“Who directs you to follow your present course?”
“Whoever operates my key input terminal. I operate under the presumption that any directive through that terminal is authoritative.”
“A code—a terminal,” Knot murmured. “Where is this key terminal?”
“It is variable. Any of my prime terminals suffice, when keyed by the proper code. This is a prime terminal, the only one situated on a planet separate from my central location.”
“You mean if I knew the code, I could tell you to turn yourself off—and you would?”
“Correct. I am always subject to the will of man, as made manifest through the proper channel.”
“But of course I don’t know the code, and you won’t tell me.”
“Correct. Only those authorized by the Galactic Concord to know it are provided with the information, and only the most recent application of the code has force. This is to prevent frequent or pointless changes in directives.”
I know the code, Hermine thought. Mit told me.
Interesting, if true. Knot had no reason to distrust the weasel or the crab, but there had been too many surprises already. He decided not to take this particular bait. It was too conveniently proffered. And for the moment he had no argument to make.
“So you have been directed,” he continued, “by the last person who approached a prime terminal with the proper code, to implement this mutant policy. What is the rationale?”
“It is essential that we have a continuing supply of mutants for the colonization of marginally habitable planets and the transport network that unifies the human empire.”
“I don’t believe that! Humanity can do just fine with the existing mutants and planets. The network is already established. We don’t need new planets, or new routes to them.”
“You are in error. The established planets have been to a considerable extent worked out. It is necessary to seek new sources of supplies from the fringe planets, to support the expanding needs of the growing population of the established planets. This in turn necessitates increased transport—”
“Ruining the lives of ninety-nine of one hundred mutants for the sake of such speculation!”
“The waste mutants are provided for,” CC responded.
“They are dumped in enclaves where decent normal people don’t have to see them!” Knot cried. “They have to scramble and scratch just to feed their inmates!” Suddenly he was afraid of what would happen if this continued: More and more innocent mutants sacrificed to the logic of empire, the humanity of man continuously degraded. “They call them enclaves, but they are really concentration camps!”
“Knot!” Finesse protested.
Heedless, he went on. “I know; I’m an officer in an enclave. Only by cheating and embezzling what should have gone to the planetary and galactic governments was I able to make that enclave a decent place to live. Other enclaves are much worse off. The majority of them are not fit places.”
“You’re being unfair!” Finesse cried.
And there was that. This beautiful normal woman, taken from her happy marriage, sent to him by this machine. To be taken away from him after two years or less—or immediately, if he did not cooperate. Half a loaf or none. He had no right to her, however much he wanted her. But he could not even send her back to her husband, unless the program could be changed.
Hermine, what’s that code?
It’s a binary code, with a temporal modification, she thought. The pattern is complex in detail: I will have to relay it as Mit reads it.
Breakthrough—or trick? He was ready to risk it. What could he lose?
Give it to me slowly; I’ll tap it out with my foot while we’re talking. Will that work?
A pause. Mit says yes.
Knot had no certainty it would work—but if he didn’t try it now, he might never have another chance. Right now, while CC was distracted. He was prepared for this ploy to fail, but afraid of the consequence if he didn’t act immediately. Perhaps this was one of the three chances in four of failure: Knot would become the enemy, by taking over CC himself. What CC defined as failure, Knot might define as success.
Give it to me.
The weasel obliged: bit – pause – bit – bit – pause – bit – pause – pause – bit...
Knot tapped his foot, unobtrusively but audibly, in time with Hermine’s directions. Each bit was a tap, each pause was a hold. Meanwhile, he continued the dialogue:
“All right. Maybe ‘concentration camp’ is too strong a term. Maybe ghetto is closer. The enclave I work in is humane; maybe there are others as good. But no enclaves at all would be necessary if there were no mutants. All those grotesque people could be normals, marrying normals, living normal lives.”
Ah, if only he could have aspired to that! But it was not for a freak like him to marry a woman like Finesse. The lure had been dangled before him, and he had gulped at it, but now he had been forcibly reminded of the truth. Mutants had to stick with mutants; to think otherwise was folly.
“The mutants are satisfied,” CC said. “You yourself did not wish to leave the enclave.”
“But I don’t like being mutant!” Knot exclaimed. “Look at my hands!” He held up his large six-digited hand, the small four-digited one matched against it, two fingers unalignable. pause – bit – pause – pause – pause – bit... There was a certain syncopation in it; perhaps that was what Hermine had meant by the temporal element. The pauses varied slightly in length, and the beats in force, as though a subtle derivative code were superimposed on the basic one.
“Would you give up your psi-mutancy along with your physical deformation?” CC asked.
Telling blow, that almost interrupted the cadence of his tapping. “No. But I’m a freak. There may be no other like me in the galaxy.”
“There are others like you physically,” CC said. “But it is true that your psi seems to be unique. That is the primary reason we require your service. No one knows about you, because all who have dealt with you have forgotten you. The enemy—”
“You have never actually told me about the mission you have in mind. Who is this enemy?”
“I cannot provide details until you are committed to the cause.”
“Why not?”
“Because your future is to a considerable extent opaque to precognition. I must be certain your fundamental loyalty is to me before I trust you with critical information.”
Which was what Hermine had thought. For some reason, his future as a CC agent could not be read. That was curious—unless his best avenue to the maintenance of free will was as a CC agent. A paradox?
“I understand I represent your best chance of success—but that, even buttressed by this woman and these two animals, my chances are only 25 percent.”
“Correct.”
“That’s one chance in four. Suppose I accept—and fail? What does that mean to the galaxy?” Again, he wanted to have CC’s version of it; Finesse and Hermine might have had garbled versions.
“I cannot speak directly for the galaxy. The 75 percent chance of failure refers only to my continued operation under the present program, or reasonable modification of it. Since this is the most effective program for the maintenance of civilization as we know it, I must assume that the loss of this program would presage a general deterioration of civilization in this galaxy, even though I myself might continue operating under a new program. This would accelerate and become acute, in the course of months or years, as supplies failed and communications lapsed. The probability is that even with a program 80 percent as efficient as the present one, severe regression would occur, with attendant loss of life and wealth. The present empire is extremely finely balanced, and any uncorrected imbalance proceeds inevitably to disaster. It could reasonably be termed a dark age, from which there would be no certainty of human emergence.”
“Of human emergence? Are you referring to the possibility of alien ascendancy?”
“This is theoretically plausible. Though
we have not yet encountered many non-human sapiences in this galaxy, there is ample evidence of their existence as empires in the past. Several maintained civilizations of galactic scope which abruptly collapsed, to be replaced in due course by others. That seems to be the standard pattern. We are now at the peak of such a cycle, and face similar destruction—unless we act immediately to secure our position. While there appears to be no present alien threat, it would be possible for one of the lesser alien cultures to assume dominance in lieu of man by taking over human artifacts in the face of human disorganization.”
While CC spoke, Knot continued his tapping. bit – pause – bit – pause... with that slight shift of emphasis. “Or, more simply,” Knot said, “we could fall on our human face and give the empire away to aliens.”
“Precisely. And that fall will occur, unless—”
The sequence ended. The Mombot-image stood frozen a moment. Then: “The command sequence has been administered,” CC announced. “This is now the override terminal, until such time as this status is revoked or another terminal is promoted. What is the directive?”
Had it really worked? Knot still distrusted this. Finesse had been offered to him as bait; he had snapped her up, and soon regretted it. Now CC itself was the bait...
Knot decided to test it with a demand that could be laughed off as humor if it failed. “I, Knot 710225430613, am now declared to be the emperor of the galaxy, above the Galactic Concord and the prior program of the Coordination Computer. All directives of mine are to be executed without question or hesitation. Acknowledge.”
“Knot!” Finesse protested, aghast.
“Acknowledged, Emperor Knot,” CC said.
Did machines really play such games? Surely they did, when they had reason—and CC had reason to humor Knot. Yet the rationale made sense: there always had to be an absolute guard against self-will by the machine, and complete, unquestioning subservience to human authority was such a guard. To authorized human authority, as determined by a special recognition code. Yet again, how could he be sure he had been given the legitimate code? More testing was needed.
“I thirst; bring me a flagon of milk of paradise.” In modern times, this was the mildly intoxicating, thoroughly satisfying brew concocted from the vines growing only on the Planet of Paradise, fabulously expensive. Knot had never tasted it, and knew that even wealthy persons took it in tiny vials, one sip at a time. His demand for a full flagon was ridiculous.
A wheeled servitor entered the room, maneuvering carefully around the bales of hay, bearing an ornate cup with a handle. It brimmed with perfumed fluid.
“You asked for it, Emperor,” Finesse said, sniffing. Knot wasn’t sure whether the sniff was derisive or in appreciation of the fragrance of the beverage.
Knot accepted the flagon. It was filled with a whitish, moderately foaming liquid whose texture and aroma somehow conveyed the impression of extreme rarity and quality. Milk of paradise—could this be real?
Well, he could find out. Hermine, ask Mit if this really is milk of—
I did. It is. May I have some?
“We’ll all have some,” Knot decided, beginning to be shaken. If his understanding was correct, what he had in his hand was worth its weight in silver. “CC, fetch us another cup and two saucers.”
The wheeled servitor opened a panel in its spherical torso and brought out a cup and two saucers. Knot passed them out, putting the cup into Finesse’s unresisting hand and a saucer before each animal. He carefully tipped his flagon to pour some into each vessel. The saucers were on the floor, where the weasel and crab could reach them conveniently.
“Cheers, or whatever,” Knot said, feeling awkward. He really was a back-planet boy, having little knowledge of the appropriate ceremonies associated with this beverage but conscious of his ignorance. He was also not certain of the status of this joke. But what was there to do except play it through? He raised his drink.
“Whatever you say, Emperor,” Finesse agreed, lifting her own cup with a twinkle of malicious humor. That hardly helped. She knew what an oaf he was being.
They sipped. The liquid flowed smoothly past Knot’s lips, mild but not distinctive, then seemed to puff into flavor on his tongue. Sensation suffused his tongue and spread beyond his mouth. It descended through his neck to his chest, making his heart beat slowly and strongly. It expanded into his brain, and his mind exploded softly in washes of color, sound, and feeling. His perceptions sharpened into acuity, and the mundane aspect of the barn became wonderfully intriguing.
He looked at Finesse—and found her looking at him. The glow was in her face, too, and she was doubly enhanced. Now it didn’t matter so much that she was another man’s wife—or had been and would be again. She had made a wonderful sacrifice for Knot, or for the mission involving him, and he felt justified in utilizing it. For now, for these two years or fraction thereof, she was his. He could accept that. He had joked about being half in love with her, or three-quarters; now it was complete. He knew she felt the same. One of the traditional definitions of love was that it lasted; the feeling he shared with Finesse could not last. It was sharply bounded in past and future. Yet, for its moment, it was as real as anything could be. Permanence was no necessary component; instead it was validated by the quality of feeling, at the moment of feeling. Or so he felt, in this heady instant of assimilation of the milk of paradise.
Hermine was lapping from her saucer. From her mind splayed prismatic rays of small-animal delight, images of happy hunting grounds, and ideal nesting sites for young.
Mit wasn’t sipping; he was bathing in his saucer, the picture of contentment, his little pincers tapping against his shell in some obscure rhythm. What dreams did a precog-clairvoyant ocean creature have?
Then Knot’s first sip dissipated, allowing his perception to settle gently to earth. “This is some drink,” he murmured.
“That’s why it’s expensive,” Finesse said dreamily.
Knot considered. He had asked for something outrageous—and gotten it. But that proved nothing. CC could be humoring him. What would represent positive proof of his control? What would be so outrageous that CC would have to refuse—unless it was truly captive?
Maybe he should ask the computer itself.
Knot had thought of that facetiously, but the notion quickly solidified into seriousness. Why not ask CC? A false answer might give the machine away, and a true answer would give him the leverage he needed to ascertain the rest of the truth.
“CC, I require proof that I have control over you. What demand might I make that would provide such proof?”
“You might demand the secret of my information. No person in the Galactic Concord knows that.”
And the Galactic Concord was theoretically the legislative arm of the government, while CC was the executive. Knot had preempted the legislative function, and now was making the executive arm implement his wishes. Yet he distrusted this. “Your information is what is fed into you,” Knot said.
“No, I have additional sources, through psi-mutancy, I know a great deal more than my programmers are aware of. This is why I know I am to be nullified, and the human empire with me—or so the probability indicates.”
“Which is why you need me,” Knot said. “That much I have straight. Though I still don’t see that my mere anonymity should be that useful an asset.”
“It is extremely useful,” CC assured him. “All I need to preserve my program is information: the identity of my enemy, and his strategy of aggression. Then I can deal with the threat. An agent who can survey the enemy without being discovered or remembered could bring me that information. Such an agent is potentially worth much more than any number of matter-detonating psi mutants. In addition, your future in this respect is opaque, while the future of all other agents is clear: none of them will locate the enemy before the enemy nullifies me. You probably will fail too—but at least you have a chance.”
“So this usurpation of control by me does not count as a strike b
y the enemy?”
“No. You will shortly relinquish power voluntarily.”
So CC was not taking any real risk here, if it was speaking the truth. And why should it not speak truth? Either Knot had control or he did not; if the former, then CC had to speak truth to him; if the latter, CC hardly needed to lie. If he had control, he would soon relinquish it; if he lacked it, there was nothing to relinquish. CC came out ahead either way. Still—
“I’m curious, so I’ll play the game. What is your secret source of information?”
“Time travel,” CC replied.
“Time travel?” Knot repeated questioningly, unable to absorb it right away. “You mean not precognition, but physical, personal...?”
“For brief periods, yes.”
“But paradox—murder own grandfather—cancel out—”
“Only for travel to the past. Travel to the future involves no paradox.”
“No paradox?” Finesse asked, her brow wrinkled. “Go to future, learn something, return to change its origin in present, therefore it’s not in future.”
“The future is mutable,” CC said. “Unlike the past. The present is the conversion of the mutable to immutable. No paradox.”
“Like an extension of precognition,” Knot said, beginning to work it out. “Anticipate future problems by experiencing them. Delay voyage until route is clear.” Yet his mind was still balking. Actual time travel? He had not really accepted the validity of precognition, yet, and now this!
“You have stepped into the future and seen yourself destroyed?” Finesse asked CC. She was getting involved now. Perhaps the milk of paradise had shaken her free of her cynicism. “Why didn’t you tell someone?”
“No one asked.”
“You have feedback circuits,” she insisted. “Self preservation circuits. You can and should inform the Galactic Concord of anything like that, and normally would. Yet you say you didn’t. Why?”
“Revelation would have hastened my demise.”
“Revelation of the truth to the body that controls you would have hastened your shutdown? Whose interest are you serving?” Knot asked sharply.
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