Since holograms are purely laser-projected images poised in space, they are not endowed with the ability to touch and feel, nor to carry objects. Certainly they cannot pick up babies.
So the Laserpeople and the auto-nurses worked in tightly-coupled collaboration to such a point that they seemed, in the developing brains of the infants, to be an integrated whole. To ensure that each baby was able to assemble a concept of unified care from these two sources, the Cerebral Integration Program was permanently kept running. This permitted the deceit that when an auto-nurse tended a particular child, an appropriate Laserperson mimed the actions. This, combined with pleasing bodily smells emitted from the autonurse’s black box, completed the circuit in the child’s mind.
Thus, they were not orphans.
Take Trell-484 and Kelda-275.
Each grew to know their respective mothers’ voices and scents. Nor did they ever hear the outcome of irritation or parental exhaustion. Nothing around them was capable of being exasperated. So their development was rapid and well-oriented.
Unlike Scorda-099.
Accidents can happen, even in the most well-organised nursery — automated or not.
It is arguable that Scorda would in any case have been a bit of a menace — he showed signs early on of a smouldering temper and this was duly recorded within the main computers.
But, during the course of nursing Scorda-099, there was a mishap.
*
The Laypads have become cots.
Although the auto-nurses and Laserpeople are busier than ever, they have switched their activities in synchronism with the development of the babes. Where the turret-clasped incubators had been racked, stretching the whole length of the Delivery Section, now there are Mickey Mousified cradles spaced out to give maximum air, space, and view of the environment and of each other. The incubators themselves, constructed out of self-reducing plastic, have simply disappeared, their crumbling remains vacuumed neatly out of Ejector Chute Aft. The components still needed — oxygen supply-lines, milk dispensers, temperature and humidity controls — have been cybernetically salvaged and are now installed in a configuration appropriate to the age of the offspring.
ZD-One is busy indeed. And as the radio-caesium clock pulses on, driven by the very processes that date the real-time stars glistening unseen, so the incubant-children develop.
Already they can manage simple words; these are the same gurgling approximations to English Syntax that mothers used to hear in the Old World; there is no change, this environment was devised by Twentieth Century people; and, unlike the evolving species outside the shell of the ship. Twentieth Century rulebooks call the tune.
But they do it by proxy. Cassette tapes run and the infants respond. They hear sounds and attempt to emulate them. They see sights and learn shape-recognition. What child is there that cannot appreciate a teddy bear? — a brightly coloured assembly-puzzle? — a toy plastic telephone? …
And they learn to react to touch. The Tactilators — a most important feature of the auto-nurses — stroke them, bathe them, rock them, and tenderly touch fingers and toes, counting them aloud. The Laserpeople smile on — maybe a little too much but it seems just fine to the children — and their lips are synchronized with the words spoken in stereo by the auto-nurses’ inset loudspeakers, cassette to child, child to cassette, the computer changing each segment to suit the progress recorded deep in its main store. Each child has a case-record … Health, Learning-Curve, Traits and Trends, Preferences and Dislikes, Aptitude and Incompetence, Willingness and Reluctance.
The children discover how to move. It is easy for them. Holographic children mixed in among them are fractionally ahead of the living ones. Synthetic babyplay is almost indistinguishable from the real thing; the sounds uttered are the same sounds, but just two, three, four weeks advanced in development.
The Laserbabies lead; the Incubants follow.
Until there comes a delightful change.
The situation, quite abruptly, gets reversed.
For the Cerebral Integration Program has worked just as visualised over three hundred years before.
Now, the toddlers are leading the holograms.
And, out of the blue, as if it were the most ordinary event in Futureworld, Trell smiles at Kelda and speaks.
‘Telephone,’ says Trell.
Kelda smiles back. She picks up her plastic phone with a sure, accurate grip and speaks into the wrong end of the instrument.
‘Hello, Trell,’ she says.
‘Donkey,’ says Trell, into the correct end of his, and holds up the fluffy toy.
‘Cat,’ replies Kelda, ‘Cat.’ — and she shows him her cat.
Trell nods sagely. ‘Mieow,’ he explains.
Minus Ten
The Engineer wanted to keep the videotape running on the incubation sequence but the Committee of Gods down in the auditorium decided they couldn’t afford the time. As the Deputy Administrator for the Milky Way put it, ‘We’re here to examine what went wrong; not what went right.’ — So, rather reluctantly, the Engineer had to stop the tape. On Intercom he addressed the gods down in the viewing room. ‘Mind if I make a point?’
The liason god told him to go ahead.
‘Problem is, sir, some of this tape is very old and brittle. I don’t like starting and stopping the machines and also I’m not sure how many times we can run it.’
‘Okay, then make copies of all the VTRs we’re going to need.’
‘That’s an awful lot of fresh tape-stock, sir. Will the budget on the Earth-holocaust enquiry run to it?’
‘It’ll have to. I’ll order it in bulk from Cassiopeia. They can shove it on a Trans-spacial and I’ll make it first class. Cut corners in this Hearing and we might be badly deprived of data in any later diagnostic or preventive action over other planet problems.’
The engineer acknowledged and added dryly, ‘Our clairvoyant friends from the past would prefer the word UFO to a Transpacial.’
The Interrogod put in, ‘No, they weren’t dummies — they’ll make the connection … Anyway, hold everything for now. Just had a message from the Ops room. We’ll adjourn to Operations right now and I’ll want you in there too.’
‘Okay, sir.’
*
The Operations Room occupies a position in the Main Hilton Complex between the Stellar Projector Dome and the Computer Room.
In appearance it is very like any other operations room … because this is the way the Gods have consented to project it for our own interpretation. Naturally, it is enormous. We are not allowed to know its exact dimensions but we can guess. After all, from here on Star 47 the entire Universe has to be monitored.
The gods filed in from the viewing theatre and the problem became immediately clear. But just in case it wasn’t, the Duty Operations Controller explained, in cool, calm, explicit terms, what the implications were.
He used the Projectogram as he did so; and in a slight American accent he ran through the data.
It was not encouraging.
‘I’ll give you the exact coordinates later when they’re up from the computer room, but the planet that concerns me is this one … roughly 87 light-years distant. I should add that they’re doing a blow up for us on the Dome; but even on the Projectogram it doesn’t look good.’
The Attorney-General for Andromeda remarked, ‘Not unlike Earth, in fact.’
‘Exactly! Remarkable similarity. Same atmosphere, and therefore — of course — carbon-based organic life — virtually Man. Slight differences but nothing significant. In effect they are identical except for the feet, into which the bone-structure has incorporated wheel-traction instead of the walking-mode of homo sapiens on Earth. Latest recordings show that they are exacerbating a nuclear situation very similar to that which destroyed civilisation in the Earth’s Twentieth Century. Only this time we might be able to do something.’
The Interrogod did a quick assessment. ‘Could intervene.’ He flipped the switch for the Transport Co
ntrol Centre. ‘Is Foxtrot-November with you?’
‘Foxtrot-November speaking, sir.’
‘How are we fixed for Trans-spacials at the present time?’
‘Don’t see why we shouldn’t mobilise a squadron. Where for?’
‘We’ll pass you the coordinates as soon as we have the printout but it’s only a medium-haul problem … probably 87 light-years. Can do?’
‘Surely. Any special equipment?’
‘We’ll need the usual re-perceptionals … “Flying Saucer” stuff.’
‘They’re to look like UFOs? Earth-style?’
‘Almost certainly. The species that concern us are about the same but I’ll phone through confirmation. Main equipment needed is Nuclear Dampout together with Peace-Ambience Software. Get onto Supplies and have everything on standby.’
‘Foxtrot-November, Roger.’
The Interrogod snapped back the switch. ‘We’ll have to delay the Enquiry for the time being. Don’t want to be wise after this event if there’s any way of avoiding it.’
The Videotape Engineer said, ‘What do you want done about the tapes we’ve been running for the Earth Holocaust?’
‘That’s a misnomer by now. Let’s call it Re-Genesis.’
‘Okay, sir. Re-Genesis. What action am I to take?’
‘Run the tapes through and edit them. Keep the environmental shots integrated with the stuff on Deck ZD-One, Kasiga. That should tell us something.’
‘How tight do you want the cutting?’
‘Tight as possible. We know what the Deck looks like. If you get any gen on the rest of the ship I’d like the detail.’
‘But that part of the ship is merely a tomb, sir.’
‘Just keep an eye on it. The stuff I want in detail is the actual development traits of the individual incubants — especially the ones who look like taking a leadership role.’
‘What do I look for?’
‘In particular? — Any evidence you get from the difference of opinion between the inventor of the entire process — that’s Dollenburg — with the man who implemented the Kasiga Program along with Ricardo.’
‘That’d be who? — Huckman?’
‘Right.’ The Interrogod opened a file. ‘Use this correspondence to help you with continuity. There are some peculiarities. One is that Huckman substituted his own semen in place of the semen donated.’
The Attorney-General Andromeda looked up sharply. ‘He did that? Why?’
‘Conceit, that’s why. Oh, and Dollenburg’s letter written in Scarsdale, New York … That could be important. I also understand that in the stampede to get off Kasiga in time someone — probably Huckman — left the originals of these letters aboard the ship.’
‘Careless.’
The Interrogod chucked him a look. ‘Or unconscious deliberation. The man was emotionally unstable … I’ll have to break off, we’re getting the Ready-Light from the Computer Room.’ He turned to the Engineer. ‘Here’s the file. Take a look at Dollenburg’s letter and anything else that could help with the editing. Inform me when the processed tapes are ready to roll. Okay?’
*
29, Sunbaker Avenue,
Scarsdale,
N.Y. 10583,
U.S.A.
July 17
Ref Folio B.919
COPY VIA TELESHIFT
Mr K. N. Ricardo
P.E.A.C.E.
Washington D.C.
Dear Mr Ricardo:
Were the matter over which I have been unconstitutionally arrested a formal one concerning the Security of the State I would not now be moved to write you this letter. I have never been known to intrude where it has been made plain that my opinions are neither needed nor desired.
However, intimidation, both by the CIA and the FBI, coupled with the constant surveillance of my every movement, leads me to realise that you are not secure in your own beliefs concerning Futureworld or indeed those beliefs expressed by Professor A.J. Huckman. Incidentally, a university associate I have privately consulted tells me that you yourself are in the course of undergoing psychiatric treatment. He assures me that if there is anything he personally can do to assist in the restoring of your own health he will, in complete confidence, do what he can. His promise of aid is, I assure you, entirely without rancour and devoid of any moral judgements.
Here, then, is a brief summary of my own university’s working party on the false premises inherent in the Project:
1. Because words, phrases, scenes from movies and so on which imply hostility or violence are to be excluded from the incubants’ education, the children are likely to appear to each other perfectly friendly until the pubescent phase. This means that the emerging adolescents will not be able to determine which are their friends and which enemies within the community.
2.The prolonged repression of aggressive traits such omissions in their learning processes must inevitably induce will cause some personality-types to store up hostile instincts which will become amplified in their minds for want of ventilation. Thus, resentments etc that may accumulate will be subsequently expressed as violent impulses which the semi-developed personalities will be ill-equipped to control.
3.The more intelligent of the incubants will in any case question the gaps in their education and seek the answers — thus defeating the whole object of screening them from such information. The knowledge would, of course, spread rapidly throughout the community and encourage the formation of competing groups.
In view of the secrecy and urgency evidently surrounding this project I hope that you will, at very least, pass on to the President or his immediate staff the collective findings of experts who, for one reason or another, were not invited to join the Steering Committee. It goes without saying that Professor Huckman must, at all costs, have this letter made available to him at the earliest possible date.
Cordially yours,
(SIGNED)
David Z. Dollenburg
Professor of Civic Psychology
University of Illinois
*
Trell-484 stirs in his sleep, then awakes. As he does so, an unfamiliar notion spreads through his brain, linking half-conceived ideas so smoothly and naturally that there is no shock, no ripple in his thought-processes that could in any way damage his mind nor interfere with what he has so far learned.
As his eyes rove the plasticised dormitory he realises that he has become self-aware. The other children are not part of his own mind. He is neither imagining their existence nor is he mingled with them in a way that makes him indistinguishable. He is not part of a composite organism even though he is a part of the community.
Naturally, he does not see it in this way and in those words. But he does know that he is Trell. He knows he is unique to the same extent as Eagle or Scorda are unique. And though he is only ten and a bit, this a moment of wonder. Still only half awake, he is conscious of a transition he can’t fully identify. To him, when dreams are still receding and reality begins to emerge from fantasy, this seems to be an amazing moment in his life.
And yet, by the time he is fully awake and out of bed and on the way to the Ablutions area he is quite certain that he knew this all along. What had seemed, during those few seconds of semi-slumber, a definite step forward is already absorbed into his personality. So his perception is heightened though he has already forgotten the metamorphosis. For he’s sensed something peculiar about his environment.
Something is missing.
Although Trell is instinctively aware that there already exist certain clues that might go some way to explain it, at the age of ten he is not ready to reason it out. It is a Feeling … to be noted and stored and quiescently shrugged-off for retrieval at some future time.
Yet, at the same time there is a sensation of paradox. Although he doesn’t know how it feels to be a grown-up, the urge to play — to enter into games that lack something at the end of them that signifies that there had been some objective at the outset — seems to have evaporated. Trell�
��s routine in the Ablutions area is no different from before in terms of what he does and how he does it. The difference — insofar as he is truly aware of the difference — lies in the thoughts that go along with the actions.
For this time he is not imagining that really the Ablutions area is a section of a Space Ship, or an underground cave garnished with ancient carvings, or a gigantic Complex of buildings such as the air terminals at Kennedy that he’s seen on the films.
Instead, he is wondering where he really is. He sees the hygienic wash-hand basins and electric dryers and urinals not in some fantasized rhapsody of technological complexity — as if these everyday objects are all part of some science lab in which a tremendous experiment is being carried out — but as a static arrangement of cleansing facilities … necessary adjuncts of his twice-daily routine; stainless steel fixtures and fittings that do not, at his will, transmute themselves into features of some overlaid mental ramble through Toyland.
In this he totally differs from Eagle-100, who is in there with him.
To Trell, Eagle is different but — curiously — not odd. Why is this?
To the ghosts from a past civilisation who notionally prowl around this tightly-packed environment, Eagle bears a personality-hallmark that strikes no more of a sour note than does Trell. At first it is extremely hard — allowing for ordinary differences in personality — to fine-down to what makes Eagle appear somewhat closer to the Twentieth Century family than does Trell. Ghosts don’t guess. It isn’t their job. They can, if they wish, put a question or two to the gods of the universe — but not if they cannot even couch the phrase. Even gods expect enquiries to be finite. They do not answer a question that has never been asked.
The furrows on the brows of puzzled history-folk do, however, betray less crinkled contours when they vaguely spot the key: Eagle reminds them of when they were parents. It seems to be the difference from watching a schoolboy at play, as seen from the window, as opposed to the tactile, skin-scented offspring with whom you directly play handball in the garden or narrate an oft-told bedside story when it is time for bed. There is the lean, young smell of junior’s breath … you’re so used to it that you don’t exactly notice, but it’s there. So is the exact way he turns and smiles when his head touches the pillow, pretending he’s far too advanced in years — at the age of ten — to need your affection, yet at the time living off it, reassured by it, pretending it Doesn’t Count. What he says, on turning in for the night, has more to do with tomorrow’s football match, or the intuitively contrived structure he has made from bits of a model building-kit; and he responds to your goodnight kiss with a playful punch. ‘I’m a Boy,’ he reminds you, ‘and at bedtime I’m going to pretend that your cuddle is neither necessary nor appropriate.’ (Yet if you don’t ease me into sleep tomorrow night I shall feel restless and unloved.)
The Chromosome Game Page 6
