I’m amazed. Imagine, here he is ninety percent pure gold profile. He knows the truth about her, and surely he should just lay it on the line. But, no. He’s right down there with the rest of the sly types. The question is intended as a trap, obviously. Is this what love does to human beings?
Miss Atran answers, “When my parents were murdered, Uncle Yahco thought it would be a good idea if I stayed with him. I really needed somebody badly. But he’s impossible—so much anger and impatience. I decided to leave him. And I thought I’d like to join your group. I need people around me, and a worthwhile thing to be involved in.”
Not bad, considering. She’s right on the line of her pretense. No side issues. Too bad she’s been exposed to him as a fraud. Now, we’ll never know if that fancy verbal footwork ever had a chance of convincing a human evolutionary high muckamuck.
“Hmmm,” says good old pure ninety percenter, dissembling nicely, “we’ll see.”
All the time that these witticisms are being exchanged, the mini-Eye-O turns this way and that as the girl moves her body in that restless way of a disturbed human being. So I’ve been getting glimpses of the big viewscreen up front. The screen is like a window. Mostly it shows what the driver sees of the winding mountain road.
Sound-wise, Allet and Stess pretty well drown out the motor murmurings and tire writhings. But there is a small pause. And Meerla has evidently been thinking. For, when she speaks again, it’s a case of no more generalizations. She zeros right in on Number One. Herself.
She says, “I’m awfully puzzled by what you did to me on the stage. I seemed to be at my parents’ graveside, somehow.”
The man’s voice comes again from her right. He says in an even tone, “The bio-magnetic energy field that is normally inside you was over at the graves. I was holding your dead body.”
No question, this is suddenly straight talk. He’s reaching. He’s trying to capture. He has made up his mind. This is his girl. He wants to break through all her previous commitments.
There is a change in her heartbeat. It comes easily through the sensitive back of the mini-Eye-O. A faster beat. Which, of course, could mean many things. But she also, now, turns in her seat. For the first time faces her seat companion. And there he is, ladies and gentlemen, Glay Tate himself, visible as close up as I’ve ever seen him.
There he is: my enemy. Looking at him brings to awareness the old saying about knowing your enemy. And, also, since I have a jillion sayings, I produce that little item from Shakespeare: “In case of defense ’tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.”
What I know about mine enemy, Glay Tate, is that he is twenty-eight years old and has a lean—what is called—determined face; and that, comparing him to certain actors who, historically, have been considered handsome (by women) he is good-looking in a strong, masculine way.
But what I remember is that he has some nutty idea that he and I had a special relationship once—which he now wants to resume . . . Maybe right there is the key to his downfall. Perhaps, if I were to pretend at some later time—hmmm?
All this, of course, flashes through my systems and my circuits at the usual super-speed, as Meerla says in her husky voice, “Are you serious? My . . . dead . . . body!”
“What happened to you,” replies Glay, quietly, “is a special problem with people who have suffered the loss of a dear one. So many of them have a death wish. But the truth is, any separation of the profile and the body is risky. Even I take no long-term chances. When I, as a profile, go on a journey I leave my flesh in the care of our dedicated M.D. and also continuously protected by life support systems. That’s the current state of the art.”
Meerla seems to be calming down. She says, “It all sounds early stage. Which reminds me of my psychology professor saying that most unusual mental phenomena turn out to be an aspect of hypnosis. Maybe that’s what you did to me without realizing it.”
She’s still facing him; so I can see him shake his head. He’s smiling faintly, even (could it be?) a little cynically. But what he says is true enough. “If you’ll think back, you’ll see that it all happened without you telling me in advance that there was a grave with two beloved people gone.”
“The whole thing,” says Meerla, “is beginning to seem unreal.”
His attention has left her. He is looking toward the forward part of the van. Meerla faces forward to look with him. Thus I get to see, also. The scene on the viewscreen has changed. It now shows a pre-empting pattern. I recognize it as an electronic map. What is visible is a string of lights moving from left to right across the face of the screen, with a single brighter point of light remaining steady at top near-center.
Glay’s voice comes, from the side now: “I see David and Trubby are safely out of the way.”
I actually do not need his words. At the instant that the “map” pre-empted, I noticed that I was looking at an intercommunication system between rebel vans. They’re trying to locate each other. For that they have to use frequencies that I can detect. And match.
And tune in on.
Instantly, I am inside every rebel van, and looking through as many locational instruments to the interior of the cabin where Trubby has taken David.
It is not immediately obvious to me what the device is by which I observe Trubby. He has it on his wrist; and there’s no identifying feedback from it. But it interacts with the complex frequency pattern used by the rebels.
I report my puzzlement to Yahco, along with the information. He comments, “Since our last view of the boy was of Mr. Glay Tate escorting him and Trubby out of the rear of the big tent, we may deduce that he correctly analyzed the danger David was in, and sent him off with his truck driver cousin, Trubby Graham. We may additionally deduce that Tate gave Trubby a miniature Type N which, when turned on, interconnected with their private intercom.”
“Okay, boss,” I say. “That’s a pretty big mouthful of words. But somewhere in all the verbiage I detect the basic truth of that particular universe. In brief, you make sense. You still after that kid?”
“Nope. Don’t waste time on him.”
“For (earthy curse #18) sake, Yahco,” I say, “don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do—unless it’s programming. Trubby and David are part of the ‘continue’ deal. And I watch them along with everybody else that’s involved. Get it, stupid?”
“All right, computer, all right.” His tone is placatory. “Do what you have to do.”
“You (earthy curse #16) right I will,” I reply, testily.
“Thank you, computer.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
There I am, simultaneously of course, inside the rebel vans and in the cabin. Trubby is sitting at a desk, writing something. From the way he holds his hand (with the Type N on it). I can see his face. It is intent. Already it looks different from when I first took a recording of him in the auditions tent. He looks more—let’s put it bluntly—like a man.
Suddenly, he puts the pen down. And looks up. “David,” he says, “I keep having the feeling that writing poetry is sissy stuff and not—” He has been looking off to one side as he speaks. And now his voice falters. His eyes widen. “Hey,” he shouts, “what are you doing?”
Even as he yells those words, he comes to his feet. A lurching leap up that causes his hand-wrist to turn. And there is David visible to me. The kid is kneeling at the window, peering out. And his head has taken on the shape of a wolf. (His lower body is still human.)
Trubby does another lurch. This time it’s a run forward. Obviously, David-wolf hears him. And he turns away from the window; faces the oncoming Trubby. At once, very rapidly, there is a shimmering in the head region. The wolf head transforms into David-face and head.
Trubby grabs David and hauls him back from the window. Because of the angle of the wrist, Trubby’s own body has disappeared from my view. But his voi
ce, when he speaks, is unmistakably still around, and sounding very shook up.
In that shook-up voice he says, “You heard what Mr. Tate said—about not trying that stuff unless he’s around. Now you cut that out.”
I can see David’s face. His eyes are narrowed in the human;! thinking way. He says in a pensive tone, “Wolves are strange.”
Trubby says sarcastically, “What were you going to do? Rush out and howl at the sky?”
David says matter-of-factly, “I was going to put him in the truck.”
“In the truck!” Baffled tone. “Whatever for?”
David seems suddenly less excited. He actually shrugs with a noticeable diminishment of interest. “I dunno. I was just kinda gettin’ in his head.”
“In whose head?”
“Oh, didn’t you see? There’s a wolf out there.” All in a flash he’s interested again. He slips away from Trubby—who has, in fact, almost let him go—and runs back to the window. “There,” David says, “look out there.”
He himself stares out. The wrist instrument is still pointing toward him, as Trubby lurches toward the window, also. And grabs the boy. During a part of the grabbing process, the viewing device looks for an instant, so to speak, through the window.
The look wouldn’t be long enough for a human being. But I replay that momentary glimpse a hundred times. And so I have a sufficient—for me—of what there is out there.
I see a large wolf. About forty feet distant. It has been backing away, but it is facing the cabin, intent, as—
Trubby pulls David away. He says in that baritone voice, “David, stop! That’s enough, understand?”
This time David is contrite. “All right, Trubby, I promise.”
I see him, then, walk off at an angle toward the table. He picks up the paper that Trubby has been writing on, and brings it toward the wrist viewing device. Holds it out, only inches away. “Uh, will ya read this poem to me? Will ya, Trubby?”
Trubby’s deep voice comes from somewhere above: “It’s not finished.” He takes the paper, and walks back to the desk. I hear his voice again: “I’ll read it to you when I finish it.”
I don’t see him sit down. But I see the change of position.
And then there is his face again, close above me. Intent. He’s thinking. He seems to have forgotten his feeling that writing poetry is not for a real man.
There is silence. He starts moving the pen slowly. It makes a faint sound seven times. Seven words—I deduce.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
I have, meanwhile, been having various views of Wexford Falls Pass from S.A.V.E.s that arrived at the summit from the east. At that time, beginning an hour earlier, I consult with the chief officer of each vehicle, as it comes up. By agreement, then, I drive one machine after another to a position where it will help block oncoming traffic.
Our instructions are precise. And they also make good sense. Here, in this outlying area, the destruction of the rebels will take place. If done correctly, no unauthorized persons will ever find out what happened.
And that, of course, is why the rebel caravan turns on its intercommunication system: when they discover what’s waiting for them at the pass.
The intercommunication tum-on is my opportunity. In a flash I identify every rebel in every van. I finally, now, get a look at those individuals who were in earlier unconnected, meaning out of communication, vehicles.
Every profile comes under my instant inspection. Is instantly identified, if an adult, as someone who dropped out of my view as short a time ago as five and a half months and as long ago as two and a quarter years—which last seems to be in the vicinity, time-wise, of the beginning of this groups There are fourteen other babies who, now, come under my inspection; and these I register for the first time as profiles and baby shapes.
Of all the newly noticed rebels, the one who is decisively important to my battle plan is Matt Orlin. Matt is the engineer in charge of the S-92 equipment; which, except for a driver, and a small living space, takes up all the cubic meterage in that rebel van.
As I focus on and record what is happening in all the rebel vans, I hear bits and wholes of conversations. Of which the relevant is: “There are mountain roads leading off both to the north and south. So let’s park for the night, straddling one of those. Then, in the morning, we can decide what to do.”
I report to the colonel on that one, and comment, “The implication is that they expect to survive the night.”
His answer is curt: “Over your dead body, computer. You have your instructions.”
I have, indeed.
When the rebels arrive, they select a glade alongside a side road, which is called T-87-H. I am able to watch most of the maneuvering that gets them into the glade, since they are still intercommunicating at this stage; and also I have a few distant views from the Eye-Os of S.A.V.E.s which I drive cautiously to the edges of overlooking ridges.
The rebels smoothly arrange themselves in a circle. They leave a space for the Pren-Boddy van—which is still several miles away. (As is Yahco’s S.A.V.E.)
It is while these activities are still in process that there occurs a related development in faraway Washington, D.C. None other than Senator Blybaker at that moment activates his desk computer. “Computer!” he says. He speaks in a tone of voice he always uses when he addresses me: total authority.
I ask promptly, “What’s on your little mind, Senator?”
I continue to see him by way of the desk Eye-O, sitting there. He is staring at a computer print-out that his secretary must have left for him. He is so intent he doesn’t notice that I have varied my usual objective manner of talking to him.
Over the years Senator Blybaker has become an even tougher, even more two-faced politician. He is now in his fifty-second year. The gold balls in his profile are mostly tint 17 and a few of them are tints 18 and 19. There has been a gradual deterioration of the gold color from a brightness of fifteen when he was twelve years old.
He looks up now, and says in his abrupt way, “I have this print-out here on the activities of the Computer Engineering Corps. What does it mean?”
“Senator,” I reply, “I see you did your usual rapid scan, and as usual came up stupid. As you know I am required to provide all relevant information to you as chairman of the committee that supervises my programming. And it’s all there—sir.” I am programmed by the colonel to call the senator “sir.”
There is a pause. In his—as usual—fashion he was mostly not listening to my answer. But something of it got through. And now I can see on his face that he is doing doubletake number 8,431,917,627,210. . . . That’s how many doubletakes I have recorded in my 94 years. And now that I have my advanced education as part of my programming I can include such observations.
The senator’s first reaction is a weak, “Hey!” Then he says, “What is this, computer? What kind of language is this?”
“Typical Americanisms,” I reply, “finally, now, part of my vocabulary. Wanta make something of it?”
There is another pause. Then: “Computer, connect me with Colonel Yahco Smith,” he instructs.
Naturally, I have him instantly joined electronically to his, uh, subordinate. I refer to the colonel himself, whose S.A.V.E. at that moment is going around a wide mountain curve. “Yahco,” I say, “I have an unpleasant surprise for you. Your boss is on the line.”
The senator speaks a moment later, “Now, colonel, where are you this minute?’’
Colonel Smith conceals his emotion, if any, very well. He describes his location and the situation, and concludes, “Sir, this is the matter we recently discussed.”
“I seem to remember,” the tough-faced one replies. “A group of dissidents.”
“Yes, sir. They are using highly questionable means to manipulate audiences in this area. And when we attempted to apprehend
them, they disabled one of our S.A.V.E.s with a K-2 rapid-fire cannon, a forbidden weapon.”
I chime in indignantly, “The group calls itself Computerworld Rebel Society, and has the almighty nerve to be against a computer-operated America.”
The senator says, “In a moment I’ll make a comment on the computer’s remarks. Right now, exactly what is happening?”
“Sir,” says Yahco, “it is just getting dark here. My men are near Wexford Falls Pass, which is about two miles away from where I am.”
“Why aren’t your men attacking?” The senator sounds as abrupt and arrogant as I have ever heard him.
“Sir—they have instructions to wait until I get there.” “Surely—” The tone is sarcastic—“the computer engineering corps can manage a small group of rebels without special direction from me.”
The look on Yahco’s face tells me that he has gone into his sycophantic suppressed rage. He speaks with the extra sincere tone he can muster at such a time: “The attack, sir, will get under way as soon as I receive a signal from a woman agent who has infiltrated this criminal gang.”
“I expect you,” says the senator in a clipped voice now, “to report a favorable outcome in the morning. And now, one more thing, colonel.”
“Yes, sir?” begs Yahco.
There is a pause. At his Washington desk Senator Blybaker is breathing heavily. Finally: “Colonel, I have been the recipient of some unusually insulting language from the computer. What’s happened?” He sounds unhappy.
Yahco is quick. “Sir, some of that stored bio-magnetic energy got loose. I think we can bring it under control again.” The heavy breathing slows somewhat. The scowl fades a little. “I sincerely hope so, colonel. I sincerely hope so—for everybody’s sake.” He finishes curtly, “Computer, disconnect me.”
I disconnect, and say at the senator’s end, “You’ve got it, sonny boy.”
He hesitates. Then: “Thank you, computer.”
On this project that shuts me up at the Washington outlet, and puts me back to the Wexford Falls area. Yahco has turned to Aldo Nair. “Major,” he says, “in view of your special knowledge of this area, why don’t you sit at the desk control and oversee as well as you can?”
A.E. Van Vogt - Novel 32 - Computerworld Page 12
