With that, having said those words, he steps toward David.’, Takes his hand. And thereupon the two of them run down the steps and over to Trubby Graham. He says something to Trubby, which I do not hear because, all around, a great murmur of voices has begun. Some of these murmurs I can, in my fashion re-hear a thousand times, and make final sense of them. But Glay is simply too far from me for me to do that with his words.
The field glasses remain focused on him, however. So I see him and David and Trubby go behind the stage wall out of sight.
“Computer,” says Colonel Smith, “there is obviously a door behind that stage. If our S.A.V.E.s have arrived, drive one of them over to that end of the tent and see if our men can grab Mr. Glay Tate himself. And have another S.A.V.E. see what happened to Sergeant Inchey.”
As I transmit, and activate these commands, the field glasses lower, and the chest Eye-O takes over. We are in motion, going rapidly down the aisle to where Meerla, in the eighth row, is also in motion. The chest Eye-O presses near her; and above the uproar of voices I hear Colonel Smith’s voice say, “Miss Atran, get out there, and take refuge in one of the rebel vans. Some of them will get away. Computer, see to it that the one that Miss Atran gets into, escapes.”
“Very well, sir, Colonel,” I acknowledge.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Multiple viewpoints are no problem for my electronic, equipment.
But as I start to describe to Colonel Smith by way of his; ear receiver what I see and hear from all the Eye-O ports of the seven S.A.V.E. vehicles, from the outlet on Meerla Atran’s throat—which I have reactivated—from the Eye-O on the jeep by which Major Aldo Nair, Captain Sart and the colonel drove onto the fairgrounds, and from the personal Eye-O worn by the major and the captain and the other corpsmen. . . .
“—I am, sir, starting all seven engines. The vehicles (I list their numbers) form in line and in that order, drive over the hill, and there directly below is the fair of the Computerworld Rebel Society, and coming toward us along the road are, several cars and trucks, and beyond the tents and the rebel vans a truck is driving along a continuation of this road, driving away from the fair in a southerly direction, and, no, it has no computer port on it—which is common for vehicles, here in the mountain west—and it is too far from any Eye-O for me to see the license plate; and, since our S.A.V.E. vehicles by your orders are supposed to fan out, when I see the cars and trucks coming up the road, I drive all our S.A.V.E.s off the road, and so we now line up on a broad front and charge down on the tents and the rebel vans, and from S.A.V.E. (I give the number) I see five persons running from a tent (which I shall call tent 3) toward the Pren-Boddy rebel van, and from the S.A.V.E. (I give that vehicle’s number) I can see 11 men and women running from tent 4 to the Doord-Loov van, and from the S.A.V.E. (I give that vehicle number) I can see seven persons running to a rebel vehicle, one of eight rebel vans whose interior I have not monitored as yet, and the license plate of which is not visible from this angle (I shall name it rebel vehicle 3). At this moment S.A.V.E. (I give number) has stopped, and personnel members (I name all five) have run out and are in the process of capturing 4 female rebels, each of whom is carrying a baby. The rebel females are known to me only by their maiden names (I give the names). And, sir, Meerla Atran’s Eye-O is among the group of runners that boarded the Pren-Boddy van—”
. . . As I come to that exact point in my description, the voice of Colonel Smith says in what I would evaluate to be his sharp voice, “Computer, stop this ridiculous, detailed account!”
“Yes, colonel, sir,” I acknowledge.
And, of course, I stop my narration, as instructed by an authorized person.
Continuing on my general mandate for this attack mission, I have a view, at this time, from the Eye-O which the colonel, himself, is wearing at chest level. It is an outside scene. The green tent is visible at one angle. In the foreground I can see a part of a man’s body. The man is lying on the ground. Only his legs are visible.
The Eye-O turns about forty-five degrees. And there, facing me, is Major Aldo Nair. The voice of Yahco Smith sounds from above the outlet: “I wonder how that was done?”
It is a comment to which I cannot react. The implication is that a question is being asked; and I am required to reply to questions within the range of my programming. But the word that” has been explained to me in many contexts. In the Present circumstance, it is probably a referent. To what? I have no way of knowing.
Aldo says, “You don’t think it was an accident?”
“It” is also a referent. Such comments are not meaningful to me.
“A DAR 3,” says Yahco’s voice, “does not ordinarily backfire.”
“True!” Aldo nods his head.
“This one,” Yahco’s voice continues, “looks as if it blew up. And there is no record of such a thing ever happening in history of the weapon.”
“Is that right?” Aldo’s voice shows what is known as interest. “I never knew that.” He adds, “Never crossed my mind to ask the computer about that.”
There is a pause in the conversation between the two officers. During that pause, two local S.A.V.E. personnel—Herter and Grue of unit ALN473—walk past the Eye-O. Still within my vision range, they bend down. Moments later I have a partial glimpse of them carrying a body on a stretcher past me and out of my line of sight.
As they disappear, Yahco says in his peremptory voice, “Computer!”
“Yes, Colonel Smith?”
“You will recall that a short time ago I programmed you to register Glay Tate, and store all data about him on a special chip?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
The words, “all data” add several dimensions to the original instruction. But his reminder certainly includes what he said earlier.
The colonel continues, “What has happened to Sergeant Inchey disturbs me. It is also a fact that the association of Tate, when he was a boy, and Doctor Cotter, with you in that early training program should be examined as soon as possible, now that we have made contact with him. But, of course, right now I don’t have time for such an examination.”
He pauses, then says, “I am considering exactly how to word a new instruction to you.”
Another pause.
Since all that he has said until now has no question in it, I say nothing.
But, of course, the phrase, “should be examined as soon as possible” instantly triggers that memory scan. And equally of course, the colonel’s qualification that he doesn’t have the time for such an examination, does not apply to superfast me.
CHAPTER
NINE
What I am suddenly scanning is an undumped incident in 2072 A.D.
What happens begins quietly enough.
Cotter became aware that for some while there had been no sound of traffic going by his place.
He was a man who detected tiny signals in the universe of scientific research. The ability carried over automatically into his personal life. And this was a large signal, indeed. His mind, now that he had noticed, estimated the time of the silence as at least three minutes.
That pudgy face of his, the bane of his youth and of later years (when he had admired a young lady who never gave him a glance), always grayish like putty, now turned a splotchy white. Fear—not for himself, but for what he was doing. Could it be that they had finally, after four years, spotted what he was doing?
It was still too soon—for his purposes. He had counted on |heir progressive deterioration to keep them at a level of indifference and neglect of their duty. All too evidently—so it seemed—somebody had remembered him.
Trembling, Cotter walked to a special chair. His action was designed to appear casual; in case somebody had planted a viewing device in the place. Into the chair he sank—casually. But that chair was a two-phase instrument, which had now been activated in its
first phase.
At this instant, implant communicating devices were in activation. One of them by way of the computer’s orbiting television and telephone connections, with an individual in faraway England.
Casually, Cotter stretched as if he were tired, and then allowed his right arm to relax onto the arm of the chair; the fingers extended over the edge, reached down and over. And pressed a small bulge in the cloth covering. That pressing activated Phase Two.
Whereupon, he spoke aloud: “The experiment,” he said, “should now go into Code R. Yes, this is the genuine article. Code R. Not a test.”
It was the command he had drilled into the boys from Day One. Starting four years ago when they were six years old. All twelve of them.
For eleven of them it meant: leave by the secret way. Once outside, scatter eleven different directions. Until one and a quarter years ago the command had meant: scatter twelve different directions. But fifteen months ago he had finally raised enough money to send his sister with one boy at a time to England. Each boy remained three months. Got oriented. And was replaced. And so, Glay Tate, age ten, was in England.
At this exact moment Glay—and the sister—must also have received the warning. And they knew what was expected of them.
That was the way it was. That was how he had set it up.
“Oh, God,” Cotter thought silently, “let them all get away.”
He had called a lot on God since he had had that first identifying thought about the golden ball configuration possibly being the human soul. Even though—he had told himself many times—the existence of the bio-magnetic profile did not require that God also exist.
At the exact moment that he mentally completed his request for help from a deity-figure, he heard the outer door open. Heard somebody come into the entrance hallway. Cotter stood up, and turned. And then he braced himself. And then he said in a surprised, falsely welcoming tone: “Why, hello, Dr. Pierce. What an unexpected pleasure to see you after all these years.”
The tall, old, scowling man did not reply directly to the welcoming words. He had paused in the alcove that led from the outer hall into the living room. Now, he walked farther into the room. As he did so, a long line of men in the uniform of the Computer Engineering Corps pressed past him.
The pudgy man half anticipated that one of them would be Colonel Endodore. But the only visible officer uniform was that of a lieutenant. And it was worn by a stem-faced young man who was Endodore’s chief aide, and whose name Cotter seemed to recall as Yahco Smith.
It was this lieutenant who said curtly, “Search the place. Find the boys, and bring them up here.”
Cotter did not hold his breath, then. But he sagged a little, standing there. And he spoke a silent prayer. The prayer was complex. It accepted that they knew what he was doing. It accepted the finality of this search here in his house. And accepted that his experiment was over.
What he prayed for was that they did not know about the house on the next street west. And he prayed that the boys had abandoned their play in the playroom downstairs and had gone through the secret connecting doors, and had already emerged from the two doors of that second house, and were even now hurrying off in different directions. As instructed.
As the line of uniformed men, including the lieutenant, rushed off through the two rear doors into the interior of the big house, Pierce walked over to Cotter.
“What’s the golden rating now?” he asked, good-naturedly.
Cotter felt his first chill of fear for himself. This was another change in Pierce. And it had to be for the worse. Napoleon could have talked in this good-natured way even as he was planning a military campaign that would involve the deaths of a hundred thousand officers and men. The tone of voice indicated unaware acceptance that this man understood the world and the universe. Understood them totally. No self-doubts at all in that voice.
After a moment’s hesitation, the pudgy man replied: “It’s forty-nine percent of the original.”
“Seems to be slowing down, would you say?” Pierce asked in the same good-natured tone. “Forty-four percent in the first nine years, and only seven percent in the next four. How would you explain the reduction?”
“There does seem to be a balancing process occurring,” Cotter admitted cautiously.
“Perhaps,” continued Pierce, “we should consider the possibility that Colonel Endodore’s evaluation of four years ago was correct. Have you checked recently on the availability of tantalum in the U.S.?”
Cotter drew a deep breath. “1 have to admit,” he said, “that the idea of waiting until available supplies of an ore an exhausted is not a logical solution to me. Scarce material should not be squandered.”
Pierce interjected, “Tantalum has long been in short supply!
“—But,” Cotter concluded, “If it means that the computer can build no more storage facilities to add to its supply of life energy—thank God.”
Pierce was speaking again: “Think we can live with, uh, fifty percent of the original, uh, soul purity?” The blue eyes were guileless.
It was a dialogue of sorts, despite the older man’s ulterior motives—whatever they were . . . If only those kids got away, Cotter thought shakily.
So he talked, trying to hide his uneasiness. But he was anxious to pass on his past four-year accumulation of information—just in case. He said, “According to the computer, when it first observed people dying, the bio-magnetic profile would detach from the dead body and float up through the roof—you heard me correctly—through the walls, even through metal, and float up into the sky. Now, it cannot go through solids.
And in many instances it cannot even detach from the body. If that happens, it is dragged along to the cemetery and slides down into the grave with the corpse. Where it does detach, it floats up to the ceiling, flattens against it and gradually dims and disappears.
“Hmmm,” said Pierce, “would you say that the sliding-into-the-grave part might explain why primitives put food on the ground above the dead bodies, presumably for the souls to eat?”
The voice had the same good-natured quality as before. And so this man was unconcerned, untouched, somehow, by any need for science to investigate the bio-magnetic profile . . . I really, really turned him off when I made that remark about the soul. He’s never given another thought, nor had the slightest interest, to or in the phenomenon since—
Cotter drew a deep breath and said, “Dr. Pierce, what do you want of me? Why are you here in this dramatic fashion?”
It was confrontation. And Pierce straightened. And said, “This whole area is surrounded.”
. . . Whole area. The words had an encompassing sound. Like maybe more than one street was involved. So there was no time for the indirect approach. “But why?” Cotter tried to sound puzzled. “What are you after? Are you going to arrest me?”
“Hmmm.” The lean face was suddenly pensive; the crinkles of age were suddenly more visible. “Arrest? That brings up the whole problem of the nature of the charges we would have to bring up against you. Let me see . . . hmmm . . . Scientist uses computer to experiment with bio-magnetic profile. . . . Apparently resigned four years ago, and it was then discovered that he had retained contact with the computer to experiment with young boys—” The voice paused. The blue eyes were suddenly interested. “Where did you get those kids?”
That was easy. “Abandoned children of murdered parents,” said Cotter. “I could have had thousands like them.” He added, suddenly feeling griefy, “For God’s sake, Pierce, you’ve got to start thinking about how to deal with crime. For the time being, use the computer. It knows the profile of every murderer, and it can still be programmed to prevent a violent act before it happens. Figure out later what to do about that.”
“These kids,” said Pierce, “what was the experiment?”
It was switcharound. The interrogator had become the interro
gatee. But it was all right. Surely, any aging individual—like Pierce—would have some interest one of these days in own ultimate fate. So Cotter said simply, “Training for soul travel.”
“How do you mean?” Momentarily, the older man was uncertain. Then he must have realized. “Oh, my God!” He closed his eyes, and muttered, “I get it. Enter and leave the body at will.” He visibly braced himself. “Well, can they do it?”
At the exact moment that he finished asking that final—as it turned out—question, there was an interruption. A door opened. Through it came several of the uniformed computer corps people. They were followed by, one after another, eleven boys. And, bringing up the rear, the rest of the men in uniform, including the hard-faced lieutenant, Yahco Smith.
At that exact moment—as if he had been advised by way of an intercommunications system (which of course had to be true)—the front door opened. Seconds later, Colonel Endodone came in from the front hallway, pausing just inside. Lieutenant Yahco Smith walked over to him, stopped, saluted, and reported, “They had gone through to the next house. And were picked up by waiting personnel as they emerged onto the street.”
There was no acknowledgment by the colonel of his aide’s words. The officer walked over to Cotter. “Where’s the twelfth one?” he asked.
“In England,” said Cotter. No thought of resistance to the question even entered his mind. They would get it out of him, he felt sure.
“That costs money.” Pursed lips. Blue eyes steely calm. “Since we cut off all your known sources of income, how have you financed the project?”
“Bearing in mind the late Dr. Chase’s experiences,” said Cotter simply, “I mugged muggers.” Though it was a repeat of what he had already told Pierce, he couldn’t help adding, “The computer knows who they are, from its profile observation points. And so I could pinpoint my attacks to exact moments after they waylaid somebody.
A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld Page 7
