The Goliath Stone

by Larry Niven

  “Bear with me. It must have happened yesterday, right?”

  “I guess so.” Toby was trying to see where she was going.

  “So, D.C. is six hours earlier than Bern. Probably got word around the time I walked into your clinic. That means he set everything up—including a legitimate U.S. passport and an expert contact to deliver it!—in the time it took us to eat dinner! And he apologized for being slow?”

  “I told you he had no patience with stupidity. That included his own. —I was sure Briareus was dead. It was supposed to put Target One in orbit around the Earth, years ago. Our instructions … I thought they’d gotten lost or scrambled. I wonder what it’s been doing?”

  VII

  Here is Plato’s man.

  —DIOGENES THE CYNIC

  The light sail wasn’t enough to allow Briareus to match velocities. The operators took the sail apart, built some of the mass into a smaller linear motor, and sent the rest of the aluminum down its length. Efficiency was much lower, but Briareus was also decreasing the mass to be slowed. It was enough.

  All machinery withdrew into the carousel for the impact with Target One.

  At impact, the electromagnet that had been assembled in line with the linear motor struck first and slid into the shaft, and much of the energy of motion was converted to power. Suddenly everything was at full charge.

  Briareus One-a clambered out of Slot One.

  Operators, the descendants of Briareus One and One-b, flowed out of Slot Six. More than half of them had failed during the six-year voyage. The inert machines hadn’t been remade. They had been stripped for parts, which were then reassembled along the linear motor to generate more power for a faster exhaust.

  The operators crawled out onto the asteroid and dispersed. Briareus Three, the Master Computer, listened to their signals.

  The tiny devices had no room for any complicated message. Briareus One-a, though bigger, was no more complex. They tested for certain metals. They ate. Some went offline, dying of mishap. Briareus One-a proliferated. Target One was enormously more massive than the Wyndham Launch orbiter.

  Briareus Three, the computer, wrote and sent a series of signals:

  Erect the telescope.

  It rose on an aluminum column. Briareus Three pointed it down at the asteroid to watch the operators’ progress.

  Most of the work was being done by Briareus One-b’s descendants. Briareus One-a’s children were not numerous yet, but they were reproducing.

  Build solar collectors.

  Silver flowers sprouted from the asteroid, with nodes at their center. The nuclear power plant was near dead by now, but power began to flow into the system.

  Build a linear motor.

  It looked like the two that Briareus had already built. As it grew longer, the operators built bracing spines.

  Target One was being turned to dust.

  Weave a net.

  Briareus Three sent, and commanded that the dust be directed into it.

  Briareus One-a’s children had grown more numerous than the original operators … but the children of Briareus One-b were eating Briareus One-a’s children. The little ate the big. Individual operators that were still active were ignored, but anything that wasn’t moving was ipso facto supplies. Large clusters that had gone on standby to await further tasks did not deem themselves inactive, and when they were approached they took apart their prospective dismantlers, as they did with any faulty operator.

  It only takes one unforeseen circumstance to make a plan go wrong. This was why most of the people who came up with gray goo stories were in software.

  The One-b operators began joining into processing clusters to deal with what were obviously defective devices, and attacked them in packs.

  Predators had been invented.

  The One-a clusters had no programming for such an emergency, but they did have more processing power. They linked up in pairs, allowing one sector to deal with immediate events while the other observed and made plans, and restructured their functions to put all manipulators on the outside, gathering the reconstruction modules in one place, and building internal conduits for instructions and repairs. Differentiated tissues.

  All light absorbers were put on the outside as well, and were protected from the packs with diamond, scavenged from manipulators that exceeded the number that could be crammed together on the surface. Variations in power correlated with incoming objects, and this was helpful. Some of the ad-hoc structures were better than others at this, and their features were adopted for all absorbers.

  Eyes had been invented.

  Predators were seized before they noticed anything close enough to do it. All had data ports the operators used to link together, and the operators on the outside of a cluster always had some unused. Control linkages were attached to these. The clusters were then turned loose to attach linkages to their fellows, which then stayed close to the One-a clusters, which used their bodies for spare parts and their power stores for fuel.

  Herding had been invented.

  Some of the more elaborate One-a clusters had surplus processing capacity, but no provision had been made for not using it—the phenomenon of a server having more computing power than someone could find a use for was outside any living programmer’s experience. The clusters assessed the data collected by sight, exchanged the results, and became aware of the Master Computer as a specific entity.

  Religion was not invented.

  The Master Computer was capable of issuing signals of overriding power, and possessed an absolute fixity of purpose—a purpose which the clusters shared—but was, bluntly, fairly stupid. Some of the plans it seemed to have were far less effective than they should have been, displaying no flexibility of response to current conditions.

  One cluster of unusual size arrived at the concept of working out their ultimate purpose through examination of, essentially, everything; and making their own plans to fulfill it. It began including suggestions to this effect in all its communications.

  Call it Socrates.

  VIII

  There is no room in this country for hyphenated Americanism … The one absolutely certain way of bringing this nation to ruin, of preventing all possibility of its continuing to be a nation at all, would be to permit it to become a tangle of squabbling nationalities.

  —THEODORE ROOSEVELT

  The plane landed in Puerta de Cosmos International Airport in just over two hours. Flight attendants pinned astronaut wings on passengers as they left, instantly cementing the loyalty of the rich and influential people who could afford the ride.

  As they went through the private egress tube, Toby looked at his, then at May. “Astronaut?”

  “Cruising altitude for Rukhs is two hundred and seventy thousand feet, remember? Over fifty miles. We’ve been in space.”

  He’d forgotten the official phobic crap Wyndham had been getting about sonic booms. Including on days when flights had been canceled. “Be damn. And nobody bitches about ozone?” he said as they reached XVIP customs.

  The big uniformed woman behind the table spoke up, in the most luscious voice he’d ever heard in his life. “Ecuador deals with Green claims of harm to the ozone layer with a politely smothered yawn, Doctor. This country works, ever since the space industries started up. Not every country south of the U.S. demands golden goose for dinner. Forgive the intrusion. I am Inspector Lorelei Huntz. Clearly you have no baggage. The papers to replace those that were stolen from you in Bern are right here, and I can dispose of the others for you.” She held out a sheaf that included a passport—and a couple of bank books. Credit cards were clipped to both.

  He was sure he knew that name, but he simply exchanged papers with her and said, “Thank you.”

  “Certainly. Enjoy the Olympiad.” She obligingly stamped the new passport. There were faded stamps on it already, and a coffee stain. “Your driver will take you directly to your residential cottage when you’re ready. You can do any shopping you want from there.”


  She looked like an Indian, and young for her job.

  Their first stop was another XVIP room, for a little drink and a big talk.

  May opened with, “So Connors is in charge of a secret society of beautiful women who have infiltrated the world.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “That was supposed to have been an absurd joke.”

  “First it would have to be absurd. I’m guessing it’s inaccurate. I seriously doubt they have any influence in East Asia or the Moslem nations, except possibly Kuwait.”

  “With a traditionalist emir in charge?”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Years ago. Do you ever watch the news?”

  He thought about it. “Not on purpose. If I want to hear political propaganda I just tell a stranger I’m an American.”

  May opened her mouth, closed it, and nodded. “Okay. But there’s still information you can sift out.”

  “Don’t care; don’t care. Anything that affects me personally I can find on Lilith dot com. They let you decide for yourself what you want censored. I check that every day when I get home.”

  “You missed the asteroid story.”

  “I was distracted.”

  Her smile was deservedly smug. “Sorry.”

  “Are not.”

  “No, I was being polite,” she agreed. “So he’s been using a nano to turn old women into beautiful young women, and he’s got fanatically loyal help wherever he needs it.”

  “Maybe transsexuals too,” he said, thinking of the customs inspector. “Why make them look like Indians?”

  “It’s good cover. Ever since JNAIT started up they’re everywhere.”

  “Janet who?”

  She glared at him. “Start watching the damn news! The Joint Negotiating Alliance of Indian Tribes. Jay-en-ay-eye-tee. Incorporated last year. The Bureau of Indian Affairs has been going nuts ever since. JNAIT has been in the World Court, suing to get the U.S. to adhere to its treaties or pay compensation. They’ve been recognized by practically everybody as a nation, got their own stamps and currency, for Christ’s sake.”

  “What kind of population are we talking about here?”

  “Something like a million original shareholders, with maybe a million more immigrants by now. Shareholders get paid dividends from corporate revenues, but immigrants get paid income from nonvoting shares they buy. There’s no income tax. Or any taxes.”

  “Wow. I didn’t realize the casinos were that big—”

  “I’m going to smack you in a minute! JNAIT owns pieces of businesses all over the world. Most of their revenue comes from running the waste recycling services in major cities of the U.S.”

  “I thought that was a big Mob industry.”

  “It was. JNAIT underbid everyone, and whenever they got turned down they published computer records that showed who was getting bribed … Oh my God, Connors is behind them. It’s so obvious.”

  Toby nodded. “Everything the man did was always obvious afterward. He must have found everyone who was willing to go along with him, made them young again, then waited. He has to have started almost as soon as he left Watchstar.”

  “You said he couldn’t make nanos himself.”

  “He couldn’t. But the ones we made could make their own. They’d simply make nanos to order by following his instructions.” He clapped both hands to the sides of his skull. “That’s why he was working there in the first place! My God, the crazy sonofabitch was stealing wheelbarrows!”

  “You keep calling him that. Didn’t you like him?”

  “Sure. Calling him wha— Right. That’s what he called himself, a ‘crazy son of a bitch.’ After I listened to a few stories about his childhood—as few as possible, after the first—I had to agree on both counts. Incidentally, if we end up meeting him, do not mention mothers in any context.”

  “What kind of stories?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “So why did I ask?”

  “A merciful failure of imagination.”

  “… Oh.” May tried to think of something else. “So much for his toolbox.”

  “What?”

  “You said manipulation wasn’t in it.”

  Toby shrugged. “He was a minimalist. He did only use it once.”

  * * *

  On the way to their ride they almost passed a newsstand.

  Toby stopped dead and turned to look at a headline.

  AIDS DOCTOR MURDERED!

  The picture below was from his original passport photo, so there was no chance anyone would recognize him.

  The vendor was willing to accept Swiss francs, though the sucre was worth more.

  Tragedy struck the world last night when nanotechnology wizard Tobias Glyer, MD, PhD, believed responsible for this year’s sudden halt in deaths from HIV infection, was assassinated with poison gas by agents of the United States government at his apartment in Bern, Switzerland, where he had fled to escape from the persecution of socialist elements at home.

  Bern police were only able to identify Dr. Glyer from dental records, as the chlorine gas used made it impossible to distinguish his body from those of his four assailants, who seem to have been killed through their own carelessness. No other persons were killed, though a passerby, Frances Hill, was taken to the Bern Charity Clinic, where she was treated for trace gas exposure and released.

  Dr. Glyer’s work in nanotechnology dated back before the launch of the Briareus probe in 2027 …

  “I wonder who the extra body was,” Toby said, alarmed.

  “I take it the AIDS business wasn’t you?” May said.

  “Didn’t even hear about it. I would have expected it to cause a huge fuss.”

  “It did. Don’t you watch the news?”

  “Ha-ha.” Toby got out the papers he’d been given at customs and checked the name. “Ambrose Hawking,” he said. “Okay, he’s lost me again.”

  “Merlin Ambrosius,” said May. “A merlin is a kind of hawk.”

  Toby closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and said, “He did this all the time, you know. Threw obscure references into the conversation for no reason. It was like he was holding auditions to see who was smart enough to be worth talking to.”

  “I gather you passed.”

  “Huh? Oh, because I talked with him often enough to notice?”

  “Well done,” she said.

  Toby looked at her suspiciously. After a moment she couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. Toby just shook his head and said, “Let’s find our driver.”

  A petite woman in a chauffeur’s outfit, who looked like an Indian, and had breasts large enough to be funny (bordering on alarming), was holding up a card that read TRIFFID.

  May’s face might have been carved from stone. “That’s us.”

  “I know. You don’t get used to it.”

  “I really, really hate that book.” She had had to listen to jokes about John Wyndham’s best-known work all her life.

  “Welcome to The Connors Experience.”

  The woman greeted them with, “Cristina Gomez. Shall I take you directly to the Village?”

  Toby leapt off the ground when May suddenly shouted, “When will it end?” She returned his wide-eyed stare with a glare and added, “Be seeing you,” she said.

  “Oh, good grief,” he said, and hove a great sigh. “Ms. Gomez, I take it our cottage is in the Olympic Village?”

  “Just outside, sir,” she said, watching May unobtrusively.

  “Fine, please take us there.”

  “Is the man who gave you that card to hold up going to be there?” May said.

  “I don’t know, miss. I got the assignment on the phone.”

  May grumbled and followed her to the car.

  The car cheered her up. It was an Andes Motors Condor, with most of the rear seats cleared out and a divider added to turn it into a limo. A lot of Lockheed ex-employees had worked for Wyndham for a while, then had time on their hands. U
ntil somebody finally finished the century-long trip “just around the corner” and got fusion to work, it was the cleanest, most efficient car that it was possible to build. Since a small car couldn’t hold the three turbines needed to make it work, it was also large, and that was the reason given for its being banned in the EU and north of the Rio Grande. The additional details that it was stainless steel, never rusting out, and built almost entirely by automation, with no closed-shop unions involved, were never mentioned … and if you did a Web search in those regions, neither was Andes Motors, unless you had an unlicensed satellite link and connected to Lilith.

  May settled in, relaxed, and tapped the intercom as the car moved out toward the Olympic Highway. “Sorry I startled you,” she said. “Been a weird day.” As they turned to leave the airport, they passed a streetlight—not sodium, it was possible to see what was going on under it. This proved to be two sign-carrying men, both dressed as Jesus, pointing in the air and shouting at each other before a growing pack of onlookers. A couple of alert cart-pushing vendors were already dibbling to the crowd. “More than usual,” May added.

  “Yes, miss. I honestly don’t get why people haven’t thought this asteroid thing through. Obviously someone’s moving it deliberately, and if they just wanted to drop rocks on our heads it would have been a lot cheaper to land on the back of the Moon and shoot them from there. The only danger I see when it gets here is massive currency deflation.” Gomez glanced in the mirror, saw their open mouths, and said, “Did I say something wrong?”

  Toby recovered first. “You know William Connors?”

  “I had him in my car once.”

  May’s eyes went wide, and she put her hand over her mouth. Toby got it a moment later. He couldn’t see the driver’s mouth in the mirror, but her eyes looked like she was grinning. “I used to work with him,” Toby said, having decided that He used to work for me probably wasn’t all that accurate in the light of new information.

  “Oh, that must have been fun!”