I arranged everything immediately after you called, Shell,he said as we entered the large high-ceilinged room again.
Fine. I guess. I suppose it’s natural I’d be a little nervous. But . . . fine. I guess.
We had walked into a cleared area approximately fifteen yards square bordered at one end by a large white screen. Opposite the screen and thirty feet or so from it was the 3-D camera Gunnar had used earlier in the day to make the film of himself, calling, Over here, Shell,then stepping toward me and extending his hand, and the rest of it.
A few feet to the camera’s left, on a small wooden table, rested the projector.This consisted primarily — not counting the framework holding the components together in their proper relationship, and electrical cord leading to the power source — of the ray-gun contraption, or laser, this mounted atop a sealed black box and aimed at the innocent-looking cube of what appeared to be semi-transparent plastic. Gunnar had told me the black box was a microminiaturized and extraordinarily efficient computer that controlled plane scanning, and in-depth movement at right angles to the planeof the laser beam, which had not exactly contented me at the time. But, at the time, it had not seemed necessary that I become a private-eye Einstein.
Earlier this afternoon, too, of course, Gunnar had — after literally bowling me overwith his projected three-dimensional image the first time — twice more demonstrated the simple operation while I watched. And it was simple; once the projectorwas set up and correctly aligned, there was nothing to be done except to turn the thing on. Which was merely the flipping of a toggle switch, like turning on a light or starting anything else.
So now he repeated the process once more, causing that same familiar but still astonishing image of himself to appear instantly and miraculously from nothing and then as instantly disappear, and then had me play with the apparatus for a few minutes.
After which I said to him, Well, so far it’s easy enough. You just set it up, then I push that little switch there. But I have this . . . uneasy feeling. In case something should go wrong — not that anything will — maybe I should have a better idea of how and why this thing works.
I agree. In its essence, the process is quite simple, Shell. Once you understand the basic principles, and their specific applications in this case.
Quite simple. Once you understand it. So is Chinese. So teach me Chinese in ten minutes.
It is not necessary that you have a degree in electrical engineering in order to turn the lights on. You have seen the demonstration; you know it works. I cannot make a physicist of you in ten minutes, but you are a detective, so I shall at least provide you with some clues.
Gunnar then launched into a brisk but, to me, dizzyingly technical — and clueless — explanation replete with comments about solid-state circuitry and molecular switches and feedback-from-computer-thus-controlling-laser-beam-scanning-of-pre–selected-holograms, all of which almost surely would have been of exceeding interest to at least a dozen people in the world, but was pure Chinese to me.
So I interrupted him by saying, Gunnar, think of it this way. Pretend I have just graduated from kindergarten, and you’re the first-grade teacher. Like, twenty years from now, when everybody knows about this son of thing, instead of now when practically nobody knows anything about it except you and me. I mean, except you. O.K.?
He started to speak, nodded instead.
I pointed to the small three-inches-to-a-side cube, saying, I know what you said about that thing. But something’s awry here. I don’t see how you could get a bunch of snapshots in there. Even one snap, much less a moving picture. In three dimensions, yet. No, the damn thing just doesn’t seem possible —
Don’t say that!
I forgot. Obviously, you can get everything from all the Laurel and Hardy comedies to a dozen late-late shows in there, with room left over for commercials.
You do exaggerate. But not very much.
Not very much —
Look at this, Shell.
He fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out what looked like a little cube of glass. I couldn’t figure out what it might be.
Look at this little cube of glass,he said. Its top face is one inch by one inch, and thus has one square inch of surface. How many parallel lines would you say could be drawn, inscribed, on that surface?
Oh . . . a hundred?
More.
A thousand?
Thirty thousand.
O.K. Thirty thousand.
Actually, more. However, assume we have inscribed that number of lines from left to right. Now, we inscribe an equal number of lines at right angles to the first ones. Wherever those lines intersect, we have a point, is it not so? Thus, on this one square inch of glass, on this single face of our little cube, we have how many individual and separate points? Thirty thousand times thirty thousand, or . . .Gunnar rubbed a hand in random movements over his hair, accidentally bringing it into a semblance of order. Or nine hundred million points,he continued, before I could answer.
Right.
Are you familiar with modern mathematics?
Not really.
You aren’t?
Not really.
Well . . . I ask you to visualize a computer that operates only with the figures
So far.
Some computers do operate with such positive and negative points, which are called bits. Now, each of our nine hundred million points here— he held the small cube of glass before me — may be charged, or magnetized, either positively or negatively, thus providing us merely in this one square inch of surface with nine hundred million bits. We will say ten bits are required to form an average letter, and one hundred bits for a word. From this point on, I will simplify for you.
Good.
To our computer we join a laser, which projects an extremely narrow or threadlike beam of light extending to, but only to, the precise distance or depth we desire. The minute tip of this laser beam we will consider a — a stylus. Think of it as similar to the tip of a phonograph needle that rests upon the groove of an LP record for the audible reproduction of music, voices, words, except that this stylus is a moving point of light, and instead of resting in a microgroove it touches, moves over — scans — those bits we have discussed. All right?
Sure.
We have determined that our computer can
Sure is. You figured it out in your head, huh?
Gunnar was getting all excited. He fumbled in his pocket again and pulled out a felt pen. With the pen he marked a few faint intersecting lines rapidly on one face of the cube, then handed it to me, saying, There. This is a one-inch cube. Each of its faces, therefore, presents one square inch of surface. We will imagine that those ink marks I’ve made represent our thirty thousand parallel lines with thirty thousand more drawn at right angles to them. Now, turn the cube a quarter way around . . . that’s it . . . so the inscribed face of the cube is to your left. Look at the side of the cube now facing you and mentally inscribe thirty thousand more lines from top to bottom, and consider each of those divisions as a — a slice, shall we say? A slice of the cube’s material. Do you understand?
Yeah. Pretty thin slices, though.
You do understand. Fine. Yes, thin, but much thicker than a molecule, or many molecules.
I’ll take your word for it.
Now, then, visualize that first square inch we spoke of — the plane surface of the cube, to your left — as the first slice. And, looking from le
ft to right, visualize the second thin division as the second slice, and so on. How many slices have we now in this entire cubic inch of material?
Well, we drew thirty thousand lines, so — thirty thousand slices. Or thirty thousand and one? Yeah —
Call it thirty thousand. Each of which we may consider as identical with the first slice, the original plane surface. Each of which thus also provides us with an additional nine hundred million positively or negatively charged points, or bits. Now, how many books — we could, of course, translate this into storage of art, music, newspapers for transmission to homes over telephone lines, stock market quotations, many things, but for clarity we will consider only additional books — can be stored in this single cube?
A lot.
Um, yes. Obviously, one hundred and thirty-three point three times thirty thousand, or . . .?
A lot.
Approximately four million books. Or the entire contents of forty libraries each containing one hundred thousand books.
I was nodding my head, and Gunnar observed me nodding it, then he said, I thought this was quite exciting.
It is. I’m all agog.
But — do you truly comprehend what I have been telling you, Shell?
Yeah, I think I do. Really, Gunnar. It’s just . . .I looked at that little cube in my fingers trying to believe there were forty big libraries in the thing. It’s just . . . wow!
You do understand!he cried, sounding pleased. Yes, wow! That sums it up nicely.
I tipped the cube over a bit. Seems like it ought to be heavier,I said. Then I smiled at him. Even if they’re paperback books. Or lending libraries? Just a joke. No harm in —
What I have so simply described has been possible for some time, Shell. We are already capable of much more. Future possibilities are endless.
I was still looking at the cube. It fascinated me now a lot more than it had when it was empty.
Man,I said, if you lost this thing, you’d really lose something, wouldn’t you? Or, say the nurses’ auxiliary lady came around and asked,
At any rate,he interrupted, with a trace of asperity, if I had not lost all powers of observation, perhaps you can now accept the possibility that it is possible for this one small cube to contain more than . . . what was it? A bunch of snapshots?
Yeah, I can. And do. I think. Yeah, I do.
And you understand that the image, or sound, of each word may be produced by scanning those preselected positive or negative bits with the infinitely tiny tip of a precisely controlled laser beam?
Yeah. Sure.
Excellent. Then we may proceed from words to pictures. For production of the three-dimensional image of our present interest, we no longer scan those individual bits, since we are dealing with a much more complex problem, but the principle is essentially the same, and you should therefore now be able to perceive from your understanding of the one how we arrive at the other, is it not so?
You bet.I smiled at him.
For production of the three-D image, our laser scans not bits but a large number of individual holograms. Assume that the face of the cube you hold — the first of those thirty thousand slices we have discussed — bears upon its plane surface not nine hundred million magnetically charged points but a mere thousand or so tiny holographic impressions, each representing one fragment of the complicated movement of a three-dimensional body.
Only a thousand or so, huh?
Somewhat more. But, remember, there are thirty thousand slices, each of which may be inscribed, or impressed, with additional holograms representing additional fragments of the continuing movement.
O.K.
And do not forget that the laser beam that scans these separate holograms can be extended or retracted so that its tip may probe surface, middle, any slice of the onion, so to speak. It can scan the outermost skin, or the second layer, or the cube’s precise middle, or slice number twenty-one thousand and eighty-two.
I nodded, still smiling.
And you realize, of course, we have been discussing the capacity of a one-inch cube, whereas the cube actually employed with our projector is a three-inch cube, as you have seen. Thus the capacity is somewhat greater, is it not so?
Sure is. Hadn’t thought of that, but you’d have nine times as much stuff, wouldn’t you? Or — three times three is nine, and there’s another . . . Twenty-seven times as much, right?
Wonderful. Three times three times three is . . . Wonderful. You are right again. Indeed, Shell,he continued enthusiastically, once the projector’s computer has been programmed correctly by the operator — a job requiring the services of an expert, I’ll admit — the rest is automatic.
That’s good enough for me, Gunnar. And you’re an expert, aren’t you?
He shrugged. As expert as anyone else alive,he said, now that Norman Amber is dead.
O.K., then. I know enough.I smiled some more at him. You just set it up, then I push that little switch there.
He gave me an odd, sort of semi-bleak look, then ruffled his hair. Does the young lady understand what is expected of her, Shell?
Well enough. Why, she knows nearly as much about this operation as I do. I’ll go —
She is a remarkably attractive child,he said.
You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,I said. And, Gunnar, I have a hunch you will not, from this moment forward, ever again consider the word
Indeed?he said, raising both eyebrows — not for the last time, as it turned out.
Indeed,I said. I’ll go get her.
By ten-thirty that night Aralia and I were sitting once more on my divan, both of us just about talked out.
We had discussed not only her most recent experience at Lindstrom Laboratories, but everything that had happened since we’d met. And, as well, what might happen tomorrow, particularly in view of what we’d just listened to on the ten o’clock news.
Even before driving with Aralia to the lab, I had phoned a television newscaster of my acquaintance who was widely seen and listened to on a local channel. He felt that he owedme one, and agreed to introduce into both his six p.m. and ten p.m. local actionsegment of the news a fifteen-second mention of Aralia Fields, recent winner of the Miss Naked California title — transformed to Miss Nudieon TV — along with the intelligence that Miss Fields would be making a personal appearance before a private group of interested individuals at two p.m. tomorrow, Sunday, at the Doubless Ranch.
I turned off the TV set, went back and sat next to Aralia again. That should do it,I said. If there’s anything to get done.
That’s what you meant earlier, isn’t it, Shell?Aralia’s voice was softer than fuzz on a baby chick’s tummy. About making it easy for them?
Sure. I’m starting to think I was being super cautious even to imagine somebody might try to plug you. Probably nothing to worry about, but just in case anyone really does want to try, it’s better if we choose the time and place — and target, which means we have to let them know where to find you, right?
Absolutely. And I thought you were being — well, mean.
Mean? Me? Why, Aralia, I don’t have a mean bone in my whole body.
That’s not true,she said, thank God. Why don’t we go to bed, Shell?
Yeah. Why don’t we? After all, we’ve got a big night — big day ahead of us. Tomorrow. Don’t we?
Yes, we do.She leaned closer, lids starting to droop over those big blue eyes, long lashes quivering slightly. We sure do,she whispered. And don’t forget, you promised.
Promised?I moved toward her, beginning to smile.
To introduce me to Harry Feldspen,she said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE Doubless Ranch, two hundred and forty acres of hilly brush-covered land partly shaded by clumps of oak and eucalyptus trees a few miles from Los Angeles, was not only
a land investment of Doubless Productions, Inc., but had also been used as a location for the two — so far — movies put together by the independent producing company. Put together in at least haphazard and possibly entirely accidental fashion, according to some unkind critics.
But whether critics were kind, unkind, or pathologically sadistic mattered not to the two geniuses who controlled Doubless, so long as those critical carpings and mewlings failed to significantly affect their pictures’ B.O., which is also and coincidentally an abbreviation for box office.The alleged negative cost and actual gross were the factors of real interest and importance to Sammy Shapiro and Schwerin Schicklmeister, the genius pair, who, it perhaps need not be stressed unduly, were often at odds.
They were, however, a successful team so far. Their latest release, Rich Butterfly, had according to their own reports cost only seven hundred thou and some changeto make, and had grossed eight million five in the U.S. alone. It was expected to equal that gross from foreign releases, except maybe in Japan,said Sammy.
A few minutes after nine a.m. that Sunday morning, with black coffee still sluggishly infiltrating my bloodstream, I stood alone on the once green but now beginning-to-shrivel lawn on which Mitsui Hochikuchi had danced wearing only huge gossamer wings, in the scene which ended with her using a pair of giant sharpened chopsticks to commit hara-kiri, or maybe it was chop suey; anyway, it killed her and she fell into the shallow pool — only a couple of yards from my feet — there to be devoured by the giant goldfish. Which were actually fat carp, painted yellow. Or, rather, yellowish. Those carp, or carps, were typical of the budget problems plaguing Sammy and Schwerin during the shooting of Butterfly. When they finally found a paint that would stick to wet fish, they had to capture the scene in one quick take, getting Mitsui’s pathetic sueycide in the can only half a minute before all the carp died.
It was with some misgivings, therefore, that I gazed about me at what remained of the Butterfly set — including pool, lawn, small garden, teahouse, painted wall — acutely aware that this was where Aralia was scheduled to make her brief center-of-all-eyes appearance at two o’clock this afternoon.
The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 15
