“Erin, I have to tell you. You look rotten,” she muttered, sticking out a furred and tired-looking tongue. “I prescribe coffee for your condition, Doctor. Preferably intravenously.”
When Snaresbrook came into her waiting room she saw that Dolly was already there, turning the pages on a worn copy of Time. She looked at her watch.
“Patients steal all the new magazines, would you believe it? Rich patients, or they wouldn’t be here, they even pinch the toilet paper and bars of soap. Sorry I’m late.”
“No, that’s fine. Doctor, it’s all right.”
“We’ll have some coffee, then get to work. You go in, I’ll be just a moment.”
Madeline had the mail ready and she flipped quickly through it, glancing up when the door flew open. She smiled insincerely at the angry General.
“Why are you and the patient still in this hospital? Why have my orders for moving him not been carried out?”
General Schorcht snapped the words like weapons. Erin Snaresbrook thought of many answers, most of them quite insulting, but she was too tired for a shouting match this early in the day.
“I will show you, General. Then maybe you will climb down off my back.” She threw the correspondence onto the desk, then pushed by the General and out into the hall. She stamped toward the intensive-care unit where Brian was, heard the General’s heavy footsteps behind her. “Put this on,” she snapped, and tossed General Schorcht a sterile mask. “Sorry,” she said, took the mask and fixed it into position over the other’s nose and mouth; it’s not easy to fit one of the things with only one hand. When her own mask was in place she opened the door to the ICU just enough so they could see in. “Take a good look.”
The figure on the table was barely discernible behind the network of pipes, tubes, wires, apparatus. The two arms of the manipulator were positioned over him, the multibranching fingers dropping down into the opening in the cloth. The flexible tube of the oxygen mask wormed out from under the drapes and there were drips and tubes plugged into arms and legs and into almost every orifice of the unconscious body. Lights flickered on one of the complex machines; a nurse looked at a readout on the screen and made an adjustment. Snaresbrook let the door swing shut and pulled the mask from the General’s face.
“You want me to move all that? While the connection apparatus is in place—and in operation? It is working with the internal computer now to reroute nerve signals.”
She turned on her heel and left: General Schorcht’s continuing silence was answer enough.
She was humming cheerfully when she entered her office and turned on the hulking coffee machine. Dolly sat on the edge of her chair and Erin pointed a spoon at her.
“How about a nice strong espresso?”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“You should. It is certainly easier on the metabolism than alcohol.”
“I can’t sleep, it’s the caffeine you see. Nor do I drink alcohol either.”
Nodding sympathetically over the coffee, an answer to the unanswerable, Snaresbrook sat down at her desk and brought up on the screen the transcribed notes of their previous interview.
“You told me a lot of very vital things last time you were here, Dolly. You not only have a good memory but a deep understanding. You were a good and affectionate mother to Brian, that is obvious in the way you speak about him.” She glanced up and saw that the other woman was blushing lightly at this casual compliment; life had not been that kind to Dolly and compliments very rare. “Do you remember when Brian reached puberty?” Erin asked, and the blush deepened.
“Well, you know, it’s not as obvious as with girls. But he was young I think, around thirteen.”
“This is most important. Up until now we have been tracking his emotional life as a small child, then going on to follow his learning patterns and intellectual history. That is all going very well. But major emotional and physiological changes take place with the onset of puberty. That time and area must be explored in depth, charted as well as we can. Do you remember him dating—or having any girlfriends?”
“No, nothing like that. Well there was a girl he saw for a bit, she would come around the house to use his computer sometimes. But it didn’t seem to last very long. She was the only one. Then of course there was the matter of their age difference, she was much older than him. So the relationship could only have been platonic. I do remember that she was a pretty little thing. Name of Kim.”
“Kim, I want you to take a look at your screen right now,” Dr. Betser said. “You had trouble with this last week and until you know exactly what is happening you won’t be able to move on to the next step. Now look at this.”
The instructor had typed the equations into his own computer—which not only displayed them on the screen in front of the class but entered them into the desk computers of all the students at the same moment.
“Show us how to do it,” he said and switched command to her. All eyes were on the screen as Kim reluctantly touched her keyboard.
All eyes except Brian’s. He had worked out the solution within a minute after the problem had been entered. College was becoming as frustrating as high school had been. He spent almost all of his class time waiting for the others to catch up with him. They were a stupid and despicable lot who looked down on him like some kind of freak. All of them were four, five years older than he was—while most of them stood a head taller. At times he felt like a midget. And it wasn’t just paranoia on his part—they really did hate him, he was sure of it. Disliked him because he was younger, out of place here. Plenty of jealousy too, since he did the work so much better and faster than they did. How had people who really knew how to think, like Turing or Einstein or Feynman, how had they managed to live through school?
He looked at his screen and tried not to groan as the girl made a hash of it. It was too awful to watch. He casually pushed his pocket calculator against the side of his terminal and punched in a quick code. A list of Italian verbs appeared in a window on the screen and he scrolled through them, memorizing the new ones.
Brian had discovered, very early on, that the school tapped into every student’s computer and recorded all the data that was entered into it. This was made obvious by some of the questions they had asked him, knowledge they could only have obtained in this underhand way. Once he had discovered it, he made sure that the school computer was just used for schoolwork. He had observed that his teachers, Dr. Betser in particular, were quite certain that their words were golden—and would be quite upset if they discovered that during their lectures he had been running war games or accessing data bases instead of giving them a hundred percent attention. But there were ways around everything. If all of the computers in the schoolroom had been connected by cables it might have been easier—or harder to misdirect information. But now narrow-band infrared links, like ether-net systems, filled the room with invisible communication. Every computer had a digitally tunable LED, a light-emitting diode, that transmitted on low-noise channels. A photodetector picked up messages it was tuned to. Brian’s solution to this was to build an intercepting device into what appeared to be a pocket calculator. When it was placed at the side of his computer it intercepted the incoming signal and rebroadcast it. So he could do whatever he wished without anyone being able to detect the operation. What was on the screen was for his eyes alone! Allattare to feed or to nurse … allenare to exercise, to train.
He was still keeping track of the class and became vaguely aware that Dr. Betser’s voice was taking on that weary, nagging tone.
“ … a basic misunderstanding of how we make successive approximations. Unless you get this basic point, you’ll never get any further. Brian—will you do this correctly so we can move on. And, Kim, I want to see you after class.”
The Italian verbs vanished as Brian pushed the calculator aside. He looked at the screen and tracked her first error. “The misconception begins here,” he said, moving the cursor and highlighting the equation. “After you find th
e first-order solution, you have to remove it—subtract it from the original equation—before you can apply the same method to find the next term. If you forget to do that, you’ll keep getting the same term again. And then you have to divide out the independent variable, or you will just get zero the next time. And finally, you have to go backward again, adding the terms back in and multiplying back the variable again. I think the trouble is that everyone in the class believes that there are a lot of different ideas here, derivatives, approximations, second-order approximations, and so on. But there’s only one idea, used over and over. I don’t see why they make it out to be so complicated …”
An hour later Brian was eating his cheese and tomato sandwich and reading Galaxy Warhounds of Procyon when someone sat down heavily on the bench beside him. This was unusual enough since he was left strictly alone by the other students. More unusual were the tanned fingers that pulled the book from him and slammed it onto the table.
“Juvenile science fiction space crap that only kids read,” Kim snapped at him.
He had had this argument often enough before. “Science fiction utilizes a vocabulary twice as large as that of all other popular fiction. While SF readers are in the top percentile …”
“Space balls! You made me look pretty dumb today.”
“Well you were pretty dumb! I’m sorry.”
Brian’s worried expression got to her; she could never stay angry very long in any case. She laughed aloud and pushed his book back to him. Pushing it through a slice of tomato on the table. He smiled and wiped the cover with his napkin.
“In fact it wasn’t even your fault anyway,” he said. “Old Betser may be a wizard programming mathematician but he doesn’t know a gnat’s fart about explaining it to anyone.”
“What do you mean?” She was interested now, reached out and broke off a corner of his sandwich. He noticed that her teeth were very white and neat, her lips red—and that was without lipstick. He pushed the remains of the sandwich over to her.
“He’s always going off on tangents, getting sidetracked into explanations that have nothing to do with the material he should be teaching, things like that. I always stay a chapter ahead of him in the text so he won’t confuse me when he starts to explain something.”
“Amazing!” Kim said, meaning the thought of reading a text you didn’t have to when there were so many other wonderful things to do. “Can you do better than him, Mr. Smartass?”
“Run circles around him, Miss Birdbrain. Using the heretofore totally secret Brian Delaney lightning instruction system all will be made clear! In the first place, it’s not really so important to know exactly how to solve each problem.”
“That sounds stupid. How can you solve a problem if you don’t know how to solve it?”
“By doing just the opposite. You can learn a lot of ways not to solve it. A lot of wrong methods not to try. Then, once you find the most common mistakes, you can hardly help doing the right thing without even trying.”
He remembered exactly where she had gone wrong and knew at once what her misunderstanding was. He explained it patiently, two or three ways, until she finally caught on.
“Is that what my trouble was! Why didn’t Beastly Betser explain it like that? It’s obvious.”
“Everything is obvious once you understand it. Why don’t you work through the rest of those examples while this is clear in your head?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Got things to do, gotta run.”
Run she did, or at least trotted out of the dining room, and he shook his head as he watched her go. Girls! They were a strange breed. He opened his book and winced at the red tomato stains. Sloppy. Sloppy thinking too, she should have worked this thing out while it was fresh in her head. Five will get you ten she would forget the whole thing by tomorrow.
She did. “You were right! It was gone, zip. I thought I remembered, but not exactly.”
He sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes heavenward. Kim giggled.
“Look,” he said, “there’s really not much use spending the time to learn something unless you spend a little more time making sure that it stays learnt. First, you can’t really understand anything if you only understand it one way. You have to think a little about each new idea—which old ones it is like, and which are really different. If you don’t connect it to a few other things, it will evaporate the moment anything changes. That’s what I meant yesterday, about the solution not being important. It’s the differences and similarities.” He could see that this was having no effect, so he played his ace. “Anyway, I worked out an auto-tutor program that simplifies the subject of successive approximations. I’ll give you a copy. Then you can run it whenever the curtain starts to fall in your brain and all will be made instantly clear. At least it will get you through this part of the course.”
“You really have a program like that?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know anything about you at all, Mister I.Q. Kid.”
“Why did you call me that?” He was angry, hurt, both feelings mixed together. He had overheard the other students calling him that behind his back. Laughing.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it, I just never thought. Any moron that calls you that must be a moron. I apologized so you can’t be angry.”
“I’m not,” he said, and realized that he meant it. “Give me your log-on ID and I’ll zap a copy of that program to your modem.”
“I always forget the ID, but I’ve written it down someplace.”
Brian groaned. “You simply can’t forget your ID. That’s like forgetting your blood type.”
“But I don’t know my blood type!”
They both laughed at that and he found the only solution. “You better come over to my place and I’ll give you a copy.”
“You will? You’re a great guy, Brian Delaney.”
She shook his hand in gratitude. Her fingers were very, very warm.
8
March 25, 2023
There were muttered complaints from people waiting in the line, but not from Benicoff. Not only didn’t he mind—he enjoyed the security. When he finally reached the two M.Ps they coldly asked him for his ID—although they knew him very well. They examined this closely, then his hospital pass, before they let him approach the front door of the hospital. Another guard inside unlocked it for him.
“Any troubles, Sergeant?”
“None other than the usual with you-know-who.”
Benicoff nodded in understanding. He had been present when General Schorcht had chewed the Sergeant out, him with hash marks up to his elbows, a Master Sergeant, not that the General cared. “I got my troubles with him too—which is why I’m here.”
“It’s a tough life,” the Sergeant said with marked lack of sympathy. Benicoff found the internal phone and called Snaresbrook’s secretary, discovered that the surgeon was in the library, got instructions how to find it.
Leather-bound medical books lined the walls; but all of them were years out of date and just there for decoration. The library was completely computerized, since all technical books were published in digital form. This had only become possible when conventions and standards were set for illustrations and graphics which were animated most of the time. So any medical book or journal was entered into the library’s data base the instant that it was published. Erin Snaresbrook sat in front of a terminal speaking instructions.
“Can I interrupt?” Benicoff asked.
“In two seconds. I went to make a copy of this in my computer. There.” She hit return and the item was instantly transferred to the data base in her own computer upstairs. The surgeon nodded and spun about in her chair. “I was talking to a friend in Russia this A.M., he told me about this. It’s in St. Petersburg, a student of Luria. Some very original work on nerve regeneration. What can I do for you?”
“General Schorcht keeps bugging me for more detailed reports. So I bug you.”
“Niet prahblem, as
our Russian friends say. But what about your end? Progress there?”
“An absolute dead end. If there is a trail, and I doubt it, it gets colder every day. No hints, no clues, no idea of who did it or how they did it. I’m not supposed to know this, but the FBI has managed to get undercover data taps into every AI lab or department of every university, every major industry in the country, to report any sudden changes or input of new information. They are looking out for the AI data stolen from Brian. Of course the trouble is that they don’t exactly know what to look for.”
“Sounds sort of illegal, snooping like that.”
“It is. But I’ll put up with it for a short time before I blow the whistle on them. But that’s not what worries me. The real question is whether the security agencies have enough experts to interpret any or all of that data. We must get a lead. Which of course is why the General is bugging me.”
“Because the possibility that Brian may remember something, recover, respond in any way—is the only chance we have? Fascinating. I’ve read in bad novels ‘he nodded gloomily.’ Now I know what it looks like because you just did it.”
“Gloomily, depressingly, suicidally—take your pick. And Brian?”
“Our progress has been good, but we are running out of time.”
“He’s getting worse, regressing!”
“Not that, you misunderstood. Modern medicine can stabilize a body, keep it alive for years when the mind is not in control. Physically, I could leave Brian in the recovery unit until he died of old age. I don’t think we want to do that. What I mean is that I have traced and reconnected nearly a million nerve fibers. I’ve tracked and accessed Brian’s earliest memories, from birth right up until about age twelve. The film connectors and computer are in place and in the very near future they should have hopefully made all of the possible connections. I have gone about as far as I can go with this technique.”
The Turing Option Page 9
