Pause. No answer. The program Albert had written with Sigfrid von Shrink’s help tried again: “Henrietta, it’s Tom. Please speak to me.” It would have been faster to punch out Henrietta’s code to attract her attention, but harder to square with the pretense that her long-lost husband had reached her from some far-off outpost by radio.
The voice tried again, and once more. Paul scowled and whispered, “It isn’t working.”
“Give it a chance,” Robin said, but not confidently. They stood there nervously, while the dead computer voice pleaded. And then at last, a hesitant voice whispered, “Tom? Tomasino, is that you?”
Paul Hall was a normal human being, squashed a little out of shape, perhaps, from four years of imprisonment and a hundred days of flight and fright. Normal enough, though, to share the normal prurience; but what he heard was more than he wanted to hear. He grinned in embarrassment at Robin Broadhead, who shrugged uneasily back. The hurt tenderness and spiteful jealousy of other people is humiliating to hear and can only be eased by laughter; the divorce detective passes around his bootleg tape of a wired bed for comic relief on a slow day at the office. But this was not comic! Henrietta, any Henrietta, even the machine revenant called Henrietta was not funny in her moment of heart’s-desire, when she was being gulled and betrayed. The program that wooed her was skillfully done. It apologized and begged, and it even sobbed, in rustly tape-hissing sobs, when Henrietta’s own flat tape voice broke with sobs of spent sadness and hopeless joy. And then, as it had been programmed to do, it settled in for the kill. Would you—Dear Henrietta, could you—Is it possible for you to tell me how to operate a Heechee ship?
Pause. Hesitation. Then the voice of the dead woman said: “Why—yes, Tomasino.” Another pause. It lengthened itself, until the programmed deceiver moved in to fill the gap:
“Because if you could, dear, I think I might be able to join you. I’m in a sort of a ship. It has a control room. If I knew how to work it—”
It was incredible to Paul that even a poorly stored machine intelligence could succumb to such transparent blandishments. Succumb Henrietta did. It was repellent to him to take part in the fraud, but take part he did, and once started Henrietta could not be stopped. The secret of controlling the Heechee ships? Of course, dear Tomasino! And the dead woman warned her fake lover to stand by for burst transmission and hurled out a whistling crackle of machine talk of which Paul could not understand a sound and in which he could not find a word; but Robin Broadhead, listening to the private status-report voice of the computer on his headset, grinned and nodded and held up thumb and forefinger in a circle of success. Paul signed silence and pulled him down the corridor. “If you’ve got it,” he whispered, “let’s get out of here!”
“Oh, I’ve got it!” chortled Robin. “She’s got it all! She was in open circuit with whatever kind of machine runs this thing; it picked her brains and she picked its, and she’s telling the whole thing.”
“Great. Now let’s find Lurvy!”
Broadhead looked at him, not angry but pleading. “Just a few more minutes. Who knows what else she got?”
“No!”
“Yes!”—and then they looked at each other, and shook their heads. “Compromise,” said Robin Broadhead. “Fifteen minutes, all right? And then we go rescue your wife.”
They edged back along the corridor with smiles of rueful satisfaction on their faces; but the satisfaction drained. The voices were not embarrassingly intimate now. They were worse. They were almost quarreling. There was somehow a snap and a snarl in the flat metallic voice that said, “You’re being a pig, Tom.”
The program was cloyingly reasonable: “But, Henrietta, dear, I’m only trying to find out—”
“What you try to find out,” grated the voice, “depends on what your capacities to learn are. I’m trying to tell you something more important! I tried to tell you before. I tried to tell you all the while we were coming out here, but, no, you didn’t want to hear, all you wanted was to get off in the lander with that fat bitch—”
The program knew when to be placatory. “I’m sorry, Henrietta, dear. If you want me to learn some astrophysics I will.”
“Damn right you will!” Pause. “It’s terribly important, Tom!” Pause. And then: “We go back to the Big Bang. Are you listening, Tom?”
“Of course I am, dear,” said the program in its humblest and most endearing way.
“All right! It goes back to how the universe got started, and we know that pretty well—with one little hazy transition point that’s a little obscure. Call it Point X.”
“Are you going to tell me what ‘Point X’ is, dear?”
“Shut up, Tom! Listen! Before Point X, essentially the whole universe was packed into a tiny glob, no more than a matter of kilometers through, super-dense, super hot, so squeezed it had no structure. Then it exploded. It began to expand—up to Point X, and that part is pretty clear. Do you follow me so far, Tom?”
“Yes, dear. That’s basically simple cosmology, isn’t it?”
Pause. “Just pay attention,” Henrietta’s voice said at last. “Then, after Point X, it continued to expand. As it expanded, little bits of ‘matter’ began to condense out of it. First came nuclear particles, hadrons and pions, electrons and protons, neutrons and quarks. Then ‘real’ matter. Real hydrogen atoms, then even helium atoms. The exploding volume of gas began to slow. Turbulence broke it into immense clouds. Gravity pulled the clouds into clumps. As they shrank the heat of contraction set nuclear reactions going. They glowed. The first stars were born. The rest,” she finished, “is what we can see going on now.”
The program picked up its cue. “I see that, Henrietta, yes. How long are we talking about, now?”
“Ah, good question,” she said, in a voice not at all complimentary. “From the beginning of the Big Bang to Point X, three seconds. From Point X to right now, about eighteen billion years. And there we have it.”
The program was not written to deal with sarcasm, but even in the flat metal voice sarcasm hung. It did its best. “Thank you, dear,” it said, “and now will you tell me what is special about Point X?”
“I would tell you in a thick minute, my darling Tomasino,” she said sunnily, “except that you are not my darling Tomasino. That ass-head would not have understood one word of what I just said, and I don’t like being lied to.”
And no matter what the program tried, not even when Robin Broadhead dropped the pretense and spoke to her direct, Henrietta would say no more. “Hell with it,” said Broadhead at last. “We’ve got enough to worry about in the next couple of hours. We don’t have to go back eighteen billion years for it.”
He hit a pressure release on the side of the processor and caught what came out: the thick, soft rag-flop tape that had caught everything Henrietta had said. He waved it aloft. “That’s what I came for,” he said, grinning. “And now, Paul, let’s take care of your little problem—and then go home and spend our millions!”
In the deep, restless sleep of the Oldest One there were no dreams, but there were irritations.
The irritations came faster and faster, more and more urgent. From the time the first Gateway prospectors had terrifyingly come until he had written (he thought) the last of them off, only the wink of an eye—not more than a few years, really. And until the strangers and the boy were caught, hardly a heartbeat; and until he was awakened again to be told the female had escaped, no time at all—none! Hardly even time for him to decouple sensors and effectors and settle down; and now there was still no peace. The children were panicked and quarrelsome. It was not their noise alone that disturbed him. Noise could not awaken the Oldest One; only physical attack, or being addressed directly. What was most irritating about this racket was that it was not quite addressed to him, but not quite not, either. It was a debate—an argument; a few frightened voices demanding he be told something at once, a few even more frightened ones pleading against it.
And that was incorrect. For half a mill
ion years the Oldest One had trained his children in manners. If he was needed, he was to be addressed. He was not to be awakened for trivial causes, and certainly not by accident. Especially now. Especially when each effort of waking was more of a drain on his ancient fabric and the time was in sight when he might not wake at all.
The fretful rumpus did not stop.
The Oldest One called on his external sensors and gazed upon his children. Why were so few of them there? Why were nearly half of them sprawled on the floor, evidently asleep?
Painfully he activated his communications system and spoke: “What is happening?”
When, quailing, they tried to answer and the Oldest One understood what they were saying, the bands of color on his shell raced and blurred. The female not recaptured. The younger female and the boy gone too. Twenty more of the children found hopelessly asleep, and scores of others, gone to search the artifact, not reporting back.
Something was terribly wrong.
Even at the very end of its useful life the Oldest One was a superb machine. There were resources seldom used, powers not tapped for hundreds of thousands of years. He rose on his rollogons to tower over the quaking children and reached down into his deepest and least-used memories for guidance and knowledge. On his foreplate, between the external vision receptors, two polished blue knobs began a faint drone, and atop his carapace a shallow dish glowed with faint violet light. It had been thousands of years since the Oldest One had used any of his more punitive effectors, but as information from the great stores of memories gathered he began to believe that it was time to use them again. He reached into the stored personalities, even, and Henrietta was open to him; he knew what she had said, and what the new interlopers had asked. He understood (what Henrietta had not) the meaning of the hand weapons Robin Broadhead had been waving around; in the deepest of all memories, the ones that went back even before his own flesh-and-blood life, there was the lance that made his own ancestors go to sleep, and this was clearly much the same.
Here was trouble on a scale he had never known before, of a kind he could not readily cope with. If he could get at them—But he could not. His great bulk could not travel through the artifact’s passages, except the gold-skeined ones; the weapons that were ready to destroy would have no targets. The children? Yes, perhaps. Perhaps they could hunt out and overcome the others; certainly it was worth the effort to order them to do so, the few survivors, and he did. But in the rational, mechanical mind of the Oldest One the capacity for computation was unimpaired. He could read the odds well. They were not good.
The question was, was his great plan endangered?
The answer was yes. But there, at least, there was something he could do. The heart of the plan was the place where the artifact was controlled. It was the nerve center of the entire construct; it was where he had dared to set in motion the final stages of his plan.
Before he had finished framing the decision he was acting it out. The great metal bulk shifted and turned, and then rolled out across the spindle, into the wide-mouthed tunnel that led to the controls. Once there, he was secure. Let them come if they chose! The weaponry was ready. Its great drain on his dwindling powers was making him slow and unsteady to move, but there was power enough. He could blockade himself and let the flesh-and-blood things settle things however they might, and then—
He stopped. Ahead of him one of the wall-aligning machines was out of place. It sat squarely in the center of the corridor, and behind it—
If he had been just a trifle less drained, a fraction of a second faster… But he was not. The glow from the wall aligner washed over him. He was blind. He was deaf. He felt the external protuberances burn off his shell, felt the great soft cylinders he rolled on melt and stick.
The Oldest One did not know how to feel pain. He did know how to feel anguish of the soul. He had failed.
The flesh-and-blood things had control of his artifacts, and his plans were at an end forever.
16
The Richest Person There Is
My name is Robin Broadhead, and I am the richest person there is in the whole solar system. The only one who comes close is old Bover, and he would come a lot closer if he hadn’t thrown half of his money into slum clearance and urban rehabilitation and a lot of what was left into an inch-by-inch scan of trans-Plutonian space, looking for the ship with what was left of his wife, Trish. (What he is going to do with her if he finds her I can’t imagine.) The surviving Herter-Halls are also filthy with money. That’s a good thing, especially for Wan and Janine, who have a complicated relationship to sort out, in a complicatedly unwelcoming world. My wife, Essie, is in the best of health. I love her. When I die, that is, when even Full Medical can’t patch me up any more, I have a little plan about how to deal with someone else I love, and that satisfies me. Almost everything satisfies me. The only exception is my science advisor, Albert, who keeps trying to explain Mach’s Principle to me.
When we took over Heechee Heaven, we got it all. The way to control Heechee ships. The way to build Heechee ships, including the theory that makes it possible to go faster than light. No, it doesn’t involve “hyperspace” or the “fourth dimension.” It is very simple. Acceleration multiplies mass, so says Einstein—the real one, not Albert. But if the rest mass is zero it does not matter how many times you multiply it. It remains zero. Albert says that mass can be created, and proves it by basic logical principles: it exists, therefore it can be created. Therefore it can be eliminated, since what can be made to be can also be made to stop being. That is the Heechee secret, and with Albert’s help to set up the experiment, and Morton’s help to coerce the Gateway Corp into making ships available, we tried it out. It didn’t cost me a cent; one of the advantages of great wealth is that you don’t have to spend it. All you have to do is get other people to spend it for you, and that’s what law programs are for.
So we sent two Fives out at once from Gateway. One was on lander power only, and it contained two people and a cylinder of solid aluminum with strain detectors attached. The other held a full crew, ready for an actual mission. The instrument ship had a live camera pickup with an image split three ways: one on the gravity meter, one on the second ship, one on a cesium-atom digital clock.
To my eyes the experiment didn’t show a thing. The second ship began to disappear, and the gravity meter recorded its disappearance. Big deal! But Albert was elated. “Its mass began to disappear before it did, Robin! My God. Anyone could have tried that experiment any time in the last dozen years! There’s going to be at least a ten-million-dollar science bonus for this!”
“Put it in petty cash,” I said, and stretched, and rolled over to kiss Essie, because we happened to be in bed at the time.
“Is very interesting, dear Robin,” she said drowsily, and kissed me back. Albert grinned and averted his eyes, partly because Essie has been tinkering with his program and partly because he knew as well as I did that what she said was politely untrue. Astrophysics did not much interest my Essie. What interested her was the chance to play with working Heechee machine intelligences, and that interested her very much. Eighteen hours a day much, until she had tracked down all the major systems in what was left of the Oldest One, and the Dead Men, and the Dead Non-Men whose memories went back to an African savannah the better part of a million years ago. Not that she cared a lot about what was in the memories; but how it was there was her very business, at which she was very good. Reshuffling my Albert program was the least of what Essie got out of Heechee Heaven. What we all got was a very great deal indeed. The grand charts of the Galaxy, showing everywhere the Heechee had been. The grand charts of black holes, showing where they are now. Even where Klara is. As one tiny fringe benefit, I even got the answer to one question that on a purely subjective level had been interesting me very much: why was I still alive? The ship that carried me to Heechee Heaven had flipped over into deceleration mode after nineteen days. By all the laws of parity and common sense, that meant it would not ar
rive for another nineteen, by which time I should have been surely dead; but in fact it docked in five. And I wasn’t dead at all, or not quite; but why?
Albert gave me the answer. Every flight ever successfully completed in a Heechee ship had been between two bodies that, relatively, were more or less at rest—a few tens or at most a few hundreds of kilometers a second difference in their relative velocities. No more. Not enough to make a difference. But my flight had been pursuing an object itself in very rapid motion. It had been almost all acceleration. The slowdown had taken only a tiny fraction of the speedup. And so I lived.
And all that was very satisfying, and yet—
And yet there is always a price.
There always has been. Every big jump forward has carried a hidden cost, all through history. Man invented agriculture. That meant someone had to plant de cotton and someone had to hoe de corn. And that’s how slavery was born. Man invented the automobile, and got a dividend of pollution and highway death. Man got curious about the way the sun shines, and out of his curiosity came the H-bomb. Man found the Heechee artifacts and tracked down some of their secrets. And what did we get? For one thing, we got Payter, almost killing a world, with a power no one had ever had before him. For another we got some brand-new questions, the answers to which I have not yet quite nerved myself up to face. Questions that Albert wants to try to answer, about Mach’s Principle; and that Henrietta raised, with her talk about Point X and the “missing mass.” And a very big question in my own mind. When the Oldest One broke Heechee Heaven out of its orbit and sent it flying through space toward the core of the Galaxy what, exactly, was he heading toward?
The scariest, I guess, and also the most satisfying, I know, moment of my life was when we had burned the feelers off the Oldest One and, armed with Henrietta’s instructions, sat down before the control board of Heechee Heaven. It took two to make it move. Lurvy Herter-Hall and I were the two most experienced pilots present—if you didn’t count Wan, who was off with Janine, rounding up the waking Old Ones to tell them there had been a change in government. Lurvy took the right-hand seat and I took the left (wondering a lot just what strange-shaped butt had first sat in it). And there we went. It took more than a month to get back to orbiting the Moon, which was the point I had picked out. It wasn’t a wasted month, there was plenty to do on Heechee Heaven; but it went pretty slowly, because I was in a very big hurry to get home.
Beyond the Blue Event Horizon Page 29
