The Genesis Machine

by James P. Hogan

  "I'm sorry, but I can't accept that," he said. "What you're asking is, if I might put it bluntly, naive. We are talking about a whole new range of physical phenomena that nobody even understands yet. It's completely new uncharted territory that we've only just come to realize exists at all. It's true that in time concrete applications of some kind may come out of it, but there's simply no way that anybody can tell how long that might take. The only thing we can do is pursue further research on an open-ended basis and wait and see what happens. You can't just produce new discoveries to order against some kind of timetable, as if . . . as if you were planning to put up a building or something."

  Johnathan Camerdene of the Bureau was not satisfied. "Can't, can't, can't . . . All we hear is can't. When will somebody try applying some positive thinking for a change and admit that maybe he can do something? I don't see how a scientist is any different from any other professional person. If I ask my lawyer if he can have my case prepared for a date in court that's been fixed for next month, he tells me he can. My doctor shows up on time when I'm sick; my bank manager makes payments on the days I tell him to; my kid's teachers get their timetable organized before the start of a semester. Everybody else in the world accepts time as a real part of life that you have to take along with the rest of it. They all meet their deadlines. What's so different about your people?"

  "It's not the people; it's the subject." Ollie Wilde of ACRE fought hard to conceal his rising exasperation. "You can't tell a Rembrandt to go paint a masterpiece today. You can't tell a gambler to come back a winner. Those things can only happen in their own time, not yours." He looked for support to his right and left. Heads nodded their mute assent.

  "But how much time is their time?" Camerdene demanded.

  "That's what we're trying to get through to you." Senchino joined in again. "Nobody knows. Nobody can even say at this stage whether there are any defense or military applications potential in it at all . . . never mind what they might be, never mind when they might happen."

  "All we've got are the beginnings of a fundamental theory," Wilde added.

  "I must agree that all this sounds extremely negative," Mark Simpson, another of the Bureau men chimed in. "But this is characteristic of the way the scientific mind has worked throughout history." He swept his gaze coldly along the line of faces confronting him from the other side of the table. "Didn't scientists state, even right at the end of the nineteenth century, that heavier-than-air flight was impossible? Even after World War II, wasn't it the scientists who were saying that man would never reach the Moon and that artificial satellites would never happen before the year 2000?"

  "Some of them might have said so," a voice growled. "But who do you think made things like that happen?"

  Simpson ignored the remark and went on. "I think that what we're hearing here today is just another example of the same thing." His words were met by stony glares from across the table. One of the ACRE scientists lit a cigarette and threw the pack irritably back down in front of him.

  Another Bureau man spoke up. "Let me try to put it more constructively. I agree with what Mark's just said. Although scientists are proficient in their own specialized fields, they do have certain characteristic weaknesses. One of the biggest is their inability to organize their thinking and their activities into any kind of methodical and objective program."

  "For Christ's sake . . . !" One of the scientists was unable to contain his outrage. "What do you mean—incapable of being objective? Science is being objective! You don't know what you're talking about . . ."

  "Please," the Bureau man said, holding up a hand. "Let me finish. I am talking about methodical ways of planning toward specific objectives, not about methodical ways of assembling data."

  "You think that's all there is to science," the previous speaker asked derisively. "Assembling data . . . tables of numbers?"

  "Whether there's more to it or not, traditional scientific practice has not evolved ways of planning methodically towards specified goals," Simpson insisted. "What I am trying to draw attention to is the fact that other professions have been forced by necessity to develop such skills, and the techniques involved are well known." He cast a pleading look along the table as if his message were so obvious that it needed no spelling out. "Over the past few weeks we have drawn up a list of what appear to me to be perfectly reasonable objectives. To achieve those objectives would seem to require two things: your technical knowledge plus the organizational and planning skills needed to wrap the whole thing up into a practical implementation framework. All I'm saying is, let's pull together and do it."

  One of the scientists shook his head.

  "It won't work that way. You can do that once a branch of science has developed to the level of engineering technology—that is, when you understand it properly and can formulate all the rules for applying it. But we're not anywhere near that point yet; we're still in an early phase of basic research. You've got to distinguish between the two. The things you've been saying just don't apply to the stage we're at."

  "Maybe because nobody has ever tried it before," Camerdene suggested.

  "Hell, no," Senchino came in. "You're missing the whole point. The question is . . ."

  "Before we go off into any more technicalities, let's just remind ourselves of the real importance underlying this issue." Corrigan spoke from the end of the table. "This information is strictly within these four walls. Latest intelligence reports confirm that both the Chinese and the African-Arab Alliance have developed fully operational satellite-based laser capability for deployment against our Orbital Bombardment System. With full anti-ORBS capability, they are more or less on a par with us in terms of the strategic balance."

  "There's no need to tell you then how grave a situation we're facing," Jarrit came in. "I'm sure you can also see the possible significance of the matter we're talking about."

  "Industrial disruption in South Korea is rife," Corrigan continued. "Intensive subversion of the population is being organized systematically and the government is becoming unpopular as a result of very effective left-wing propaganda." He paused and looked about him to give his words time to sink in. Then he resumed. "We've all seen the pattern before. All the signs are that the stage is being set for a so-called war of liberation in the classical style, and world opinion is being preconditioned to make it difficult for the West to react effectively. We think they're going to take us on in a trial of strength in that area and we think it will happen within the next six months."

  A few murmurs greeted these revelations. Camerdene waited until they had subsided and nodded his head gravely. "That's the general picture," he said. "At the technological level we're more or less even and at the grassroots level we're being outmaneuvered. That means that the superiority in numbers gives the advantage to the other side."

  Camerdene then began his summation. "To restore and preserve the balance, we must pull ahead significantly in the technological area. You have told us that we appear to have made a breakthrough in a totally new aspect of science. Whenever that has happened in the past, it has always resulted in new, often revolutionary, military capabilities. If that's true in this case, we need those results fast."

  Corrigan nodded his endorsement of Camerdene's remarks and, indicating Simpson, said, "As Mark just pointed out, in the past the professional and managerial skills that we have at our disposal today were unknown. The processes for developing raw scientific ideas for useful applications depended on the whims and fads of unguided amateurs." A few mutters of protest broke out, but he took no notice. "Today we have the skills and techniques necessary to guide those processes efficiently."

  "It seems to me that the scientific fraternity is sadly behind the times in its thinking." Simpson elaborated on Corrigan's statement. "If they would only adjust their outlook to accommodate a more realistic appreciation of the facts, they would see that the measures we are proposing are perfectly feasible and attainable. In view of the extremely serious situat
ion that has just been described, I find it amazing that things as elementary as this should have to be spelled out in this way."

  Murmurings of approval came from the Washington side. When they had died away Senchino sat forward and turned imploringly toward Jarrit.

  "We've already said you can't command people to have new ideas. The discoveries in the past that led to technological revolutions were almost all made by a few very exceptional individuals. That's the whole point these people are missing. You can't take just anybody and make him exceptional by telling him to be exceptional." A row of blank stares came back across the table. He looked down at the wad of papers in front of him and pushed them out to arm's length.

  "I've read what Bradley Clifford produced and, yes, I follow what he's done. But I couldn't do it, no way. I'm essentially an applications man; I can take the rules that somebody else figures out and apply them to a specific range of problems. I accept that I'm not a creative thinker; that requires a completely different kind of mind. I can follow Clifford's work as far as it goes, but there's no way I could work out what comes next. There's just no way that anybody here or anywhere else can command me to be creative."

  "Clifford needs to be part of this project," another of the scientists declared. "Lots of us here could serve on the team, but somebody like him has to head it."

  "Why isn't he here anyhow?" the man next to the speaker asked.

  "He quit," Senchino answered.

  "I know, but why?"

  "That's a separate matter that doesn't concern this meeting," Corrigan broke in. "Let's just say for now that despite his intellectual talents, he would not have fit in because of the project's sensitive nature. He exhibited distinctly undesirable ideological and temperamental traits; in a nutshell, he was unstable, rebellious, and had all the makings of a high-security risk. As a matter of fact, he deliberately and openly defied security directives." The looks from the scientific side of the table were skeptical. Nevertheless, Corrigan pursued his point. "The topic we are discussing could result in a decisive trump card for the West. To involve somebody of Clifford's disposition would have been unthinkable. He might well have ended up making a present of the whole package to the other side."

  Camerdene read the expressions that greeted Corrigan's explanation.

  "Clifford had his strengths, but only in his own narrow field," he said. "He was just a man, not a superman. Nobody is indispensable. I can't see any reason why we shouldn't be able to set up a nucleus of specialists who can carry on just as well as he could. You've only got to look at the amount of talent in this room right now, never mind the whole country . . ." He waited a second for some reaction to the compliment but it had no visible effect. "After all, a scientist is a scientist; you're all familiar with the same facts and possess comparable skills. You're all trained to understand a specialized jargon, it's true, but no more so than an accountant who knows how to read a balance sheet . . ."

  "Clifford was an innovator," one of the scientists insisted wearily. "People can't be trained to innovate. You've either got it or you haven't."

  "I refuse to accept that there was anything so special about Clifford that you can't get along without him," Corrigan retorted sharply. "If a surgeon becomes sick before an operation, the hospital can always find somebody else to perform it. If Clifford hadn't stumbled on a new piece of theory when he did, somebody else would have done so sooner or later . . . and still might. If that somebody else turns out to be in Beijing or somewhere, then we're in real trouble." He screwed up his face as if experiencing a nasty taste. "And yet all we've heard all day has been lame excuses."

  Senchino took a deep breath and clenched his fists until the knuckles showed white.

  "You can't treat the human mind like some kind of machine that you pour raw material into at one end and get finished products out the other. The only way you can . . ."

  And so it went on . . . and on . . . and on.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, in the Clifford household, Aub and Sarah were watching intently as Clifford finished describing the sequence of recent events to Zimmermann. Throughout, Zimmermann had listened attentively and without interrupting, though his face became increasingly more troubled as the details unfolded.

  "Well, Dr. Clifford . . . I really don't know what to say," he replied. "The whole situation is deplorable . . . disgraceful."

  Clifford hesitated, wondering if the question was too presumptuous, but asked anyway. "Can . . . can I take it then that you didn't know this was happening?"

  Zimmermann's eyebrows shot upward in momentary surprise.

  "Me? Good heavens, no! I knew nothing of these things. We are rather isolated here and have more than enough work to keep us busy. I had assumed that after my reply to ACRE a program of investigation would have followed as a natural consequence. That, I'm afraid, Dr. Clifford, is why you never received any reply from me; it must have seemed most discourteous, and I do apologize, but, you understand, it did not occur to me that my reply to ACRE would fail to be passed through to you. Disgraceful!"

  "So you really haven't had anything more to do with the project since you sent that reply?" Aub asked, edging into the viewing angle.

  "Certainly not with the politics," Zimmermann said. "But as far as the scientific aspects go, you didn't really expect me to forget all about it, surely—not something like that." He grinned in a vaguely mischievous way that enhanced the warm feeling they already had toward him. "My goodness me, no. I have had several of my astronomers doing observational work in connection with the paper ever since I realized its significance. In fact, we have a team working on it at this very moment."

  "You have!" Clifford was excited. "Anything to report yet?"

  "Mmm . . . not yet . . ." Zimmermann gave the impression that he knew more than he was prepared to talk about for the time being, but his manner was cautious rather than furtive. "Certainly we cannot yet offer any evidence as conclusive as the experiments of Dr. Philipsz that you described, but . . ." his eyes twinkled mischievously again, "we are working on it."

  "So you haven't gotten involved in a dialogue with any other institutions about it?" Clifford inquired.

  "No, we have not, I'm afraid," Zimmermann replied. "I did urge that other organizations should be encouraged to test out those parts of the theory that we are not equipped to investigate, but after that I left the matter in the hands of the powers that be. I had assumed that, should any of those organizations wish to discuss anything with us here, they would contact us accordingly. It was my intention to compare notes when we had a full set of confirmed results to report, but we have not quite reached that position yet."

  A brief pause followed while Clifford wrestled in his mind with the problem of how to broach the object of his call in a tactful manner. Before he had formed any words, Zimmermann's expression changed to a shrewd, penetrating stare, but his eyes still sparkled. When he spoke his voice was soft and had a curious lilt. "But your immediate problem, of course, is that of deciding where you go from there, is it not?"

  This piece of mind reading caught Clifford unprepared.

  "What . . . well . . . yes that's right," was all he could manage.

  Zimmermann finished the rest for him. "And you called me in the hope that I might be able to help."

  So the problem was solved; there it was, said—over. Clifford nodded mutely. He could sense Aub and Sarah tensing on either side of him.

  Zimmermann gazed out of the screen for a long time without speaking, but they could tell from his face that his mind was racing through a whole list of undisclosed possibilities.

  "I do not make promises unless I am certain of my ability to honor them," he said finally. "Therefore I will not promise anything. I want you to stay near your terminal for the next twenty-four hours. During that time—and this I do promise—either I or somebody else will call you. That is all I am prepared to say for now. And the sooner we finish this call, the sooner I will be able to do something about the things
I have in mind. Do you have any further pressing questions?"

  The three looked at one another. There were no questions.

  "I guess not, Professor," Clifford answered.

  "Very well then, good day. And remember—make sure at least one of you stays home."

  "We will. . . . Good-bye, and thanks again . . . thanks again very much."

  "Thank me when you have something to thank me for," Zimmermann said, and with that the screen went dead.

  "You did it, Aub!" Clifford exclaimed. "How about that—you damn well did it."

  "Not me, man," Aub said and pointed a finger at Sarah. "I just pressed the buttons. It was her idea, I seem to recall. She did it."

  "Thank you, Aub; you're a gentleman," she pouted. "See, Brad, you just don't appreciate me."

  "Where'd you learn to do it?" Aub asked.

  "Oh," she said. "When you're married to Brad you soon learn to do all the thinking around the house."

  * * *

  Late afternoon the next day, while Clifford and Aub were engaged in a chess game and Sarah was reading, the Infonet chime sounded. In the scuffle to get to the terminal the two men knocked the board over between them and by the time they had sorted themselves out Sarah had already accepted the call. The screen showed a dark-haired man, probably in his mid forties and evidently of Mediterranean extraction, speaking from what appeared to be a room in a private house; there was a window behind him through which they could see part of an expanse of water with pine trees bordering its far shore.

  "Mrs. Clifford?" he inquired. His voice was light and cheerful.

  "Yes."

  "Ah . . . is your husband there, please?"

  "He's untangling himself from a coffee table right at this instant. . . ." The man on the screen looked puzzled for a second, then grinned. "Oh, he's okay now," Sarah said. "Here . . ." She moved away and allowed Clifford to take her place. Aub moved forward to stand beside her expectantly.

  "Hello, sorry about the fuss. I'm Bradley Clifford."