The interrogation room was windowless and damp. There was nothing on the drab walls except some water stains; a table and two chairs stood in the center of the worn wooden floor. Brian sat on one of them. His carry-on bag was on top of the box in the corner. A large policeman stood next to the door staring patiently into space.
Brian was depressed, chilled, and probably catching a cold. He rubbed his itching nose, pulled out his handkerchief and sneezed loudly into it.
“God bless,” the garda said, glancing at him then back to the wall again. The door opened and another big man came in. No uniform, but the dark suit and heavy boots were uniform enough. He sat down on the outer side of the table and put Brian’s passport down before him.
“I am Lieutenant Fennelly. Now, is this your passport, Mr. Byrne?”
“Yes, it is.”
“There are certain irregularities about it. Are you aware of that?”
Brian had had more than enough time to think about what he was going to say. Had decided on the truth, everything except the fact that he had been imprisoned by the military. He would keep to a highly simplified version of what had actually happened.
“Yes. The passport was out of date. I had some important business appointments, couldn’t wait to get a new one. So I made a few slight changes myself to bring it up to date.”
“Slight changes! Mr. Byrne, this passport has been so excellently altered that I sincerely doubt that it would have been detected had it not been the old model. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an electronic engineer.”
“Well you could make a grand living as a forger should you wish to continue your criminal career.”
“I’m no criminal!”
“Aren’t you now? Did you not just admit to forgery?”
“I did not. A passport is only a piece of identification, nothing more. I have just brought my passport up to date—which is the same thing that the passport office would have done had I the time to apply for a new one.”
“That’s a pretty Jesuitical argument for a criminal to use.”
Brian was angry, even though he realized the detective had angered him on purpose. A sneeze saved him; by the time he had dug out his handkerchief and wiped his nose he had the anger under control. Attack was the best defense. He hoped.
“Are you charging me with some kind of crime, Lieutenant Fennelly?”
“I will make my report. I would like some details first.” He opened a large notebook on the table, took out a pen. “Place and date of birth.”
“Is all that needed? I have been living in the United States, but I was born in Tara, County Wicklow. My mother died when I was young. She was not married. I was adopted by my father, Patrick Delaney, who took me to live in the States where he was then working. It’s all in the record. You can have names, dates, places if you must. It will all check out.”
The Lieutenant did want the facts, all of them, and slowly and carefully transcribed them in his book. Brian held nothing back, just terminated the record before he began to work at Megalobe, before the theft and the killings that happened.
“Would you open your luggage now?”
Brian had been waiting for this, had planned ahead. He knew that Sven was listening to everything that was being said, hoped that the MI would understand as well.
“The small bag, here, contains personal items. The large box is a sample.”
“A sample of what?”
“A robot. This is a machine I have developed that I plan to show to some private investors.”
“Their names?”
“I cannot reveal that. A confidential business matter.”
Fennelly made another note while Brian unlocked the box and opened the lid. “This is a basic model of an industrial robot. It can answer simple questions and take verbal input. That is how it is controlled.”
Even the garda by the door was interested in this, turning his head to look. The detective gazed down at the unassembled parts with a baffled expression.
“Shall I turn it on?” Brian asked. “It can talk—but not very well.” Sven would love that. He reached down and pressed one of the latches. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes—I can—hear—you.”
A great job of ham acting, scratchy and monotone like a cheap toy. At least it caught the attention of the lawmen.
“What are you?”
“I am—an industrial—robot. I follow—instructions.”
“If that is enough, Lieutenant, I will turn it off.”
“Just a moment, if you please. What is that?” He pointed to the hollow plastic head.
“To make the demonstration more interesting I occasionally mount that on the robot. It draws attention. If you don’t mind I’ll turn if off, the battery you know.” He pressed the latch again and closed the lid.
“What is this machine worth?” Fennelly asked.
Worth? The molecular memory alone had cost millions to build. “I would say about two thousand dollars,” Brian said innocently.
“Do you have an import license?”
“I am not importing it. It is a sample and not for sale.”
“You will have to talk to the customs officer about that.” He closed the book and stood up. “I am making a report on this matter. You will remain within the airport premises if you don’t mind.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“At the present moment, no.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“That decision is up to you.”
Shelly was sitting over a cold cup of tea, jumped to her feet when he came up.
“What happened? I was so worried—”
“Don’t be. It is all going to work out all right. Have another cup of tea while I make a phone call.”
The classified directory had a half page of solicitors in Limerick. The cashier sold him a phone card—this must be the only country in the world that still uses them. With his third call Brian talked to a Fergus Duffy, who would be happy to drive out to the airport at once and take on his case. But it was an Irish at-once, so it was afternoon, and a number of cups of tea and some very dry cheese sandwiches later, before his new solicitor managed to make any alteration in his status. Fergus Duffy was a cheerful young man with red tufts of hair protruding from his ears and nose, which he tugged on from time to time when excited.
“A pleasure to meet you both,” he said, sitting down and taking a file from his briefcase. “I must say that this is an unusual and interesting affair and no one seems to be able to work out that no crime has been committed, you have merely altered your own expired passport, which certainly can’t be considered a crime. In the end the powers that be have come to a decision to pass the problem on to a higher authority. You are free to go but you must give your address so you can be contacted. If needs be.”
“What about my baggage?”
“You can pick it up now. Your machine will be released as soon as you have a customs broker complete the forms and have paid duty and VAT and such. No problem there.”
“Then I am free to go?”
“Yes—but not far. I would suggest the airport hotel for the time being. I’ll push these papers through as fast as I can, but you must realize that fast in Ireland is a relative term. You know, like the story about the Irish linguist. You’ve heard it?”
“I don’t believe—”
“You’ll greatly enjoy it. You see it happens at a congress of international linguists and the Spanish linguist asks the Irish linguist if there is a word in Irish with the same meaning as the Spanish mañana. Well your man thinks for a bit and says, why yes, sure enough there is—but it doesn’t have the same sense of terrible urgency.” Fergus slapped his knees and laughed enough for all three of them.
He helped them collect Brian’s bag and the sample robot now released from customs. On the short drive to the hotel they heard three more of what he referred to as Kerryman stories. They could all be clearly recognized as familiar Polish or Irish jokes.
Brian wondered which minority or subhuman race might be named as the subject of these same jokes when they were told in Kerry.
Fergus Duffy dropped them in front of the hotel, promised to call in the morning. While they were talking Shelly checked them in, came back with two keys and an ancient porter with a trolley.
“You share with Sven,” she said as they followed the septuagenarian toward the elevator. “I have no desire at all to catch your cold. I’m going to unpack and freshen up. I’ll be over as soon as I feel a little more human.”
“Is there any reason for me to remain in this box?” Sven asked when Brian opened it. “I would enjoy a little mobility.”
“Enjoy.” Brian sneezed thunderously, then attached Sven’s right arm and unpacked his toilet kit.
“What is the electricity supply in Ireland?” Sven asked as it fitted the other arm into position.
“Two hundred and twenty volts, fifty cycles.”
“Easy enough to adjust for. I’m going to recharge my batteries. Use them until we can obtain more fuel for the cell.”
Brian found a tube of antihistamine tablets in his toilet kit and washed one down with a glass of water. Sat back in the chair and realized that, for the first time in what—two days?—he had finally stopped running. The telephone was on the table beside him and it reminded him of the mysterious number that Sven-2 had uncovered. Could it possibly be a phone number in Switzerland? Hidden there by the vanished Dr. Bociort? He still didn’t think much of the theory, but he ought to at least try to place the call before he started running all over Europe. There was only one way to find out if Sven-2’s theory made any sense. He reached out for the phone—and stopped.
Could the phone be tapped? Or was he just being paranoid after General Schorcht’s constant surveillance? He was the subject of a police investigation here so there might be a long chance that it was. He pulled his hand back, took the phone card from his pocket. Five pounds it said and he must have used only a small part of that. More than enough left to call Switzerland. He went and looked out of the window. The sun had come out but the streets were still wet from the rain. And down the block was a brown building with the name “Paddy Murphy” over the curtained windows. A pub—the perfect place. He could have a jar and make his call. He dozed in the chair until Shelly’s knock jumped him awake. She was wearing a sweater with a bold Aztec design.
“You look great,” he said.
“I’m glad one of us does. You look like you have been dragged through a knothole.”
“That’s exactly how I feel. I’ll have a wash and shave, then we’ll go out to the pub.”
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping rather than drinking?”
“Probably,” he called back through the open door. “But I want to make that phone call first, to that number that Sven-2 thinks he discovered.”
“What number? What on earth are you talking about?”
“It’s a long shot but one worth trying.”
“We’re being mysterious, aren’t we?”
“Not really. I’ll try to make the call first. Then there really might be something to talk about. Sven, I never wrote the number down. What was it?”
“41 336709.”
Brian scribbled it on the back of the stub from his boarding pass. “Great. I’ll be out in a minute.” He closed the door and began to undress.
The bartender was chatting with a solitary drinker at the far end of the bar, looked up and came over to them when they entered and sat down at a table near the open fire.
“What will you have, Shelly?” Brian asked.
“Wine of the country, of course.”
“Right. Two pints of Guinness, if you please.”
“Going to rain again,” the barman said gloomily as he slowly and patiently filled the glasses, placed them on the bar to settle.
“Doesn’t it always. Good for the farmers and bad for the tourists.”
“Get away with you—the tourists love it. They wouldn’t recognize the country if it wasn’t raining stair rods.”
“There is that. You have a phone here?”
“In back, by the door to the lounge.” He topped up the glasses and brought them over.
Brian sipped at the creamy head of the jet black liquid.
“This is delicious,” Shelly said.
“Nutritious as well. And enough of it will get you drunk. I bet it cures colds too. I’m going to make that call now.”
He took another sip and went to find the phone. Inserted the card and dialed the Swiss number. As soon as he got past the first four digits there was a high-pitched interrupt and a computer-generated voice spoke.
“You have dialed Switzerland from Ireland. The exchange you have entered does not exist. This message will be repeated in German and French …”
Brian crumpled up the slip of paper, threw it into the ashtray next to the phone, went back to the table and drained his pint and signaled for another one.
“You look glum,” Shelly said.
“I should be. It doesn’t work. The number was not a phone number. Sven-2 found the sequence buried in one of the stolen AI programs and seemed to think that it was. It wasn’t. The chances are it was just a line of code that I wrote myself for the original AI. Let’s forget the whole thing.”
“Cheer up. You’re a free man in a free world and that should mean something.”
“It does—but not much at the present moment. Must be the cold getting me down. Let’s finish these and get back to the hotel. I think some sleep is in order now. With the pills and the pints I should be able to sleep around the clock.”
40
December 21, 2024
It was after seven that evening before Brian woke up, blinking into the darkness of the room.
“I detect the motion of your eyelids,” Sven said. “Do you wish me to turn the lights on.”
“Do that.”
Ten minutes later he came out of the elevator and headed for the dining room. Shelly was sitting at a table by the far wall and she waved him over.
“I hope you don’t mind but I started without you. The salmon is absolutely delicious. You ought to try it.”
“You talked me into it—particularly since I just realized that I am starving. Airline muck and cheese sandwiches leave a lot to be desired.”
“You look a lot better.”
“Feel a lot better. The pills and sleep did the trick.”
“Your solicitor telephoned. I had told the front desk that you were sleeping so they put the call through to me. He was quite happy about everything—including the fact that you are going to have to pay a fine of fifty pounds.”
“Why?”
“He wasn’t quite sure. He said that he thinks it is just a slap on the wrist to sort you out—and wind up the case. He has already paid so you are a free man. He is also looking into a passport for you and thinks he can pull enough strings to get one by tomorrow. Said to phone him in the morning. I wasn’t too impressed by that. Takes ten minutes in the States.”
“Ahh, my fair colleen, but you are not in the distant country where all the computers work and the trains leave on time. Let me tell you—one day for a new passport in Ireland is lightning.”
“I suppose we can use the rest. And maybe you can lick that cold. Have you thought about what you plan to do next?”
“There is little I can do without a passport. Then we start tracking down the mysterious Dr. Bociort. Right now I intend to get tucked into some dinner, with maybe a Guinness or two to tamp it down. Since we are going to be here at least another day, maybe we ought to think about some sight-seeing in the morning.”
“In the rain?”
“This is Ireland. If you won’t go out in the rain you are just never going to go out.”
“Let me think about it. You have your dinner and I’ll see you later. I have to make a phone call.”
Brian raised his eyebrows in silence and she laughed.
“Not to the States or to anyone that can be tr
aced. Before I left L.A. I called a cousin in Israel. The only qualm I had about helping you was being out of touch with my family. My father is due to be operated on soon. My cousin will be calling my mother and she has strict instructions not to tell her that I might be phoning Israel. I’m sorry, Brian, it’s the best I could think of …”
“Don’t let it worry you. I’m feeling a lot safer and more relaxed now that we are here. Make your call.”
Brian was just finishing his coffee, along with his second brandy, when Shelly rejoined him.
“That appears to be a lethal but interesting combination,” she said, looking around for the waiter. “Mind if I join you?”
“Be hurt if you didn’t.”
“You look better.”
“I feel better. Food, sleep, pills—and freedom. In fact I can’t remember when I ever felt this good before.”
“That’s the best news ever!” She smiled, reached out and squeezed his hand. Then drew away when the waiter brought the tray to the table.
The touch unlocked a warmth in Brian that was totally new and he smiled broadly. Free for the moment, away from responsibilities and worries. The rain lashing down outside, but it was warm and secure inside. An encapsulated moment of peace and happiness.
“To you, Shelly,” he said when the waiter had gone and they raised their glasses. “For what you have done to help me.”
“It’s little enough, Brian. I would rather drink to you—and freedom.”
His smile reflected hers as they touched glasses, drank.
“I could really get used to this kind of thing,” he said. “How did the call go?”
“It didn’t. Even the operator couldn’t get through. Said to try later.”
“I can’t understand that—telephone calls go through every time.”
She laughed. “Apparently not in Ireland.”
“Are you sure you have the right number?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Better check directory inquiries before you call again.”
“Good idea. Let’s finish these and I’ll do it right now, from the phone booth in the lobby.”
The booth was occupied and after a moment Shelly shook her head.
The Turing Option Page 38
