I couldn't help it. I exploded. "If you know that much," I yelled, "then you know I want to get her out of where I put her! And I'll tell you this, Bover, I'm not going to let you and your jailbait whore keep me from trying!"
His face was suddenly as red as the top of his head. "And what does your wife think about what you're doing?" he asked nastily.
"Why don't you ask her yourself? If she lives long enough for you to hassle her. Fuck you, Bover, I'm going. How do I get a taxi?" He only grinned at me. Meanly. I brushed past the woman on the stoop and left without looking back.
By the time I got back to the hotel I knew what he was grinning about. It had been explained to me by two hours of waiting for a bus, in a square next to an open latrine. I won't even say what riding that bus was like. I've traveled in worse ways, but not since I left Gateway. There were knots of people in the hotel lobby, and they looked at me strangely as I walked across the floor. Of course, they all knew who I was. Everybody knew about the Herter-Halls, and my picture had been on the PV along with theirs. I had no doubt that I looked peculiar, sweated, and still furious.
My console was a fireworks display of attention signals when I slammed myself into my suite. The first thing I had to do was go to the bathroom, but over my shoulder, through the open door, I called: "Harriet! Hold all messages for a minute and give me Morton. One way. I don't want a response, I just want to give an order." Morton's little face appeared in the corner of the display, looking antsy but ready. "Morton, I just came from Bover. I said everything I could think of to him and it did no good, so I want you to get me private detectives. I want to search his record like it's never been searched before. The son of a bitch must have done something wrong. I want to blackmail him. If it's a ten-year-old parking ticket, I want to extradite him for it. Get busy on that." He nodded silently, but didn't go away, meaning that he was doing what I had said but wanted to say something himself, if only I would let him. Over him was the larger, waiting face of Harriet, counting out the minute's silence I had imposed on her. I came back into the room and said, "All right, Harriet, let's have it. Top priority first, one at a time."
"Yes, Robin, but-" She hesitated, making swift evaluations. "Their are two immediate ones, Robin. First, Albert Einstein wishes to discuss with you the capture of the Herter-Hall party, apparently by the Heechee."
"Captured! Why the hell didn't you-" I stopped; obviously she couldn't have told me, because I was out of communication entirely for most of the afternoon. She didn't wait for me to figure that out but went on:
"However, I think you would prefer to receive Dr. Liederman's report first, Robin. I've been putting through a call, and she's ready to talk to you now, live."
That stopped me.
"Do it," I said, but I knew it couldn't be anything good, to make Wilma Liederman report live and in person. "What's the matter?" I asked as soon as she appeared.
She was wearing an evening dress, with an orchid on her shoulder, first time I had seen her like that since she came to our wedding. "Don't panic, Robin," she said, "but Essie's had a slight setback. She's on the life-support machines again."
"What?"
"It's not as bad as it sounds. She's awake, and coherent, feeling no pain, her condition is stable. We can keep her like that forever-"
"Get to the `but'!"
"But she's rejecting the kidney, and the tissues around it aren't regenerating. She needs a whole new batch of transplants. She had uremic failure about two hours ago and now she's on fulltime dialysis. That's not the worst part. She's had so many bits and pieces stuck in her from so many sources that her auto-immune system is all screwed up. We're going to have to scrounge to get a tissue match, and even so we're going to have to dope her with anti-immunes for a long time."
"Shit! That's right out of the Dark Ages!"
She nodded. "Usually we can get a four-four match, but not for Essie. Not this time. She's a rare-blood to begin with, you know. She's Russian, and her types are uncommon in this part of the world, so-"
"Get some from Leningrad, for Christ's sake!"
"So, I was about to say, I've checked tissue banks all over the world. We can come close. Real close. But in her present state there's still some risk."
I looked at her carefully, trying to figure out her tone. "Of having to do it over, you mean?" She shook her head gently. "You mean, of-of dying? I don't believe you! What the hell is Full Medical for?"
"Robin-she already has died of this, you know. We had to reanimate her. There's a limit to the shock she can survive."
"Then the hell with the operation! You said she's stable the way she is!"
Wilma looked at the hands clasped in her lap for a moment, then up at me. "She's the patient, Robin, not you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's her decision. She has already decided she doesn't want to be tied down to a life-support system forever. We're going to go in again tomorrow morning."
I sat there staring at the tank, long after Wilma Liedermari had disappeared and my patient secretarial program had formed, silently waiting for orders. "Uh, Harriet," I said at last, "I want a flight back tonight."
"Yes, Robin," she said. "I've already booked you. There's no direct flight tonight, but there's one that you can transfer at Caracas, gets you in to New York about five AM. The surgery is not scheduled until eight."
"Thank you." She went back to silent waiting. Morton's silly face was still there in the tank, too, tiny and reproachful down in the lower right-hand corner. He did not speak, but every once in a while he cleared his throat or swallowed to let me know he was waiting. "Morton," I said, "didn't I tell you to get lost?"
"I can't do that, Robin. Not while I have an unresolved dilemma. You gave orders about Mr. Bover-"
"Damn right I did. If I can't handle him that way maybe I'll just get him killed."
"You don't have to bother," Morton said quickly. "There's a message from his lawyers for you. He has decided to accept your offer."
I goggled at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "I don't understand it either, Robin, and neither do his lawyers," he said quickly. "They are quite upset But there is a personal message for you, if it explains anything."
"What's that?"
"Quote, `Maybe he does understand after all.' Close quote."
In a somewhat confusing life, and one that is rapidly becoming a long one, I've had a lot of confusing days, but that one was special. I ran a hot tub and soaked in it for half an hour, trying to make my mind empty. The effort didn't bring calm.
I had three hours before the Caracas plane left. I didn't know what to do with it. It was not that there wasn't plenty for me to do. Harriet kept trying to get my attention-Morton to firm up the contract with Bover, Albert to discuss the bioanalysis of the Heechee droppings somebody had collected, everybody to talk to me, about everything. I didn't want to do any of them. I was stuck in my dilated time, watching the world flash past. But it didn't flash, it crept. I didn't know what to do about it. It was nice that Bover thought I understood so well. I wondered what he would take to explain what I understood to me.
After a while I managed to work up enough energy to let Harriet put through some of the decision-needed calls for me, and I made what decisions seemed necessary; and a while after that, toying with a bowl of crackers and milk, I listened to a news summary. It was full of talk about the Herter-Hall capture, all of which I could get better from Albert than from the PV newscasters.
And at that point I remembered that Albert had wanted to talk to me, and for a moment I felt better. It gave me a point and purpose in living. I had someone to yell at. "Halfwit," I snapped at him as he materialized, "magnetic tapes are a century old. How come you can't read them?"
He looked at me calmly under his bushy white brows. "You're referring to the so-called `prayer fans', aren't you, Robin? Of course we did try that, many times. We even suspected that there might be a synergy, and so we tried several kinds of magnetic fields at once
, steady and oscillating, oscillating at different rates of speed. We even tried simultaneous microwave radiation, though, as it turned out, the wrong kind-"
I was still bemused, but not so much so that I didn't pick up on the implication. "You mean there's a right kind?"
"Sure thing, Robin," he grinned. "Once we got a good trace from the Herter-Hall instrumentation we just duplicated it. The same microwave radiation that's ambient in the Food Factory, a flux of a few microwatts of elliptically polarized million-A microwave. And then we get the signal."
"Bloody marvelous, Albert! And what is it you got?"
"Uh, well," he said, reaching for his pipe, "actually not a lot, yet. It's hologram-stored and time-dependent, so what we get is a kind of choppy cloud of symbols. And, of course, we can't read any of the symbols. It's Heechee language, you know. But now it's just straight cryptography, so to speak. All we need is a Rosetta stone."
"How long?"
He shrugged, and spread his hands, and twinkled.
I thought for a moment. "Well, stay with it. Another thing. I want you to read into my lawyer program the whole thing, the microwave frequencies, schematics, everything. There ought to be a patent in there somewhere, and I want it."
"Sure thing, Robin. Uh. Would you like to hear about the Dead Men?"
"What about the Dead Men?"
"Well," he said, "not all of them are human. There are some pretty strange little minds in those storage circuits, Robin. I think they might be what you call the Old Ones."
The back of my neck prickled. "Heechee?"
"No, no, Robin! Almost human. But not. They don't use language well, especially what seem to be the earliest of them, and I bet you can't even guess the computer-time bill you're going to get for analysis and mapping to make any sense of them at all."
"My God! Essie'll be thrilled when-"
I stopped. For a moment I had forgotten about Essie.
"Well," I said, "that's-interesting. What else is there to tell?" But, really, I didn't care. I had used up my own last jolt of adrenaline, and there wasn't any more.
I let him tell me the rest of his budget of conversation, but most of it rolled right off me. Three members of the Herter-Hall party were known to be captured. The Heechee had brought them to a spindle-shaped place where some old machinery was lying about. The cameras were continuing to return frames of nothing very exciting. The Dead Men had gone haywire, were making no sense at all. Paul Hall's whereabouts were unknown; perhaps he was still at liberty. Perhaps he was still alive. The haywire link between the Dead Men's radio and the Food Factory was still functioning, but it was not clear how long it would last-even if it had anything to tell us. The organic chemistry of the Heechee was quite surprising, in that it was less unlike human biochemistry than one might guess. I let him talk until he ran down, not prompting him to continue, then turned back to the commercial PV. It bad two rapid-fire comedians delivering bellylaugh lines to each other. Unfortunately, it was in Portuguese. It didn't matter. I still had an hour to kill, and I let it run. If nothing else, I could admire the pretty Carioca, fruit salad in her hair, whose scanty costume the comedians were tweaking off as they passed her back and forth, giggling.
Harriet's attention signal lighted up, bright red.
Before I could make up my mind to respond, the picture slid off the commercial PV channel and a man's voice said something stern in Portuguese. I couldn't understand a word of it, but I understood the picture that showed almost at once.
It was the Food Factory, taken out of stock, a shot from the Herter-Halls as they were approaching it to dock. And in the short sentence the announcer had spoken were two words that could have been "Peter Herter".
Could have been.
Were.
The picture didn't change, but a voice began, and it was old Herter's voice, angry and firm. "This message," it said, "is to be broadcast over all networks at once. It is a two-hour warning. In two hours I am going to cause a one-minute attack of the fever by entering the couch and projecting the necessary, uh, projections. I tell you all to take precautions. If you do not, it is your responsibility, not mine." It paused for a moment, then resumed. "Remember, you have two hours from a count which I will give you. No more. Shortly after that I will speak again to tell you the reason for this, and what I demand as my proper right if you do not wish this to happen many times. Two hours. Beginning... now."
And the voice stopped.
The announcer came back on, babbling in Portuguese, looking scared. It didn't matter that I couldn't understand what he was saying.
I had understood what Peter Herter had said, very well. He had repaired the dreaming couch and was going to use it. Not out of ignorance, like Wan. Not as a quick experiment, like the girl, Janine. He was going to use it as a weapon. He had a gun pointed at the heads of the entire human race.
And my first thought was: So much for the deal with Bover. Gateway Corp was sure to take over now, and I couldn't blame them.
10
The Oldest One
The Oldest One bestirred himself slowly, one organ at a time. First came the piezophonic external receptors. Call them "ears". They were always "on", in the sense that sounds always reached them. Their tiny rag crystals were squeezed by vibrations in the air and, when the patterns of sound corresponded to the name the children of the Oldest One called him by, they passed a gate and went on to activate what corresponded to his peripheral nervous system.
At that point the Oldest One was not yet awake, but knew he was being wakened. His true ears, the inner ones that analyzed and interpreted sound, came to life. His cognitive circuits sampled the signals. The Oldest One heard the voices of his children and understood what they were saying. But only in an offhand and inattentive way, like a drowsy human aware of the buzzing of a fly. He had not yet "opened his eyes".
Some decision-making took place at that stage. If the interruption seemed worthwhile, the Oldest One woke further circuits. If not, not. A human sleeper may awaken enough to swat a fly. When the Oldest One was awakened for trivial reasons he had ways to "swat" his children. They did not wake him lightly. But if he decided to wake further, either to act or to punish the interruption to his sleep, the Oldest One then activated his major external optics, and with them a whole congeries of information-processing systems and short-term memories. He was then fully awake, like a man looking up at the ceiling after a nap.
The Oldest One's internal clocks told him that this nap had been rather short. Less than ten years. Unless there was a good reason for this awakening, someone would have to be swatted.
By then the Oldest One was fully aware of his surroundings, all of them. His internal telemetry was receiving status reports from all of its remote sensors, all through the ten million ton mass in which he and his children lived. A hundred inputs recirculated through his short-term memory: the words that had wakened him; the image of the three captives his children had just brought him; a breakdown in repair facilities in the 4700 A sections; the fact that there was unusual activity among the stored intelligences; temperatures; inventories; moments of thrust. His long-term storage, though dormant, was accessible at need.
The wisest of his children was standing before him, with beads of sweat trickling through the sparse hairs on his cheeks and lip. The Oldest One perceived that this was a new leader, shorter and younger than the one he remembered from ten years before, but he wore the necklace of reading scrolls that symbolized the office as he waited for judgment. The Oldest One turned his major external lenses on him as a signal to speak. "We have captured intruders and brought them to you," the leader said, and added, trembling, "Have we done well?"
The Oldest One turned his attention to observe the captives. One was not an intruder, but the pup he had allowed to be born fifteen years before, now nearly grown. The other two, however, were strangers, and both female. That presented an option worth pondering. When the other intruders had presented themselves, he had failed to take advantage of the
chance to establish new breeding stock until it was too late for any of the available specimens. And then they had stopped coming.
That was a chance the Oldest One had missed, and one which, on the basis of past terrifying experience, he should not have failed to take. The Oldest One was aware that for some thousands of years his judgments had not been always right, his opinions no longer confident. He was slowing down. He was subject to error. The Oldest One did not know what personal penalty he would have to pay for error and did not want to find out.
He began to make decisions. He reached into his long-term memory for precedents and prospects, and found that he had a satisfying number of alternatives. He activated mobility and handling effectors. His great metal body rose on its supports and moved past the leader, toward the chamber where the intruders were being kept He heard the gasp from his children as he moved. All were startled. A few of the younger ones, who had never seen him move as adults, were terrified. "You have done well," he judged, and there was a long sigh of relief.
The Oldest One could not enter the chamber because of his size, but with long, soft-metal feelers he reached inside and touched the captives. It did not interest him that they screamed and struggled. His interest at that moment was only in their physical state. That was very satisfactory: two of them, including the male, were quite young, and therefore good for many years of use. In whatever fashion he might decide to use them. All seemed in good health.
As far as communicating with them went, there was the nuisance that their yells and imprecations were in one of those unpleasant languages their predecessors had used. The Oldest One did not understand one word. That was not a real problem, because he could always talk to them through the intervention of the stored intelligences of their predecessors. Even his own children, over the centuries, tended to evolve their language so that he could not have talked to them, either, if he had not stored one or two of them every dozen generations as translators-as nothing but translators, because the Oldest One's children regrettably did not seem to be much use for anything else. So such problems could be solved. Meanwhile the facts were favorable. Fact: The specimens were in good condition. Fact: They were clearly intelligent, tool-using, even technological. Fact: They were his to employ as he saw fit.
Beyond the Blue Event Horizon Page 19
