“I will prevent your self-destruction.”
Despite that excellent rebuttal, the pinchers didn't tighten further. So maybe the Hoouk had a fairly broad definition of protection. “You can't save my reputation.”
Thoth responded to my counterargument by doing nothing, a big improvement from what I was afraid it would do. But before I could let myself breathe again, Deal offered a few clicks of advice.
“I suspect, Doctor, that your servant is temporarily engaged in weighing the potential harm to your status resulting from this man's demise against the harm he intends to inflict on you.”
Deal's message came through perfectly: Any moment now, Bradley would lose his head.
Once again, something seemed to clog the gears of time as fear whipped my thoughts into clarity. “Don't hurt him, Thoth!” I ordered for whatever good it might do as I took off running through the big hole, over the rubble, and toward the clinic. Dismantling the controller was Bradley's only hope, and obviously L and Tad weren't having much luck.
Halfway across the street, I gasped. Not only because I was out of breath. In my mind, a dozen scraps of information snapped together, forming a picture I hadn't even suspected existed. My Volvo exploding, Tad saving me, the video-feed showing no one planting a car-bomb, Tad apparently avoiding Deal, Deal calling Tad “surprising,” three shattered macramite walls, and even Cora's months of unresponsiveness added up to one stunning revelation. A truly disturbing revelation, but one that might provide a tool to save Bradley.
The frozen cops were stirring, although in slow-mo. They didn't seem hurt. In the distance, I heard sirens and guessed they were headed this way.
The front wall had nearly healed, so I had to use the door to enter the clinic, but barely broke stride sprinting toward the room with the controller. I've seen some really weird things in my life, but the scene within that room beat them all. L had sprouted a forest of tentacles tipped with built-in wrenches, screwdrivers, hammers and whatnot, and was twisting, prodding, and banging on the controller like an army of insane mechanics. Meanwhile, Tad occupied herself with barehanded tugging and prying. All this hyperactivity was accomplishing zilch.
“Stop!” I shouted over the racket. “L and Tad, join me in the hallway, quick.”
I doubted Tad would obey, but L grabbed one of her arms with an extruded vice and tugged her out of the room. I slapped the wall-plate and the door swished closed.
“Have you stopped the robot?” L asked.
I kept my voice below a murmur. “Not exactly. We'll have to do that from this end.”
“A glorious idea. How?”
I turned to glare at my insecurity officer. “Tad, do you have any of that explosive left? The stuff you used on my car?”
Dead silence for a moment. “You know it was me?”
“I'm positive.” She'd broken her routine to accompany me to the parking lot and reacted too quickly and perfectly to what she'd claimed was the “scent” of a bomb. Also, a team of macramites, too small to be noticeable on a video feed, could've easily carried the alien C4 to the car in minute batches. And who would be better at controlling Vapabondi macramites than a Vapabond? “I even know why you did it.”
To make me trust her, to allay any suspicions I might be developing about her.
“If you've got any explosive left, get it now,” I ordered in a nearly silent shout. “Hurry!”
You wouldn't think that something resembling a cross between an ape, a walrus, and an armadillo could look sheepish, but Tad managed the trick. Then she demonstrated that it was also possible to slink away while running. She was much faster than I'd expected.
“You believe a detonation will disable the controller?” L whispered.
“God, I sure—wow! She's back already. Guess we'll find out.”
Tad carried a large, clear jar half full of what looked like crushed ruby dust and held it out for me to inspect.
“How do you detonate it?”
She answered by pulling out a small gadget with a miniature antenna on one end. She held this device to her mouth and mumbled something. Then she put the thing away and placed one of her sausage fingers on the nearest wall. A tiny moving strip of ivory appeared on the finger, marched across Tad's shell, and worked its way down the arm holding the jar. I moved closer, but still could barely distinguish the individual shells of the parading macramites. A few seconds later, the ivory strip abandoned Tad to bury itself in the ruby dust.
“Will self-ignite at command,” Tad offered.
Useful little buggers. “How fast can they work?”
“We should leave room first.”
“Yeah. Okay, you stay right here and give your little pals the go-ahead as soon as L gets back here and I've got the door closed again. L, you're the speed-king here. I've got a hunch you'd better get the job done fast.”
“You wish me to place the explosive near the controller?”
“On it. That jar should balance on one of its shoulders. Can you do it?”
“Easily.”
“Good. Everyone ready?” I hated to count on Tad, but had no choice.
And she came through for me, pulling out her little toy again as L reconfigured himself into a low-slung torpedo with six legs and two long arms ending in enough spaghetti-like fingers for a gallon of carbonara sauce. He gently took the jar and bushed the opening-plate with a spaghetti strand.
“I am ready now,” he said, zipping into the room so quickly that for an instant, I could've sworn he remained in the hallway.
Then he was. As the door zipped closed, I heard the controller say, “The operation you are attempting is forbidden.”
“Now, Tad.”
An incredible crash came from behind us, from the reception room, not the place I wanted to hear a bang.
“NOW, Tad! NOW!"
Like a sped-up, stop-action demon, Thoth came charging at us just as some giant fist seemed to punch the world. The force knocked me off my feet, which probably saved my life as five empty but hard boxes flashed through the space that my head had occupied an instant earlier. L caught me in midair and set me on my feet. I think someone was talking, but at that moment my ears were on vacation.
I looked around. Both L and Tad appeared unhurt and even the walls seemed undamaged. I walked over to lift one of the boxes that had been part of Thoth a few moments before. I put it down and hoisted another, then a third. Damn. Color me stupid.
Deal bounded into the hall with Gara right behind in her spherical rolling form.
“Bradley?” I asked and only heard my own voice through a bit of bone conduction.
I could see Deal's cilia snapping, but had to point at my ears while shaking my head. Then the obvious occurred to me and I switched on one of my DM's “accessibility” functions.
“Say that again, please,” I asked.
This time when Deal spoke, the translated words scrolled across my field of vision: “Your neighbor is healthy save for whatever mental trauma remains. The robot released him and departed at a speed that makes me suspect it of possessing some form of interstellar propulsion. I perceive that you have succeeded in reverting Thoth to its original state.”
“Thanks to L and . . . the Vapabond here. Deal-of-ten-lifetimes, may I introduce you to my patient, Coratennulagond? She's been pretending to be the security officer your people hired for me, Tadehtraulagong.”
Deal hopped nearer to the party in question and stared at her with scores of eye-cilia. “So! I'd been informed a female2 had been assigned to you, Doctor, bringing a troubled female1 along. When I saw that your patient was the wrong subgender, I assumed my information was faulty. Now the discrepancy is explained.”
Along with plenty of other things, such as “Cora” being so unresponsive for so long. While Tad and Cora had been on their way to Earth, something had gone very wrong and the psychotic Vapabond had gained the upper grasping member.
“How do you intend to rectify the situation?” Deal asked.
I st
udied the Vapabond. “We'll get the real Tad off whatever meds this one's been feeding her to keep her torpid. But as for you, Cora, I believe this crisis has done you some good. I'd even say you've just had a breakthrough. This is the first time since we met that you've acted in a completely responsible way. If we work together, I'll bet we can get your mind clear and strong. Are you willing?”
“You are not angry with me?”
“A doctor doesn't get mad at the patient.” I was lying, but admitting my real feelings would help no one.
“Then I am willing.”
“Great. But let's not include bombs as part of your therapy. And speaking of bombs . . .”
I slapped the nearby wall-plate, exposing the room that had contained the recent blast. The floor was littered in machine parts, but none of them appeared broken or bent or even singed. Impressive metallurgy. The controller had fit together like a Chinese puzzle, so I'd guessed that a powerful explosion would break whatever electromagnetic or chemical bonds had come into play after the system was finally activated. Good thing it had worked because I didn't have a backup plan.
“We will not,” Deal said, “be assembling this device again. Or piling boxes.” My ears were beginning to recover; I could hear her clicks, faintly.
“Probably not, but I think I know where we went wrong.”
“Tell me.”
“The empty boxes look identical, but they don't weigh the same. I bet if we stacked them from heaviest to lightest, Thoth would come to life in a far more . . . amenable form. Remember the controller telling us that the servant has one hundred twenty possible configurations? That's how many different ways there are to stack five boxes if you ignore the issue of which side goes where: five factorial. Simple statistics. A clever person would've examined the empty boxes and noticed the weight discrepancy, and a logical person would've first made a pile with the greatest stability. The Hoouk overestimated me.”
Deal remained silent for a moment. “As for me, I find you difficult to overestimate. We Traders owe you much for the trouble our incomprehension has caused. How may we best repay you?”
I turned toward Cora. “This whole structure is made of your tiny machines. Could they tear themselves down and rebuild the place somewhere else?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” I faced Deal again. “I'm about to get drowned in lawsuits, and the trouble is that Bradley and my other neighbors are right. This institution is dangerous. Got an idea that might save my gluteus maximus without the Feds stepping in again and getting me even more resented. I'd like to keep treating my human patients in the Cabin—that's what we call the small building behind this one—but I want to relocate the main part of the clinic.”
“To somewhere distant?”
“Not so far away that it takes me hours to commute from home, but a place that's isolated from people.”
“Your desires appear to conflict. Do you have a location in mind?”
I grinned. “No, but you don't expect me to solve every problem, do you?”
Something about the way Deal tilted a few of her limbs gave me the impression she grinned back. “Then I may have a solution although it might mean that this structure could not simply perambulate to the new position.”
“Perambulate!” L crowed, no doubt eager to rush to the nearest dictionary.
“Tell me,” I asked Deal.
“We are presently not far from one of your large oceans. With Tsf environment control, I see no reason why your clinic shouldn't be repositioned some distance out to sea.”
I just stood there for a moment, blinking. “You mean floating?"
“I mean deep underwater. Surely your neighbors would be satisfied, and we would supply you a submersible vehicle for the short commute. Or would you prefer a sky clinic?”
* * * *
And that's basically the story. Oh, I could blab about the subsequent meeting with Smith, Jones, and assorted tons of other officials, but even I'm getting sick of hearing my voice. Besides, you've got the answer you were looking for. So don't let those wheels fool you, Pastor. Now you know exactly why I have to drive to work in a submarine.
Copyright © 2010 Rajnar Vajra
(EDITOR'S NOTE: Al's adventure with his earlier patients was recounted in “Doctor Alien,” January/February 2009.)
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Science Fact: ARTIFICIAL VOLCANOES: CAN WE COOL THE EARTH BY IMITATING MT. PINATUBO?
by Richard A. Lovett
In 1883, in one of the greatest volcanic catastrophes of recorded history, a mountain named Krakatoa blew its top. As many as 100,000 people died, including not only the inhabitants of the island, but thousands more, struck by tsunamis.
Krakatoa was in Indonesia, but the effects were felt worldwide. The explosion blew millions of tons of sulfur-containing gas into the stratosphere, where it formed a bright haze that reflected enough sunlight back into space to drop global temperatures significantly.1 As far away as Norway, the same haze produced blood-red sunsets that may have inspired Edvard Munch's famous painting, “The Scream."2
An even bigger volcanic explosion, also in Indonesia, may have produced massive crop failures in Europe and North America. The volcano, Tambora, erupted in April 1815 in the biggest blast in recorded history.3 The following year, 1816, entered North American folklore as “The Year Without a Summer,” also known as “1800 and Froze to Death.” In June, a foot of snow fell in Quebec City, and crop-killing frosts were severe enough to produce midsummer ice as far south as Pennsylvania.
More recently, the 1993 eruption of Mt. Pinatubo in the Philippines did the same on a smaller scale. Because Pinatubo was more recent, we know fairly precisely what was blown into the stratosphere: about seventeen teragrams (seventeen million metric tons) of sulfur dioxide. Once there, that sulfur dioxide was converted into about twenty-three teragrams of sulfate aerosols: enough to temporarily reduce average global temperature by 0.3 degrees C.
That may not sound like a lot, but it's more than one-third as much as the entire amount of global warming since the Industrial Revolution. It's also 5-25% of the projected warming that might occur by the end of this century.
In other words, a Pinatubo-sized quantity of sulfate aerosols floating around in the upper atmosphere, if it could be maintained permanently, would be enough to offset 5-25 years of global warming. Two Pinatubos could offset ten to fifty years of warming. Three would offset fifteen to seventy-five years, etc.
It's the type of thing that catches the attention of folks looking for a technological fix to global warming. Some scientists credit Freeman Dyson with first coming up with the idea, three decades ago, of cooling the globe by using naval guns to fire thousands of sulfur-containing artillery shells into the sky. But if Dyson really did propose such a scheme, it's not clear that he took it seriously. The idea of deliberately creating artificial Pinatubos to offset global warming didn't really come into its own until the late 1990s, when it was revived by hydrogen-bomb inventor Edward Teller. Since then, it's moved far enough into the mainstream to be featured in a half-day symposium at the Fall 2008 meeting of the American Geophysical Union.4
One person taking the idea seriously is Richard Turco, an atmospheric scientist at the University of California, Los Angeles. Turco was one of the architects of the 1980s “nuclear winter” theory, which posited that smoke from bomb-ignited fires would reflect so much sunlight that an all-out nuclear war could send the Earth into a deadly deep-freeze.5
Not that Turco and his colleagues necessarily endorse Teller's idea; they just think it's time to take a serious look at what might be involved in doing it.
One major problem is that this type of geoengineering is a bandage, not a cure. However effective it might be at reducing sunlight, it does nothing to eliminate the causes of warming. Furthermore, the sulfur has a limited stratospheric half-life.6 The year without a summer was a year, not a decade. This means that if we start shooting sulfur into the upper
atmosphere and do nothing to reduce our emissions of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases, we're committed to continuing the process. If we quit, the sulfur will settle out of the air and the climate will quickly revert to what it would have been had we never intervened in the first place.
Alan Robock, a climate scientist from Rutgers University, recently wrote a paper for the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists entitled “20 Reasons Why Geoengineering Might Be a Bad Idea."7 In addition to Turco's concern that we might wind up holding a tiger by the tail, Robock's reasons ranged from worries about human error to the knotty question of who controls the thermostat. “What if Russia wants it a couple of degrees warmer, and India a couple of degrees cooler?” he asked.
Even if people could agree on the optimum climate, what's to keep nations from trying to use the same geoengineering methods for military purposes? Jay Hamblin, a historian at Oregon State University, has noted that at the height of the Cold War, some NATO planners were taking a serious look at the prospect of environmental warfare. “There were a lot of wildcat ideas,” he said. “'How can we use our knowledge of nature to exploit it in wartime?’”8
Robock agrees. “The United States has a long history of trying to modify weather for military purposes,” he wrote in his “20 Reasons” article, “including inducing rain during the Vietnam War to swamp North Vietnamese supply lines and disrupt antiwar protests by Buddhist monks."9
Another problem would be that as long as carbon dioxide emissions continue to rise, the oceans will become ever more acidic. About one-third of the carbon dioxide entering the air winds up in the ocean, where it forms carbonic acid. This dissolves aragonite, a key mineral in coral, says Ken Caldeira, an oceanographer at the Carnegie Institution's Department of Global Ecology, in Stanford, California. Corals are sensitive enough to this process, he adds, that even if carbon dioxide levels are held to only twice their pre-industrial level—a fairly difficult goal to attain—there will be no place on Earth where tropical coral reefs can survive.10
Analog SFF, July-August 2010 Page 8
