“Might muddy the trail. You are a born, or constructed, conspirator, old son. And after we get the tickets and the train pulls out—then what? Go to a hotel?”
“That is one possibility, but I am developing others. Might I suggest that after purchasing the tickets you wait in a public house until it is time for the train.”
“All this is going to turn me into an alcoholic. And while I am in the boozer you will be doing exactly what?”
“Developing other possibilities.”
Sven joined Brian forty-five minutes later when he emerged from the pub.
“I made a pint of Smithwicks last the hour,” Brian said. “After this I swear off drink forever. And how have your possibilities developed?”
“Excellently. I will be waiting one hundred meters east of the station. Join me there after your discussion with the ticket vendor.”
Before Brian could query him the MI was gone. There was a short queue at the window and he joined it. Asked about connecting trains to Belfast from Dublin, made sure that he was remembered by having the man consult the schedules on his terminal. Then he walked down the platform past the waiting train, then strolled back. He was sure that no one saw him slipping out of the station in the darkness. He walked through the rain past the row of cars parked at the curb, to the appointed spot.
Only Sven wasn’t there, the shop entrance damp, dark and empty. Had he gone far enough? Perhaps the next shop; empty as well.
“Over here,” Sven said through the open window of the nearest car. “The door is unlocked.” In shocked silence Brian climbed into the front seat. Sven started the engine, turned on the headlights and pulled smoothly out into the road. The MI had removed its head and extended its eyes, clutched the steering wheel in its multibranched grip.
“I didn’t know you could drive,” Brian said, realizing the inanity of his words even as he spoke them.
“I observed the driving operation in the taxi. While I was waiting for you I retrieved a driving simulator program that had been bundled with other files. I then programmed it into a powerful virtual reality. I ran this at teraflop speed enabling me in a few minutes to accumulate the equivalent of many years of driving experience.”
“I am filled with admiration. I am also almost afraid to ask where you got this motor.”
“Stole it of course.”
“That’s why I was afraid to ask.”
“Do not fear that we will be apprehended. I removed this vehicle from the locked premises of an auto dealer. Before they open in the morning we will no longer be driving this particular car.”
“We won’t? Where will we be? You don’t mind if I sort of know about the plan?”
“I detect from the phraseology that you are being sarcastic and I am sorry if I gave offense. When last we talked I had a number of options open. This one proved the most practical. If you approve we will now drive to Cork City. If you do not approve I will suggest alternative choices.”
“This one seems good so far. But why Cork?”
“Because it is a seaport with a daily ferry service to Swansea. Which is a city in Wales, which in turn is located on the largest of a group of islands called the British Isles. From there it is possible to drive on a motorway system to a tunnel that leads to the mainland of Europe. Switzerland is a country on that mainland.”
“All this without a passport?”
“I have studied the relevant data bases. The European Economic Community forms a customs union. A passport is needed to enter any member country from outside the community. After that there is no need to show it again. However, Switzerland is not a member of this group. I thought that this problem might be postponed until we reached that country’s border.”
Brian took a deep breath, watched the windscreen wipers slap back and forth, found it a little difficult to believe that this was really happening.
“Then as I read it—your plan is to steal and abandon a series of motorcars and drive from here to Switzerland?”
“That is correct.”
“You and I are going to have to have a long talk about morality and honesty sometime soon.”
“We already have done that, but I will be pleased to amplify our earlier discussions.”
Brian smiled into the darkness. It was happening all right. Sven would have had no problem unlocking a locked garage—or in jumping the car’s ignition. Once the MI had analyzed how the machine operated, driving it was obviously simplicity itself. He certainly had enough cash for fuel and ferry tickets.
“The ferry—it won’t work. I can see their faces now when you drive aboard, three glassy eyeballs staring out of the window. They’ll die of heart attacks!”
“I would not wish that to happen and my plan postulates that you will be driving the vehicle aboard the ferry. I will be in a box in the trunk. Which is referred to as a boot in this country, as I am sure you know.”
“But I don’t know how to drive.”
“That will not be a problem. I have in memory downloaded copies of your personal motor-coordination machinery. I also possess an adequate set of copies of your personal semantic networks and other knowledge representations. I will now teach them to drive.”
“How will that help me?”
“Transfer.” Sven remained motionless for several seconds, then reached out and touched one of his brushes to the terminals under Brian’s skin. “It is done. You may take the wheel.”
Sven stopped the car on the shoulder and got out. Brian took his place. Turned on the power and drove smoothly out onto the road.
“I can’t believe this. I’m driving without even thinking about it at all—as though I’d been doing it all my life.”
“Of course. I gave your sensorimotor clone the equivalent of a rather large experiential data base for that skill. And then uploaded the resulting differences into your own implant computer. There should be no difference between that and the result of you having all that experience yourself.”
They changed places again. It is going to work, Brian thought, it is! Sven knew that he wanted to get to Switzerland as soon as he could, so had done everything within its power to make that possible. He would think about the morality some other time; right now he was too tired, too ill. Take the cars. Finding Dr. Bociort was well worth leaving a trail of stolen cars right across Europe as far as he was concerned.
“Turn up the heat a bit, Sven, and wake me only if you have to.” He pulled his hat low over his eyes and slumped gratefully down in the seat.
Very tired, but reasonably happy with his driving skills, Brian drove deftly aboard the ferry in Cork. Parked, braked and locked the car, then found his cabin. A night in a bed was very much in order. He hoped that Sven enjoyed incarceration in the car’s boot. He should be used to it by now.
If they were being followed there was no evidence. They drove at night, stayed in hotels during the day. Brian’s only driving problem came when he had to drive the last of a succession of stolen vehicles aboard the car-carrying train that ran through the Channel Tunnel. But he had been at the wheel for a good number of hours while they were on the motorways across England so did a passable enough job. France was crossed without any problems, other than the endless payments demanded at the tollbooths of the péage, so close together that Brian was forced to do most of the driving. It was just before dawn when the sign loomed up out of the darkness.
“We’re getting close—Basel in twenty-nine kilometers. I’m going to take the next exit and find a spot to wait until daylight. Any luck yet with Swiss border details?”
“It is very frustrating. At that last telephone I downloaded everything available about Switzerland. I can truthfully say that I know every detail of their history, languages, economics, banking system, criminal statues. It is all very boring. But nowhere in all of this information is there a reference to border customs control.”
“Then we will have to do it the old-fashioned way. Look and see just what they are doing.”
At fir
st light Sven was locked into his box and the boot closed. Brian followed the signs toward the border, until he could see the booths and the customs buildings ahead. He pulled to the curb and parked.
“I’m going ahead on foot,” he shouted into the backseat. “Wish me luck.”
“I will if it is a formal request,” the muffled voice said. “But the concept of luck is an invalid superstition equivalent to belief in …”
Brian missed what it was equivalent to when he slammed the door shut. There was frost on the ground and all the puddles were frozen. Cars and trucks were driving toward the border crossing, other pedestrians, laden with Christmas shopping, were proceeding on foot like him. He held back when he saw that they were going through a door into the customs building. Let them. He wasn’t going to risk that in any case. He went closer, saw a car with British registration plates drive forward.
Through and past the guard post—which apparently was unoccupied. Something new for Sven’s Swiss data base.
By late afternoon they had crossed Switzerland, almost to the Italian border. ST. MORITZ, the sign said.
“We’re there,” Brian called over his shoulder. “I’m pulling into a service station ahead that has a nice outside phone box.” He did not add anything about wishing him luck.
He dialed the number, heard it ring. Then it was picked up.
“Bitte?” It was the same voice as the first call.
“Brian Delaney here?”
“Mr. Delaney—welcome to St. Moritz. Do I assume correctly that you are in the city?”
“In a service station just inside the city limits.”
“Wonderful. Then you come here by car?”
“That’s correct.”
“If you will now drive straight ahead toward the center of the city you will see signs that will direct you to the train station. Bahnhof, it is called. There is a nice little hotel just across the road from it, the Am Post. A room has been reserved for you there. I will contact you later.”
“Are you Dr. Bociort?”
“Patience, Mr. Delaney,” he said, then hung up.
Patience indeed! Well, he had little choice. The hotel it was. He returned to the car, reported to Sven, then fought his way through the slush and traffic in the direction of the station. It wasn’t easy, the one-way system was totally confusing, but in the end he put on the brake in front of Am Post. Trail’s end?
“It is very good to have mobility again,” Sven said after being reassembled. It rustled across the room, extruded the charging cord and plugged it into the outlet there. “I am sure you would be interested in the fact that we are being watched. The small lens in the lighting fixture is that of a video camera. It is transmitting its signal down a telephone line.”
“Where to?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Then there is very little that we can do about it-other than follow instructions. Charge your battery-and I need recharging as well. I’ll get room service to bring something up. Because I’m not moving from here until the phone rings.”
It was a long wait. Sven had unplugged its charger and Brian had long since finished his sandwich and beer and put the tray out in the hall. He was dozing in the armchair when precisely at nine o’clock that evening the telephone bleeped: he grabbed it up.
“Yes?”
“Would you please leave the hotel now—with your friend. If you go through the bar you will be able to use the side exit. Then turn left and walk to the corner.”
“What do I do then—” There was a click and the dial tone.
“Get your coat and hat on, Sven. We’re going for a walk.”
They went down the stairs to the ground floor. Sven’s walk was perfect now and with its coat collar turned up, hat pulled low and scarf wrapped high, the MI looked normal enough—from a distance. The small lobby was empty and they crossed it to the bar beyond. Happily it was dimly lit by small lamps on the tables. The barman was polishing a glass and did not look up when they crossed and went out the far door. The side street was deserted and illuminated only by widely spaced lights. They walked to the corner and a man stepped out of a dark doorway.
“Follow,” he said in a thick accent, making it sound more like volloh, and turned away. He moved quickly up the even more narrow street, then turned down an alley that led to a slippery stone stairway. They climbed this to reach another road at the top. There the man stopped, looking back down the steps. When he was satisfied that they were not being followed he walked out into the roadway and waved.
The headlights of a parked car came on. The car started forward and braked beside them. Their guide opened the back door and motioned them to enter. As soon as they were seated the big Mercedes moved swiftly away. As they passed under the streetlights Brian could see that the driver was a woman. Stocky and middle-aged—like the man sitting next to her.
“Where are we going?” Brian asked.
“No Inglitch,” was all the answer he got.
“Vorbiti romneste?” Sven said.
The man turned to face them. “Nu se va vorbi deloc n romneste,” he said, snapping the words.
“What was that all about?” Brian asked.
“I asked him if he spoke Rumanian, using the formal of course. He answered, in that language, in the informal, that there would be no talking.”
“Well done.”
They left the town center and drove through the residential suburbs. This was a more exclusive part of town; the houses were large and expensive, each of them with its own fenced and wooded plot. They turned down the drive of one of these and into the open door of a garage. The garage door closed behind them and the lights came on.
Their guide opened a door leading into the house and waved them forward. Down a hallway into a large, book-lined room. A thin, white-haired man closed the book he was reading and climbed slowly to his feet.
“Mr. Delaney, welcome, welcome.”
“You are Dr. Bociort?” .
“Yes, of course …” He was looking at Sven’s muffled figure with great attention. “And this—dare I say gentleman?—is the friend who uncovered my message?”
“Not quite. It was another associate of the same kind.”
“You say it? A machine, then?”
“Machine intelligence.”
“How wonderful. Do help yourself to some wine. I believe your associate’s name is Sven?”
“That is my name. This knowledge reveals the fact that it is your video camera in the hotel room.”
“I must be cautious at all times.”
“Dr. Bociort,” Brian broke in, “I have come a long way to meet you—and I have a number of urgent questions that need answering.”
“Patience, young man. When you reach my age you learn to do things slowly. Take your wine, make yourself comfortable—and I will tell you what you want to know. I can understand your haste. Dreadful things have happened to you—”
“Do you know who was responsible?”
“I am afraid that I don’t. Let me begin at the beginning. Sometime ago I was contacted by a man who called himself Smith. Later I discovered that his real name was J. J. Beckworth. Now, before you ask any more questions, let me tell you everything that I know. I was teaching at the university in Bucureti when Mr. Smith made an appointment to see me. He knew of my research in artificial intelligence and wished to employ me to do some work in that field. He told me that a research scientist had succeeded in constructing an AI but had died rather suddenly. Someone was needed to carry on his work. I was offered a great deal of money, which I was happy to accept. I was of course quite suspicious, since it was obvious to me from the very beginning that there was something very illegal about the entire matter. There are many scientists in the West, a number of them far more qualified than me, who would have been eager to do the work. This did not deter me. If you know the history of my sad little country you will know that I must have compromised more than once to reach the fullness of my years.”
He coughed
and pointed to a carafe on the sideboard near the wine. “A glass of water, if you please. Thank you.” He drank some of the water, put the glass down on the table at his elbow.
“What happened next you undoubtedly know. I went to the state of Texas, where your files were made available to me. My instructions were clear—to develop a commercial product that could utilize your AI. You know that I succeeded in this because your AI found my coded message.”
“Why did you leave the message?” Brian said.
“I thought that was obvious. You have been done a great wrong. Beckworth thought at first that you were dead, indeed he bragged about the crime, told me that many had been killed and that I was involved. He did that to ensure my silence. He said that no one would believe I hadn’t been part of the conspiracy from the beginning—which is undoubtedly true. Then something went wrong, Beckworth was very upset. Thomsen was managing the plant by then and I was finishing with the development of the AI. I knew that Beckworth would be leaving soon so I forced him to arrange for my disappearance as well.”
“Forced him? I don’t understand.”
There was no warmth in Bociort’s smile. “You would understand, young man, if you had lived through the Ceauescu years in my motherland. Since I was convinced from the very beginning that what I was doing was illegal I took certain steps to guarantee my own safety. I left a program running in the university’s computer. A virus really. If I did not have a code telephoned to it once a month it was programmed to relay a coded message to Interpol. Beckworth was not pleased when I gave him a copy of the message and described the arrangement. Of course without revealing where the computer was. In the end he reluctantly understood that alive I was no threat to them. When I discovered that he was leaving I insisted that he make arrangements for my dropping from sight as well. I now live quietly, taken care of by my cousins who are happy to also live in Swiss luxury. Only the great wrong that had been done you disturbed me: therefore my message. I wanted to meet you—and your AI of course.”
The Turing Option Page 40
