. “But we must not allow justifiable pride in what we are to turn into the conceit of imagining we are all that can be. The universe that we see, awe inspiring and magnificent though it may be, is merely a shadow of a vaster reality that is not apprehended by the ordinary senses.”
“How do you know, then?” somebody near the front challenged.
“Because I have trained my senses to reach beyond the range of the ordinary,” the speaker answered.
“That might be fine for you. But how can you convince me?”
“How can I convince a blind man that I can see?”
“That’s not the same thing. It’s easily proved. Tell him what’s across the room, then let him walk over and find out.”
“As I am, indeed, inviting you to do. But it requires more application and effort than just walking across a room.” Without waiting for a further response, the speaker went on. “In any case, it should be obvious that powers exist which operate on a level beyond anything that we are capable of. Every cell, of the trillions of cells that make up every one of you, is a microscopic, automated factory filled with molecular machinery that dwarfs the complexity of anything ever conceived by the minds of humans.” He showed his teeth briefly. “People ask me if I believe in miracles. I tell them, ‘Of course I do! You are one!’ “It drew some smiles.
