by Vernor Vinge
Arnold’s grin spread even further across his face. This was the question he had been waiting for. “Boss, you really don’t appreciate me. I’ve been expecting something like this for a long time. My section has an agreement with Control Data Corporation. Every year we audit their computer complex with ours, and vice versa. That way the problem is reduced to a battle of the computers, and we can detect this sort of automated deception. But the crook started embezzling sometime after the 1992 audit, so he wasn’t discovered until yesterday.”
I picked up Arnold’s report. “Any idea who the culprit is?” Four million dollars, I thought. If I ever got my hands on the crook who—no wonder our general efficiency had fallen off in the last year.
“Not the vaguest,” Su replied, “except that he’s a company VIP with computer privileges. Now if you had just let me bug the executive offices and washrooms…”
“You know, Arnie,” I said slowly, “sometimes I think you would have been just as comfortable on Herr Himmler’s staff as you are here.”
Arnold turned red. “Sorry, Boss, I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind.” Su is a good man, the graduate of one of this country’s best schools of business administration. It’s just that he’s an incurable snoop, which makes him, properly supervised, an excellent security officer.
Su continued, subdued, “We can’t even reconstruct what sort of problems the computer was doing during those seventy hours. The thief did a magnificent job on that computer.”
I looked down the valley in the mural. Someone I trusted had sold me out. I’d worked twenty years to make the name Royce synonymous with computers and to make Royce Technology, Inc., competitive with IBM and CDC. In that time, I’ve collected a lot of good men under one corporate roof. They arc the backbone of Royce, more than I, with my high school diploma, ever was. And one of them was rotten. Who?
There was one individual who might be able to find that answer. I got up and started for the door. “We’re going to see Howard.”
“Prentice?” asked Su. He grabbed his report off my desk and followed me. “You don’t think that he’s responsible?” Arnold was genuinely shocked.
“Of course not,” I said, locking the door to my office.
When we were out of earshot of my secretaries and their recording equipment I continued. “Whoever we’re up against obviously knows computers inside and out. We can’t catch him with old-fashioned automation techniques. We’re going to have to get him by exploiting the human angle. Howard Prentice has been kicking around longer than both of us put together. He knows human nature, and he knows more ways to skin a sucker than we’ll ever imagine. He makes the perfect investigator.” I noticed the hurt look on Arnold’s face and added quickly: “On a unique case like this.”
It’s only five minutes by aircar from Chula Vista to the Royce Research Labs at Oceanside. In fifteen minutes we were standing in the hall outside Prentice’s lab. I prefer to see people in person rather than by phone—I get more out of them. But this time it backfired: Prentice wasn’t in his lab, which was locked. I was starting back to the parking lot when Su stopped me.
“Just a minute, Boss.” He produced a flat, metal plate and inserted it in the lock. “Master key,” he explained confidentially. “Now we can wait for him in here.”
I was too surprised to bawl him out for this latest invasion of privacy. Besides, he’ll never grow up.
The room lighted up as we entered. Packed against one wall were the usual programming typers and TV screens. I also recognized a high-resolution video tape recorder and a picture reader. Stacked in orderly rows along the work benches were hundreds of Prentice’s oil paintings. Sometimes I wondered whether he considered himself an artist or a scientist—though I didn’t care what he did with his time as long as he completed assigned projects. Su was already rummaging among the paintings—admiring them I think.
Prentice couldn’t be out for long. As a section chief he was in charge of thirty different computer labs. And right then his section was busy designing the optical and communications system for that probe NASA wanted to boost out toward Alpha Centauri A next year.
I sat down in the chair before the computer console and tried to relax.
The holograph on his desk caught my eye. It was a color pic of Howard and Moira taken on their diamond wedding anniversary. Moira must be more than ninety years old. Only one woman in a billion could look even faintly attractive after a haul like that—but tall and slim, somehow Moira managed it. She was holding Howard’s arm like a fifteen-year-old who’d just discovered boys. Quite a gal; quite a man she had, too. Howard must be pushing ninety-five. You know, he personally worked for Thomas Edison? Fact. The man’s like history. When the 1929 Depression came he was a top executive for some oil company out East. The Depression apparently soured him on industry. He spent the next forty years—an ordinary adult lifetime—in Greenwich Village as an artist-bum, a beatnik. Then, some time around 1970, he changed careers again. He entered college. If you’re old enough, maybe you remember the headlines: 75-YR-OLD FROSH VOWS HE’LL GET PH.D.—in math, no less. And he did it. Howard’s been with me for fifteen years.
One of my best men. I tapped an impatient tattoo on the arms of the chair. But where the devil was he now? “Boss, this stuff is tremendous!” I stood up to see what Arnold was talking about. He was pointing at several paintings he had pulled out from the bottom of the pile. Su is quite an art and film fan. He has a tape collection of all films made since 1980, as well as a very large collection of paintings from all periods.
He had reason to admire Howard’s paintings, though. Prentice is an excellent, maybe a great, painter. Though he’s done many traditional abstractionist pieces, Howard has been a neo-realist ever since I’ve known him. Take the paintings in the lab; they were all clear and unambiguous as far as execution went. There were landscapes, portraits, interiors. But the landscapes were from no area in the real world. And the portraits were expressionless mugshots: face on, quarter face, profile. Not all of the subjects were even human. Every canvas was the same size. Over the years I often asked Howard about this, but he always answered with some line about artistic profundity. I don’t think he even let us see everything he did.
Arnold had called me over to see three landscapes he had discovered. When he placed them side by side it was like a composite photo—a panoramic view. It was one of the most spectacular things I’d seen by Prentice.
When I looked at it, the lights in the room seemed to dim a little. In the picture it was night. A sickle moon lit a deep valley or mountain pass. Our viewpoint was halfway up the side of the valley. Scrubby brush and volcanic slag were visible nearby. Far away, down in the center of the valley, was a castle or fortress, its immense black structure outlined by the moonlight. Though vast and strong, somehow it was also decayed and diseased—a skull rotting in the earth. Around the castle were fields of purple flowers glimmering faintly with their own light (fluorescing paint?). But the flowers weren’t beautiful—even at this distance they were fungi growing on death’s decay.
I pulled my attention away from the landscape. It was the most hostile I’d seen by Prentice. And somehow it was familiar. I often got that “seen-before” feeling with Howard’s stuff—though usually his landscapes provoked awe rather than fear. The picture would have been even more impressive if it had been painted on a single canvas rather than split up on separate ones.
Then I noticed the picture reader at the end of the bench. We use pic readers to program images directly into the logic of a computer. This is an expensive procedure since it preempts a lot of the computer’s circuits. It’s usually simpler to keep pictorial information on tape, but sometimes we want the computer to operate directly and continuously on information in a picture—to alter a perspective, say—and we have to use the reader.
A horrible suspicion was forming in my mind. I picked up one of the paintings and laid it on the flat glass plate at the top of the reader. It fit perfectly.
Now I knew why all the paintings were the same size.
Forgetting Su, I reached up and pulled a heavy notebook off the shelf above the bench. I had to snoop. I had to find some legitimate excuse for the man I now suspected.
The notebook was a motion study. We use them when we have to program the computer on changing spatial rotations—as with complicated machinery; the computer has to know the position of every part of the machine at every instant in order to predict performance and detect bugs. The interior page was titled: Vol. XIX—Hand Technik. I riffled through the pages. There were thousands of rough sketches showing the human hand in every position. Beside each sketch was a numerical description of the motion from that position to the next. Volume XIX? Why, Prentice must have a separate notebook for facial expressions, a notebook for every class of motion! And it was all set for programming. His project—whatever it was—was huge. He must have been planning this for years. From the evidence in the lab it was certainly big enough to cost seventy hours of 4D5 time. Prentice was the rat all right. But why had he embezzled the time? And what had he done with it?
There was a noise from the doorway. Arnold looked up from the picture he had been admiring and said cheerfully, “Hi, Howard!”
“Hello.” Prentice set his briefcase on the bench and hung up his jacket. Then he turned to look at me. “This is my private office, Bob,” he said mildly.
I didn’t bite. I was too mad for subtlety. “Prentice, you’ve got some explaining to do.” I gestured at the paintings and the picture reader.
“Someone’s been stealing 4D5 time, and I think it’s you.”
Prentice glanced at Su. “So you finally ran a cross-audit, eh, Arnold? Well, I knew I wouldn’t have more than a year. I got what I gambled for.”
Su looked even more surprised than I felt. Prentice had spent a whole year concealing the fraud, and now he was calmly confessing.
“Just what was worth four million dollars of Royce’s time?” I snapped.
“Would you like to see?” He did not wait for an answer. “I’ve got one of the last tapes right here.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a TV tape cartridge.
“Moira and I have always been appalled by the fact that so many art forms are beyond the means of a single artist. Take the film industry: most movies cost many millions of dollars and require the services of hundreds of artists—actors, directors, photographers.” Prentice threaded the tape through the multiple heads of the videotape recorder. You’d think he had invited us over for home movies. The gall of the man. I didn’t stop him though. I suppose I was curious. What could be worth a ruined career to Prentice?
“Anyway,” he continued, “back around 1957, I saw a way to give filmmaking to the individual artist. Since then, everything Moira and I have done has been directed toward this goal. At first we didn’t realize how complicated the job was and how far computers had to go before they could help us with what we wanted. But I got my degree, and we kept at it.” He hooked the tape into the reception cartridge and snapped the cover into place. “With the aid of the 4D5 we’ve animated one of the great novels of the twentieth century.”
“You’ve used the 4D5 to make a cartoon!” Arnold was obviously fascinated by the concept. He had completely forgotten that Prentice was talking about a crime.
For the first time since he had entered the lab, Prentice seemed annoyed. “Yes, I guess it is a cartoon—like da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is a doodle. Cut the lights, will you, Arnold?”
The lights went out, and Prentice turned on the recorder. The TV screen on the wall came alive. I gasped. Night. The landscape with the purple flowers. But what a difference. This was a window on another world. If I had felt uneasy looking at the paintings, I felt terror now. Three tiny figures struggled up the side of the valley. Suddenly I knew why this scene was familiar. Prentice had animated Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings! If you’ve ever taken high school English (and if you haven’t, I’ll hire you—my ego needs someone in this outfit with less education than I have), I’m sure you’ve read Tolkien’s book. We were watching the scene where Frodo, Samwise, and Gollum come up the stairs to Kirth Ungol past the fortress Minas Morgul—the skull thing in the valley. Prentice’s version was much more realistic and fearsome than anything I had ever imagined.
I realized Prentice was still talking. “Moira and I worked thirty years on the paintings, the motion studies, the script, the sound track; but without the 4D5 to integrate what we had created, we’d be left with a warehouse full of paintings and notebooks.”
The three figures stopped to rest. Our viewpoint moved in for a close-up. The three were arguing in low, frightened tones. Now I knew why Prentice’s portraits were expressionless; they were the patterns on which Prentice, through the 4D5, imposed emotion and movement.
This was no cartoon. The figures were fine portraits, come alive to argue in whispers. I could see Frodo’s blank resignation, the fear in Samwise, the glittery green of Gollum’s eyes as he fought with the other two. Yet it was all a synthesis of oil paintings and motion studies—the product of Howard’s genius and the 4D5’s analysis. Without a break in continuity, the “camera” dollied back to reveal the ancient stone stair that stretched high into the mountains. The three stood up and continued their long climb toward Shelob’s Lair.
Click. The tape ended. Prentice turned on the lights. I sat dazed for a second, trying to bring myself back to the real world.
“That tape is just five minutes long,” said Prentice. “The whole animation is more than four hours.”
Su recovered first. “My God, Howard. That’s tremendous. It’s the greatest advance in art technique in fifty years.”
“At least,” agreed Prentice. “Now, anything a writer or painter can imagine can be staged.”
“Sure,” I said sarcastically, “as long as the painter is willing to steal four million dollars of computer time.”
Prentice turned to me. “Not really, Bob. Computer time is only expensive because of the scarcity of 4D5-class computers and the number of problems that can’t be solved except by the 4D5. On the basis of past progress, I’ll wager that in five years you’ll be selling computers as good as the 4D5 for less than ten thousand dollars. Anybody who really wants an animator will be able to have one.”
“And you just couldn’t wait.”
He smiled, “That’s right. I’ve waited thirty years. I don’t know if I’ll be around for another five.”
“Well, I’m going to make you wish you’d taken the chance. When I get done with you, there’ll be nothing left for the Tolkien estate to pick over.”
Arnold broke in, “Just a second, Boss.”
I turned on him angrily, “Look Su, can’t you understand? Prentice has stolen four million dollars of my money!” My voice rose half an octave.
“It’s your money I’m talking about, Chief. Did you ever see Fantasia or Magica?”
“Disney’s feature-length animation? Yes.”
“Do you have any idea what they cost?”
“Don’t play games, Arnold. I know you’re an expert. How much?”
“Fantasia was made way back in 1940. It cost Disney more than two million dollars. But when they got around to Magica thirty-five years later, the price tag had risen to twenty-seven million dollars, even though Magica is a much poorer job. Nowadays, almost any mainline picture—whether animation or with real actors—costs more than ten million dollars. Howard’s actually discovered a cheap way of making films.”
“Why didn’t you just ask for the time then?” I asked Prentice.
Howard looked stubborn. He has his own peculiar brand of integrity. “Bob, do you honestly believe you would’ve said yes? I’m an artist. I may be a good researcher, but that was a means to an end. Moira and I had to do this, even though I knew it’d hurt Royce in the short run.”
“Chief, it doesn’t matter whether Howard planned this to help you or not. The point is, he’s dropped a fortune in your lap.”
When Arnold
put it that way…Four million dollars wasn’t too bad for a topnotch movie, and if Howard had had organized help, besides his wife, it might have cost a lot less. It would be at least eight years before we miniaturized computers like the 4D5 for the consumer market. Until then, filmmaking would remain the prerogative of the large organization. It had taken Howard years to perfect this technique, so we were way ahead of potential competition. Figuratively speaking, we were standing on the ground floor of a whole new industry.
Su saw that I was swayed. “Well?”
“Well,” I said grudgingly, “I guess we’re in the movie business.” I didn’t realize how true I spoke till we got that first Oscar.
THE PEDDLER’S APPRENTICE
For years, I have been fascinated by Fredric Brown’s short story, “Letter to a Phoenix.” What if a lone human survived beyond his civilization, and the next, and the next? Brown’s protagonist was nearly immortal. A similar effect could be achieved by an ordinary human, using some kind of suspended animation. What motive could such a traveler have—beyond crazed curiosity? Perhaps I could have a merchant who traded across time instead of space. But my merchant could move in only one direction…and the problem of estimating “consumer demand” at the next port would be truly enormous.
I worked off and on with the idea in the late 1960s; I had part of the story written, but I couldn’t push it through to an ending. I put the story aside, and this turned out to be the most clever thing I could have done.
From 1972 to 1979 I was married to Joan D. Vinge. Of course, we talked about our various projects all the time; it was a great pleasure to scheme with such a good writer. Yet for all our plot discussions, only once did we collaborate on a story: I showed Joan my “merchant out of time” fragment and told her my plans for how the story might end. We chatted it up, decided that a story “frame” was needed to hold the loose parts together. (I think this is one of the few times either of us has used that device.) Joan wrote the frame and the latter part of “The Peddler’s Apprentice,” then rewrote my draft. The result appears below. Keep in mind that up to a certain point I was writing (with some later revision by Joan), and after that it is Joan’s writing. Can you spot the break?
