1

Ocotillo Wells, California

February 8, 2023

J. J. Beckworth, the Chairman of Megalobe Industries, was disturbed, though years of control prevented any outward display of his inner concern. He was not worried, not afraid; just disturbed. He turned about in his chair to look at the spectacular desert sunset. The red sky behind the San Ysidro mountain range to the west threw russet light upon the Santa Rosa Mountains that stretched along the northern horizon. The evening shadows of the ocotillo and cactus painted long lines on the gray sands of the desert before him. Normally the stark beauty of this soothed and relaxed him; not today. The gentle ping of the intercom cut through his thoughts.

"What is it?" he said. The machine recognized his voice and turned itself on. His secretary spoke.

"Dr. McCrory is here and would like to speak with you."

J. J. Beckworth hesitated, knowing what Bill McCrory wanted, and was tempted to keep him waiting. No, better to put him in the picture.

"Send him in."

The door hummed and McCrory entered, strode the length of the big room, soundlessly, his footsteps muffled by the deep-pile, pure wool Youghal carpet. He was a wiry, angular man, looking thin as a rail beside the stocky, solid form of the Chairman. He did not wear a jacket and his tie was loose around his neck; there was a good deal of informality at the upper levels of Megalobe. But he was wearing a vest, the pockets filled with the pens and pencils so essential for any engineer.

"Sorry to bother you, J.J." He twisted his fingers together nervously, not wanting to reprimand the Chairman of the company. "But the demonstration is ready."

"I know, Bill, and I'm sorry to keep you waiting. But something has come up and I can't get away for the moment."

"Any delay will cause difficulties with security."

"Of which I am well aware." J. J. Beckworth let none of his irritation show; he never did with those below him in the corporate pecking order. Perhaps McCrory did not realize that the Chairman had personally supervised the design and construction of all the security arrangements of this establishment. He smoothed his silk Sulka tie for a moment, his cold silence a reprimand in itself. "But we will just have to wait. There has been a sudden and exceedingly large spurt of buying on the New York exchange. Just before it closed."

"Our stock, sir?"

"Ours. Tokyo is still open, they have twenty-four-hour trading now, and the same thing seems to be happening there. It makes no financial sense at all. Five of the largest and most powerful electronic corporations in this country founded this company. They control Megalobe absolutely. By law a certain amount of stock must be traded, but there can be no possibility of a takeover bid."

"Then what could be happening?"

"I wish I knew. Reports from our brokers will be coming in soon. We can get down to your lab then. What is it that you want me to see?"

Bill McCrory smiled nervously. "I think we had better let Brian explain it to you. He says it is the important breakthrough he has been waiting for. I'm afraid that I don't understand what it is myself. A lot of this artificial intelligence stuff is beyond me. Communications is my field."

J. J. Beckworth nodded understandingly. Many things were happening now in this research center that had not been allowed for in the original plan. Megalobe had originally been founded for a single purpose; to catch up and hopefully pass the Japanese with HDTV research. High-definition television, which started with a wider screen and well over a thousand scan lines. The United States had almost missed the boat on this one. Only the belated recognition of foreign dominance in the worldwide television market had brought the Megalobe founding corporations and the Pentagon together—but only after the Attorney General had looked the other way while Congress had changed the antitrust laws to make possible this new kind of industrial consortium. As early as the 1980s the Defense Department—or rather one of its very few technically competent departments, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—had identified HDTV not only as an important tool in future warfare but as being vital for industrial progress in future technologies. So even after the years of reduced budgets DARPA had managed to come up with the needed research money.

Once the funding decisions had been made, with utmost speed all the forces of modern technology had been assembled on a barren site in the California Desert. Where before there had only been arid sand—and a few small fruit farms irrigated by subsurface water—there was now a large and modern research center. A number of new and exciting projects had been undertaken, J. J. Beckworth knew, but he was vague about the details of some of them. As Chairman he had other, more urgent responsibilities—with six different bosses to answer to. The red blink of his telephone light cut through his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Mura, our Japanese broker, is on the line."

"Put him on." He turned to the image on the screen before him. "Good afternoon, Mura-san."

"To you as well, Mr. J. J. Beckworth. I am sorry to disturb you at this late hour."

"It is always my pleasure to hear from you." Beckworth controlled his impatience. This was the only way to deal with the Japanese. The formalities had to be covered first. "And surely you would not be calling me now if the matter was of no importance."

"The importance must be assigned by your illustrious self. As a simple employee I can only report that the spate of buying of Megalobe shares has been reversed. The latest figures are on their way to me now. I expect them on my desk... momentarily."

For the smallest instant the image on the screen stilled, the lips did not move. This was the first indication that Mura was actually speaking in Japanese, his words swiftly translated into English—while the movement of his face and lips were simulated by the computer to match the words. He turned and was handed a piece of paper, smiled as he read it.

"The news is very good. It indicates that the price has fallen back to its previous level."

J. J. Beckworth rubbed his jaw. "Any idea of what it was all about?"

"I regretfully report complete ignorance. Other than the fact that the party or parties responsible have lost something close to a million dollars."

"Interesting. My thanks for your help and I look forward to your report."

J. J. Beckworth touched the phone disconnect button and the voxfax machine behind him instantly sprang to life, humming lightly as it disgorged the printed record of their conversation. His words were in black, while Mura's were in red for instant identification. The translation system had been programmed well, and as he glanced through it he saw no more than the usual number of errors. His secretary would file this voxfax record for immediate use. The Megalobe staff translator would later verify the correctness of the translation the computer had made.

"What is it all about?" Bill McCrory asked, puzzled. He was a whiz at electronics, but found the arcane lore of the stock market a complete mystery.

J. J. Beckworth shrugged. "Don't know—may never know. Perhaps it was some high-flying broker out for a quick profit, or a big bank changing its mind. In any case it is not important—now. I think we can see what your resident genius has come up with. Brian, you said his name was?"

"Brian Delaney, sir. But I'll have to phone first, it's getting late." It was dark outside; the first stars were appearing and the office lights had automatically come on.

Beckworth nodded agreement and pointed to the telephone on the table across the room. While the engineer made his call, J. J. punched his appointment book up on the screen and cleared away his work for the day, then checked the engagements for tomorrow. It was going to be a busy one—just like every other day—and he pushed his memory watch against the terminal. The screen said WAIT and an instant later read FINISHED as it downloaded his next day's appointments into the watch. That was that.

Every evening at this time, before he left, he usually had a fifteen-year-old Glenmorangie Scotch malt whisky. He glanced in the direction of the hidden bar and smiled slightly. Not quite yet. It would wait.

Bill McCrory pressed the mute button on the phone before he spoke. "Excuse me, J. J., but the labs are closed. It's going to take a few minutes to set up our visit."

"That's perfectly fine," Beckworth said—and meant it. There had been a number of good reasons for building the research center here in the desert. Lack of pollution and low humidity had been two considerations—but the sheer emptiness of the desert had been much more important. Security had been a primary consideration. As far back as the 1940s, when industrial espionage had been in its infancy, unscrupulous corporations had discovered that it was far easier to steal another company's secrets than spend the time, energy— and money—developing something for oneself. With the growth of computer technology and electronic surveillance, industrial espionage had been one of the really big growth industries. The first and biggest problem that Megalobe had faced was the secure construction of this new facility. This meant that as soon as the few farms and empty desert had been purchased for the site, an impenetrable fence was built around the entire area. Not really a fence—and not really impenetrable, nothing could be. It was a series of fences and walls that were topped with razor wire and hung with detectors—detectors buried in the ground as well—and blanketed by holographic change detectors, the surface sprinkled with strain gauges, vibration sensors and other devices. It established a perimeter that said "No go!" Next to impossible to penetrate, but if any person or device did get through, why then lights, cameras, dogs—and armed guards were certain to be waiting.

Even after this had been completed, construction of the building had not begun until every existing wire, cable and drainpipe had been dug up, examined, then discarded. One surprising find was a prehistoric Yuman Indian burial site. Construction had been delayed while this had been carefully excavated by archaeologists and turned over to the Yuman and Shoshonean Indian museum in San Diego. Then, and only then, had the carefully supervised construction begun. Most of the buildings had been prefabricated on closely guarded and controlled locations. Sealed electronically, examined, then sealed again. After being trucked to the site in locked containers the entire inspection process had been done yet one more time. J. J. Beckworth had personally supervised this part of the construction. Without the absolutely best security the entire operation would have been rendered useless.

Bill McCrory looked up nervously from the phone. "I'm sorry, J.J., but the time locks have been activated. It's going to take a half an hour at least to arrange a visit. We could put it off until tomorrow."

"Not possible." He punched up the next day's appointments on his watch. "My schedule is full, including lunch in the office, and I have a flight out at four. It's now or never. Get Toth. Tell him to arrange it."

"He may be gone by now."

"Not him. First in and last out."

Arpad Toth was head of security. More than that, he had supervised the implementation of all the security measures; these seemed to be his only interest in life. While McCrory made the call J.J. decided that the time had come. He opened the drinks cabinet and poured out three fingers of the malt whisky. He added the same amount of uncarbonated Malvern water—no ice of course!—sipped and sighed gratefully.

"Help yourself, Bill. Toth was in, wasn't he?"

"I will, thank you, just some Ballygowan water. Not only was he in but he will be supervising the visit personally."

"He has to do that. In fact, both he and I together have to encode an after-hours entry. And if either of us punches in a wrong number, accidentally or deliberately, all hell breaks loose."

"I never realized that security was so tight."

"That's good. You're not supposed to. Everyone who enters those labs is monitored ten ways from Sunday. Exactly at five o'clock the doors are sealed tighter than the bank vaults in Fort Knox. After that time it's still easy to get out, since scientists are prone to work late, or even all night. You must have done that yourself. Now you are going to find out that it is next to impossible to get back in. You'll see what I mean when Toth gets here."

This would be a good chance to catch the satellite news. J.J. touched the controls on his desk. The wallpaper—and the painting—on the far wall disappeared to be replaced by the news service logo. The sixteen-thousand-line high-resolution TV that had been developed in the laboratories here was sensationally realistic and so successful that it had captured a large share of the world TV, Virtual Reality and computer workstation market.

This screen contained tens of millions of microscopic mechanical shutters, a product of the developing science of nanotechnology. The definition and color of Beckworth's screen were so good that, to date, no one had noticed that the wallpaper and picture were just digital images—until he had turned them off. He sipped his drink and watched the news.

And that was all that he watched—and only those news items he was interested in. No sports, commercials, no cutesy animals or pop-singer scandals. The TV's computer sought out and recorded, in order of priority, just those reports that he wanted. International finance, stock market report, television shares, currency exchange rates, only news related to commercial relations. All of this done continuously, upgraded instantly, twenty-four hours a day.

When the head of security arrived the wallpaper and painting reappeared and they finished their drinks. Arpad Toth's iron-gray hair was still as close-cropped as it had been during all the years he had been a marine D.I. On that traumatic day when he had finally been forcefully retired from the Marine Corps he had gone right over to the CIA—who had welcomed him with open arms. A number of years had passed after that, as well as a number of covert operations, before he had a major difference of opinion with his new employers. It had taken all of J.J.'s industrial clout, helped by the firm's military connections, to find out what the ruckus had been about. The report had been destroyed as soon as J.J. had read it. But what had stuck in his memory was the fact that the CIA had felt that a plan presented to them by Toth was entirely too ruthless! And this was just before the operations arm of the CIA had been abandoned, when many of their activities had an air of desperation about them. Megalobe had quickly made him a most generous offer to head security for the planned project; he had been with them ever since. His face was wrinkled, his gray hair thinning—but he had not an ounce of fat on his hard-muscled body. It was unthinkable to ask his age or suggest retirement. He entered the office silently, then stood to attention. His face was set in a permanent scowl; no one had ever seen him smile.

"Ready when you are, sir."

"Good. Let's get started. I don't want this to take all night." J. J. Beckworth turned his back when he spoke— there was no need for anyone to know that he kept the security key in a special compartment in his belt buckle— men strode across the office to the steel panel set in the wall. It opened when he turned the key and a red light began blinking inside. He had five seconds to punch in his code. Only when the light had turned green did he wave Toth over. J.J. replaced the key in its hiding place while the security chief entered his own code, his fingers moving unseen inside the electronic control box. As soon as he had done this, and closed the panel again, the telephone rang.

J.J. verbally confirmed the arrangements with Security Control Central. He hung up and started for the door.

"The computer is processing the order," J.J. said. "In ten minutes it will make entry codes available at the outer laboratory terminal. We will then have a one-minute window of access before the entire operation is automatically canceled. Let's go."

If the security arrangements were invisible during the day this certainly was not true at night. In the short walk from the office block to the laboratory building they encountered two guards on patrol—both with vicious-looking dogs on strained leashes. The area was brilliantly lit, while TV cameras turned and followed them as they walked through the grounds. Another guard, his Uzi submachine gun ready, was waiting outside the lab doors. Although the guard knew them all, including his own boss, he had to see their personal IDs before he unlocked the security box. J.J. waited patiently until the light inside turned green. He entered the correct code, then pressed his thumb to the pressure plate. The computer checked his thumbprint as well. Toth repeated this procedure, then in response to the computer's query, punched in the number of visitors.

"Computer needs your thumbprint too, Dr. McCrory."

Only after this had been done did the motors hum in the frame and the door clicked open.

"I'll take you as far as the laboratory," Toth said, "but I'm not cleared for entry at this time. Call me on the red phone when you are ready to leave."

The laboratory was brilliantly lit. Visible through the armor-glass door was a thin, nervous man in his early twenties. He ran his fingers anxiously through his unruly red hair as he waited.

"He looks a little young for this level of responsibility," J. J. Beckworth said.

"He is young—but you must realize that he finished college before he was sixteen years old," Bill McCrory said. "And had his doctorate by the time he was nineteen. If you have never seen a genius before you are looking at one now. Our headhunters followed his career very closely, but he was a loner with no corporate interest, turned down all of our offers."

"Then how come he is working for us now?"

"He overstretched himself. This kind of research is both expensive and time-consuming. When his personal assets began to run out we approached him with a contract that would benefit both parties. At first he refused—in the end he had no choice."

Both visitors had to identify themselves at another security station before the last door opened. Toth stepped aside as they went in; the computer counted the visitors carefully. They entered and heard the door close and lock behind them. J. J. Beckworth took the lead, knowing that the easier he made this meeting, the faster he would get results. He extended his hand and shook Brian's firmly.

"This is a great pleasure, Brian. I just wish we could have met sooner. I have heard nothing but good news about the work you have been doing. You have my congratulations— and my thanks for taking the time to show me what you have done."

Brian's white Irish skin turned red at his unexpected praise. He was not used to it. Nor was he versed enough in the world of business to realize that the Chairman was deliberately turning on the charm. Deliberate or not, it had the desired result. He was more at ease now, eager to answer and explain. J.J. nodded and smiled.

"I have been told that you have had an important breakthrough. Is that true?"

"Absolutely! You could say that this is it—the end of ten years' work. Or rather the beginning of the end. There will be plenty of development to come."

"I was given to understand that it has something to do with artificial intelligence."

"Yes, indeed. I think that we have some real AI, at last."

"Hold your horses, young man. I thought that AI had been around for decades?"

"Certainly. There have been some pretty smart programs written and used that have been called AI. But what I have here is something far more advanced—with abilities that promise to rival those of the human mind." He hesitated. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't mean to lecture. But how acquainted are you with the work in this field?"

"To be perfectly frank, I know nothing at all. And the name is J.J., if you don't mind."

"Yes, sir—J.J. Then if you will come with me I will bring you up to date a little bit."

He led the way to an impressive array of apparatus that filled an entire laboratory bench. "This is not my work, it's a project that Dr. Goldblum has under way. But it makes a perfect introduction to AI. The hardware isn't much, it's an old Macintosh SE/60 with a Motorola 68050 CPU and a data-base coprocessor that increases its execution speed by a factor of 100. The software itself is based on an updated version of a classic Self-Learning Expert System for renal analysis."

"Just hold it there, son! I don't know what a renal is. I know a little about Expert Systems, but what was it you said—a Self-Learning Expert System? You are going to have to go back and start at square A if you don't want to lose me."

Brian had to smile at this. "Sorry. You're right, I better go back to the beginning. Renal refers to kidney functions. And Expert Systems, as you know, are knowledge-based programs for computers. What we call computer hardware is the machinery that just sits there. Turn off the electricity switch and all you have are a lot of expensive paperweights. Turn it on and the computer has just enough built-in programming to test itself to see if it is working all right, then it prepares to load in its instructions. These computer instructions are called software. These are the programs that you put in to tell the hardware what to do and how to do it. If you load in a word processing program you can then use the computer to write a book. Or if you load a bookkeeping program the same computer will do high-speed accountancy."

J.J. nodded. "I'm with you so far."

"The old, first-generation programs for Expert Systems could each do only one sort of thing, and one thing only—such as to play chess, or diagnose kidney disease, or design a computer circuit. But each of those programs would do the same thing over and over again, even if the results of doing so were unsatisfactory. Expert Programs were the first step along the road to AI, artificial intelligence, because they do think—in a very simple and stereotyped manner. The self-learning programs were the next step. And I think my new learning-learning type of program will be the next big step, because it can do so much more without breaking down and getting confused."

"Give me an example."

"Do you have a languaphone and a voxfax in your office?"

"Of course."

"Then there are two perfect examples of what I am talking about. Do you take calls from many foreign countries?"

"Yes, a good number. I talked with Japan quite recently."

"Did the person you were talking to hesitate at any time?"

"I think so, yes. His face sort of froze for an instant."

"That was because the languaphone was working in real time. Sometimes there is no way to instantly translate a word's meaning, because you can't tell what the word means until you have seen the next word—like the words 'to,' 'too,' and 'two.' It's the same with an adjective like 'bright,' which might mean shining or might mean intelligent. Sometimes you may have to wait for the end of a sentence—or even the next sentence. So the languaphone, which animates the face, may have to wait for a complete expression before it can translate the Japanese speaker's words into English—and animate the image to synchronize lip movements to the English words. The translator program works incredibly fast, but still it sometimes must freeze the image while it analyzes the sounds and the word order in your incoming call. Then it has to translate, again, into English. Only then can the voxfax start to transcribe and print out the translated version of the conversation. An ordinary fax machine just makes a print of whatever is fed into a fax machine at the other end of the connection. It takes the electronic signals that it receives from the other fax and reconstructs a copy of the original. But your voxfax is a different kind of bird. It is not intelligent—but it uses an analytical program to listen to the translated or English words of your incoming telephone calls. It analyzes them, then compares them with words in its memory and discovers what words they make up. Then it prints out the words."

"Sounds simple enough."

Brian laughed. "It is one of the most complex things that we have ever taught computers to do. The system has to take each Japanese element of speech and compare it to stored networks of information about how each English word, phrase or expression is used. Thousands of man-hours of programming have been done to duplicate what our brains do in an instant of time. When I say 'dog' you know instantly what I mean, right?"

"Of course."

"Do you know how you did it?"

"No. I just did it."

"That I just did it is the first problem faced in the study of artificial intelligence. Now let's look at what the computer does when it hears 'dog.' Think of regional and foreign accents. The sound may be closer to dawg, or daw-ug, or any other countless variations. The computer breaks down the word into composite phonemes or sounds, then looks at other words you have recently said. It compares with sounds, relationships, and meanings it holds in memory, then uses a circuitry to see if its first guesses make sense; if not it starts over again. It remembers its successes and refers back to them when it confronts new problems. Luckily it works very, very fast. It may have to do thousands of millions of computations before it types out 'dog.' "

"I'm with you so far. But I don't see what is expert about this voxfax system. It doesn't seem to be any different from a word processing system."

"But it is—and you have put your finger on the basic difference. When I type the letters D-O-G into an ordinary word processor, it simply records mem in memory. It may move them around, from line to line, stretch them out to fit a justified line or type them out when so instructed—but it is really just inflexibly following unchanging instructions. However, your languaphone and your voxfax program are teaching themselves. When either of them makes a mistake it discards the mistake, then tries something else—and remembers what it has done. This is a first step in the right direction. It is a self-correcting learning program."

"Then this is your new artificial intelligence?"

"No, this is only a small step that was made some years ago. The answer to developing true artificial intelligence is something completely different."

"What is it?"

Brian smiled at the boldness of the question. "It is not that easy to explain—but I can show you what I have done. My lab is right down here."

He led the way through the connected laboratories. It all appeared very unimpressive to Beckworth, just a series of computers and terminals. Not for the first time he was more than glad to be at the business end to this enterprise. Much of the apparatus was turned on and running, though unattended. As they passed a bench mounted with a large TV screen he stopped dead.

"Good God! Is that a three-dimensional TV picture?"

"It is," McCrory said, turning his back on the screen and frowning unhappily. "But I wouldn't look at it for too long if I were you."

"Why not? This will revolutionize the TV business, give us a world lead..." He rubbed his thumb along his forehead, realizing that one of his very rare headaches was coming on.

"If it worked perfectly, yes, it should certainly do just that. As you can see it apparently works like a dream. Except that no one can watch it for more than a minute or two without getting a headache. But we think we have a good way to fix this in the next model."

J.J. turned away and sighed. "What did they use to say? Back to the drawing board. Anyway, perfect this one and we own the world." J.J. shook his head and turned back to Brian. "I hope you have something to show us that works better than that."

"I do, sir. I'm going to show you the new robot that will overcome most of the limitations of the older AI machines."

"Is this the one that can learn new ways to learn?"

"That's it. It's right over there. Robin-1. Robot Intelligence number 1."

J.J. looked in the indicated direction and tried to control his disappointment.

"Where?"

All he could see was an electronic workbench with various items of some kind on it, along with a large monitor screen. It looked just like any other part of the lab. Brian pointed to an electronic instrumentation rack about the size of a filing cabinet.

"Most of the control circuitry and memory for Robin-1 is in there. It communicates by infrared with its mechanical interface, that telerobot over there."

The telerobot did not look like any robot J.J. had ever seen. It was on the floor, a sort of upside-down treelike thing that stood no higher than his waist. It was topped by two upward-reaching arms that ended in metallic globes. The two lower branches branched—and branched again and again until the smaller branches were as thin as spaghetti. J.J. was not impressed. "A couple of metal stalks stuck on two brooms. I don't get it."

"Hardly brooms. You are looking at the latest advance in microtechnology. This overcomes most of the mechanical limitations of the past generations of robots. Every branch is a feedback manipulator that enables the management program to receive input and—"

"What can it do?" J.J. said brusquely. "I'm very pressed for time."

Brian's knuckles whitened as he made hard fists. He tried to keep his anger from his voice. "For one thing, it can talk."

"Let's hear it." J.J. glanced obviously at his watch.

"Robin, who am I?" Brian said.

A metallic Ms opened in both of the erect metal spheres. Tiny motors hummed as they turned to face Brian. They clicked shut.

"You are Brian," a buzzing voice said from the speakers also mounted on the spheres.

J.J.'s nostrils flared. "Who am I?" he asked. There was no response. Brian spoke quickly.

"It only responds when it hears its name, Robin. It also would probably not understand your voice, since it has only had verbal input from me. I'll ask. Robin. Who is this? Figure next to mine."

The diaphragms opened, the eyes moved again. Then there was a faint brushing sound as the countless metallic bristles moved in unison and the thing moved toward Beckworth. He stepped backward and the robot followed him.

"No need to move or be afraid," Brian said. "The current optic receptors only have a short focus. There, it has stopped."

"Object unknown. Ninety-seven percent possibility human. Name?"

"Correct. Name, last, Beckworth. Initial J."

"J. J. Beckworth, aged sixty-two. Blood type O. Social Security number 130-18-4523. Born in Chicago, Illinois. Married. Two children. Parents were..."

"Robin, terminate," Brian ordered, and the buzzing voice stopped, the diaphragms clicked shut. "I'm sorry about all that, sir. But it had access to personnel records when I was setting up some identification experiments here."

"These games are of no importance. And I am not impressed. What else does the damned thing do? Can it move?"

"In many ways better than you or I," Brian replied. "Robin, catch!"

Brian picked up a box of paper clips—and threw them all toward the telerobot. The thing whirred in a blur of motion as it smoothly unfolded and rearranged most of its tendrils into hundreds of little handlike claws. As they spread out they simultaneously caught every one of the paper clips. It put them all down in a neat pile.

At last J.J. was pleased. "That's good. I think there could be commercial applications. But what about its intelligence? Does it think better than we think, solve problems that we can't?"

"Yes and no. It is new and still has not learned very much. Getting it to recognize objects—and figure out how to handle them—has been a problem for almost fifty years, and finally we have made a machine learn how to do it. Getting it to think at all was the primary problem. Now it is improving very rapidly. In fact, it appears that its learning capacity is increasing exponentially. Let me show you."

J.J. was interested—but dubious. But before he could speak again there was the harsh ringing of a telephone, a loud and demanding sound.

"It's the red phone!" McCrory said, startled.

"I'll take it." Beckworth picked up the phone and an unfamiliar voice rasped in his ear.

"Mr. Beckworth, there is an emergency. You must come at once."

"What is it?"

"This line is not secure."

J.J. put down the phone, frowned with annoyance. "There is an emergency of some kind, I don't know what. You both wait here. I'll attend to it as fast as I can. I'll phone you if it looks like there will be any lengthy delays."

His footsteps retreated and Brian stood in angry silence glaring at the machine before him.

"He doesn't understand," McCrory said. "He hasn't the background to understand the importance of what you have accomplished."

He stopped when he heard the three coughing sounds followed by a loud gasp, a crash of equipment falling to the floor. "What is it?" he called out, turned and started back into the other lab. The coughing sounded again and McCrory spun around, his face a bloody mask, collapsed and fell.

Brian turned and ran. Not with logic or intelligence, but spurred on by simple survival—painfully learned from a boyhood of bullying and assaults by older children. He went through the door just before the frame exploded next to his head.

Straight in front of him was the vault for the streamed backup tapes. Lodged there every night, empty now. Fireproof and assault proof. A closet for a boy to hide, a dark place to flee to. As he threw the door open bright pain tore into his back, slammed him forward, spun him about. He gasped at what he saw. Raised his arm in impotent defense.

Brian pulled on the handle, fell backward. But the bullet was faster. At the close range through his arm and into his head. The door closed.

"Get him out!" a hoarse voice shouted.

"The door's locked itself—but he's dead. I saw the bullet smash into his head."

Rohart had just parked his car and was getting out and closing the door when his car phone buzzed. He picked it up and switched it on. He heard a voice but could not understand the words because of the overwhelming roar of a copter's rotor blades. He looked up in astonishment, blinking in the glare of its spotlight as the chopper settled out of the sky onto his front lawn. When the pilot slacked off the power he could make out some of what was being shouted into his ear.

"... at once... incredible... emergency!"

"I can't hear you—there's a damn chopper just landed and digging up my lawn!"

"Take it! Get in...come at once."

The spotlight switched off and he saw the black and white markings of a police helicopter. The door opened and someone waved him over. Rohart had not become Managing Director of Megalobe by being dim or slow on the uptake. He threw the telephone back into his car, bent over and ran toward the waiting machine. He stumbled on the step and hard hands dragged him in. They were airborne even before the door was closed.

"What in blazes is happening here?"

"Don't know," the policeman said as he helped him to belt in. "All I know is that all hell broke loose over at your place. There is a three-state alarm out, the Feds have been called in. Every available unit and chopper we have is on the way there now."

"Explosion, fire—what?"

"No details. The pilot and I were monitoring traffic on Freeway 8 over by Pine Valley when I got the call to pick you up and take you to Megalobe."

"Can you call in and find out what is happening?"

"Negative—every circuit is tied up. But we're almost there, you can see the lights now. We'll have you on the ground inside sixty seconds."

As they dropped down toward the helipad Rohart looked for damage, could see none. But the normally empty grounds were now a seething ant's nest of activity. Police cars everywhere, helicopters on the ground and circling outside with their spotlights searching the area. A fire engine was pulled up before the main laboratory building but he could see no flames. A group of men were waiting by the helipad; as soon as they touched down he threw the door open and jumped to the ground, bent and ran toward them, the downdraft of the rotors flapping his clothing. There were uniformed police officers here, other men not in uniform but wearing badges. The only one he knew was Jesus Cordoba, the night supervisor.

"It's incredible, impossible!" Cordoba shouted over me receding roar of the chopper.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll show you. Nobody knows how or what really happened yet. I'll show you."

Rohart had his next shock when they ran up the steps of the laboratory building. The lights were out, the security cameras dark, the always sealed doors gaping open. A policeman with a battery lamp waved them forward, led the way down the hall. "This is the way I found it when we got here," Cordoba said. "Nothing has been touched yet. I—I just don't know how it happened. Everything was quiet, nothing unusual that I could tell from where I was in Security Control Central. Guard reports were coming in on time. I was keeping my attention on the lab buildings because a late party was in there with Mr. Beckworth. That was all—just like normal. Then it changed." Cordoba's face was running with sweat and he brushed at it with his sleeve, scarcely aware of it. "It all blew at once. It seemed every alarm went off, the guards were gone, even the dogs. Not every alarm, not on the other buildings. Just the perimeter alarms and the lab building. One second it was quiet—the next it looked like that. I don't know."

"Have you talked to Benicoff?"

"He called me when the alarm went through to him. He's on the plane now from D.C."

Rohart went quickly down the hall, through the doors that should have been shut. "This was the way it was when we got here," one of the police officers said. "Lights out, all the doors open, no one here. It looks like some of this stuff has been broken. And more, in here, it looks like, and equipment, computers too, I imagine—there are a lot of disconnected cables. It looks like a lot of heavy stuff was dragged out of here in a big hurry."

The Managing Director looked around at the emptiness, remembered the last time he had been here, at this spot.

"Brian Delaney! This is the lab, where he works. His equipment, experiments—they're all gone! Get on your radio at once! Get some officers to his home. Make sure that they are heavily armed, or whatever you do, because the people who did this will be going there too."

"Sergeant! Over here!" one of the policemen shouted. "I've found something!"

"There," he said, pointing. "That's fresh blood on the tiles, right in front of the door."

"And on the jamb of the door as well," the Sergeant said. He turned to Rohart. "What is this thing? A safe of some kind?"

"Sort of. Backup records are stored in it." He pulled out his wallet. "I have the combination here."

His fingers shook as he worked the combination, turned and pulled the handles, threw open the door. Brian's body, soaked with blood, slumped forward at his feet.

"Get the medics!" the Sergeant roared, pushing his fingers into the sticky blood of the man's throat, feeling for a pulse, trying not to look at the ruined skull.

"I don't know, can't tell—yes!, he's still alive! Where's those paramedics?"

Rohart stepped aside to let them by, could only blink at the shouting organized confusion of the medical teams. He recognized the intravenous drips, the emergency aid, little else. He waited in silence until Brian had been hurried out to the waiting ambulance and the remaining medic was repacking his bag.

"Is he going to be—can you tell me anything?"

The man shook his head gloomily, snapped the bag shut and rose. "He's still alive, barely. Shot in the back, bounced off his ribs, nothing serious. But the second bullet, it went through his arm, then... there has been massive destruction in the brain, trauma, bone fragments. All I could do was add paravene to the IV solution. It reduces the extent of injury in brain trauma cases, reduces the cerebral metabolic rate so cells don't die quickly of anoxia. If he lives, well, he will probably never gain consciousness. It's too early to tell anything more than that. He's going by helicopter now to a hospital in San Diego."

"I'm looking for a Mr. Rohart," a policeman said, coming into the room.

"Over here."

"I was told to tell you that your tip was right. Only too late. The premises in question, the property of a Mr. Delaney. It was cleared out completely a couple of hours ago. A rental van was spotted at the scene. We're trying to track it. The investigating officer said to tell you all the computers, files and records were gone."

"Thank you, thank you for telling me." Rohart clamped his lips shut, aware of the tremor in his voice. Cordoba was still there, listening.

"Delaney was working on an artificial intelligence project," he said.

"The AI project. And he had it—we had it. A machine with almost human abilities."

"And now?"

"Someone else has it. Someone ruthless. Smart and ruthless. To plan a thing like this and get away with it. They have it."

"But they'll be found. They can't get away with it."

"Of course they can. They are not going to make the theft public. Or announce their new AI tomorrow. It will happen—but not right away. Don't forget that a number of research people are working on AI. You'll see, it will happen one day, apparently and logically, with no relation to what happened tonight, and there will be nothing that can be proved. Some other company will have AI. And as certain as that is—it is equally certain that it won't be Megalobe. As far as anyone will be able to tell, Brian died and his work died with him."

Cordoba had a sudden, ghastly thought. "Why does it have to be another company? Who else is interested in artificial intelligence?"

"Who indeed! Only every other country on the face of the globe. Wouldn't the Japanese just love to get their hands on real, working AI? Or the Germans, Iranians—or anyone."

"What about the Russians—or anyone else trying a power play? I don't think I would like to see an invading army of tanks driven by machine intelligences without fear or fatigue, attacking nonstop. Or torpedoes and mines with eyes and brains that just bob up and down in the ocean until our ships go by."

Rohart shook his head. "That kind of worry is out of date. Tanks and torpedoes aren't what count anymore. The new name of the game is productivity. With real AI a country could run rings around us, put us in the economic poorhouse."

He looked around with distaste at the ruined laboratory.

"They have it now, whoever they are."

2

February 9, 2023

The Learjet was flying at 47,000 feet, well above the seething cumulus clouds. Even at this altitude there was still the occasional clear air turbulence, reminder of the storm below. There was only a single passenger, a solidly built man in his late forties, working steadily through a sheaf of reports.

Benicoff stopped reading long enough to take a swig from his glass of beer. He saw that the receive light on his E-fax was blinking as more messages poured in over the phone link and were stored in memory. Benicoff displayed them on the screen as fast as they arrived, until the exact extent of the disaster at the Megalobe laboratories was made all too clear. The light blinked as more messages arrived but he ignored them. The basic facts were fantastic and terrible beyond belief—and there was nothing he could do about the matter until he got to California. Therefore he went to sleep.

Anyone else in his position would have stayed up all night, worrying and working on possible solutions. That was not Alfred J. Benicoff's way. He was a man of immense practicality. Worrying now would just be a waste of time. Not only that, he could certainly use the rest, since the future promised to be an exceedingly busy one. He settled the pillow behind his head, let down the back of his seat, closed his eyes and was asleep at once. As the muscles in his tanned face relaxed, the lines of tension eased and he looked even younger than his fifty years. He was a tall, solid man just beginning to add a thickness to his waist that no amount of dieting could take away. He had played football when he was at Yale, line, and had managed to keep in condition ever since. He needed to be in this job where sleep was sometimes at a premium.

Benicoff's official title was Assistant to the Commissioner of DARPA, but this was a courtesy title with little real meaning, basically a front for his work. In practice he was the top scientific troubleshooter in the country—and reported directly to the President.

Benicoff was called on when research projects got into trouble. To prepare himself for the worst, he made it his job to check on work in progress whenever possible. He visited Megalobe as often as he could because of the extensive research being done there. But that was partly an excuse. Brian's research was what fascinated him the most and he had come to know and like the young scientist. That was why he took this attack personally.

He woke with the whining thud of the landing gear locking into place. It was just dawn and the rising sun sent red shafts of light through the windows when they turned in their final approach to the runway of the Megalobe airport. Benicoff quickly displayed and ran through the batch of E-fax messages that had come through while he slept; there were updates but no really new information.

Rohart was waiting for him as he came down the steps, haggard and unshaven; it had been a very long night. Benicoff shook his hand and smiled.

"You look like hell, Kyle."

"I feel a lot worse. Do you realize that we have no leads at all, all the AI research gone—"

"How is Brian?"

"Alive, that's all I know. Once he was stabilized and on life support the medevac chopper took him to San Diego. He's been in the operating room all night."

"Let's get some coffee while you tell me about it."

They went into the executive dining room and helped themselves to the black Mexican roast coffee; Rohart gulped some down before he spoke. "There was quite a flap at the hospital when they discovered the extent of Brian's injuries. They even sent a copter out for a top surgeon, someone named Snaresbrook."

"Dr. Erin Snaresbrook. The last I knew she was doing research at Scripps in La Jolla. Can you get a message through for her to contact me when she gets out of the O.R.?"

Rohart took the phone out of his pocket and passed the message to his office. "I'm afraid I don't know her."

"You should. She's a Lasker Award laureate in medicine, neuropsychology, and perhaps the best brain surgeon in this country. And if you check the records you will find out that Brian has been working with her on some of his research. I don't know any of the details, I just saw it in the last report filed with my office."

"If she's that good, then do you think that... ?"

"If anyone can save Brian then Snaresbrook can. I hope. Brian was a witness to what happened. If he lives, if he regains consciousness, he may be our only lead. Because as of this moment there are absolutely no other clues as to how this incredible affair was carried out."

"We know part of what happened. I didn't want to E-fax you the security details on an open line." Rohart passed over a photograph. "That's all that is left of what must have been a computer. Melted down by thermite."

"Where was it?"

"Buried behind the control building. The engineers say that it was wired into the alarm circuitry. The device was undoubtedly programmed to send false video and alarm circuitry information to Security Central."

Benicoff nodded grimly. "Very neat. All that the operators at Central ever know is what is shown on the screen and readouts. The whole world could come to an end outside— but as long as the screen showed recordings of the moon and stars—along with sound recordings of coyotes—the watch officer wouldn't be aware of anything outside. But what about the foot patrols, the dogs?"

"We haven't a clue there either. They're gone—"

"Just like the equipment—and everyone, except Brian, who was in the lab. There has been one hell of an incredible breach of security here. Which we will go into but not now. The barn door is wide open and your AI is gone..."

The phone buzzed and he picked it up.

"Benicoff speaking. Tell me." He listened briefly. "All right. Call back every twenty minutes or so. I don't want her to leave without talking to me. That is urgent." He folded the phone. "Dr. Snaresbrook is still in the operating room. In a few minutes I want you to take me to the lab. I want to see the entire thing for myself. But first tell me about these stock purchases in Japan. How does this relate to the theft?"

"It's the timing. Those sales could have been arranged to keep J.J. in his office until the lab had shut for the night."

"A long shot—but I'll look into it. We'll get over there now—but before you do that, I want to know exactly who is in charge."

Rohart's eyebrows lifted. "I'm afraid that I don't understand."

"Think. Your Chairman, your top scientist and your head of security have all vanished. Either they have gone over to the enemy—whoever that is—or they are dead..."

"You don't think—"

"But I do think—and you had better too. This firm and all of its research have been badly compromised. We know that the AI is gone—but what else? I am going to initiate a complete security check of all the files and records. But before I do, I ask the question again. Who is in charge?"

"I guess the buck stops with me," Rohart said with very little pleasure. "As Managing Director I appear to be the top official left."

"That is correct. Now, do you feel that you are able to keep Megalobe operating, manage the entire firm by yourself and at the same time conduct the in-depth investigation that is called for?"

Rohart sipped at his coffee before he answered, searching Benicoff's face for some clue and finding nothing there. "You want me to say it, don't you? That while I can keep Megalobe operational I have no experience in the kind of investigation that is called for here, that I am out of my depth."

"I don't want you to say a thing that you do not think is true." Benicoff's voice was flat, dispassionate. Rohart smiled grimly.

"Message received. You are more than a bit of a bastard— but you're right. Will you conduct the investigation? This is a formal request."

"Good. I wanted it to be completely clear where the line of demarcation lies."

"You're in charge, right? What do you want me to do next?"

"Run the company. Period. I'll take care of the rest."

Rohart sighed and slumped back in his chair. "I'm glad that you are here—and I mean that."

"Good. Now let's get over to the lab."

The door to the laboratory building was closed now—and protected by a large, grim man who wore a jacket despite the dry warmth of the morning. "ID," he said, unmoving in the entrance. He checked Rohart's identification, then glowered suspiciously at Benicoff when he reached into his pocket, grunted reluctant approval when he looked at the ID holograph and he saw who it was.

"Second door down there, sir. He's waiting for you. You're to be alone."

"Who?"

"That's all the message I have, sir," the FBI man said stolidly.

"You don't need me," Rohart said. "And I have plenty that needs doing in the office."

"Right." Benicoff walked quickly to the door, knocked then opened it and went in.

"No names while the door is open. Get in and close it," the man behind the desk said.

Benicoff did as he was told, then turned and resisted the impulse to come to attention. "I wasn't told that you would be here, General Schorcht." If Schorcht had a first name no one knew it. It was probably "General" in any case.

"No reason you should be, Benicoff. Let's just keep it like that for a while."

Benicoff had worked with the General before. He had found him ruthless, unlikable—and efficient. His face was as wrinkled as a sea tortoise—and he was probably as old as one. At one time in the misty past he had been a cavalry officer and had lost his right arm in battle. In Korea, it was said, though Gettysburg and the Marne were mentioned as well. He had been in Military Intelligence ever since Benicoff had known him; something high up, very secret. He gave orders, never took them.

"You'll report to me once a day, minimum. Oftener if there is anything of importance. You have the secure number. Input all your data as well. Understood?"

"Understood. You know that this is a real bad one?"

"I know that, Ben." For a moment the General relaxed, looked almost human. Tired. Then the mask dropped back into place. "You're dismissed."

"Is there any point in my asking what your involvement is in this matter?"

"No." The General made himself an easy man to hate. "Report now to Agent Dave Manias. He heads the FBI sweep team."

"Right. I'll let you know what they have found out."

Manias was in his shirt sleeves and sweating generously despite the cool of the air-conditioning, fueled by some furious inner fire as he punched rapidly into his hand computer. He looked up as Benicoff approached, wiped his palm on his trouser leg and shook his hand firmly and quickly.

"Glad you're here. Told to hold my report until you showed."

"What have you found out?"

"This is a preliminary report, okay? Just what we have so far. Data still coming in." Benicoff nodded agreement and the FBI agent stabbed at his keyboard. "Starting right here in this room. We're still analyzing all the prints we've found. But the odds are ninety-nine to one there'll be no aliens. Just employees. Pros wear gloves. Now look there. Plenty of scratches, grooves in the lino. Hand truck wheel marks. Rough guess from the records what was taken. At least a ton and a half of stuff. Five, six men could easily move all that out in well under an hour."

"Where did you get that one hour figure from?"

"Records. The front door here was opened by Toth and Beckworth. With private codes. From that time until everything blew was one hour twelve minutes and eleven seconds. Let's go outside."

Manias led the way through the front door and pointed to black marks on the white concrete outside. "Tire marks. A truck. You can see where it went over into the grass a little bit, left a groove."

"Can you identify it?"

"Negative. But we're still working on it. And the recorder on the main gate says it opened and closed twice."

Benicoff looked around, then back at the building. "Let me see if I can put together what we know. Just after the visitors entered the building, security was compromised for over an hour. They were blind and deaf inside Security Central, watching and listening to piped pictures and Muzak. During this period all security ceased—so we can assume that all of the guards were part of the operation. Or are dead."

"Agree..." His computer bleeped and he looked down at the screen. "An ID just in on a drop of blood found in a crack on the floor. The lab did a rush DNA match and the identification is positive. J. J. Beckworth."

"He was a good friend," Benicoff said quietly after a moment's silence. "Now let's find his killers. Who we now know were let into this building by one or more accomplices already inside. They entered the lab, and if Brian's condition is any clue they shot everyone there—and carried out everything they found that related to AI. Loaded the truck and drove away. To where?"

"Nowhere." Manias wiped perspiration from his face with a sodden handkerchief and moved his finger in a quick circle. "Other than the guards there is no one normally here after dark. There is empty desert on all sides with no homes or farms close by. No witnesses. Also, there are only four roads out of this valley. All sealed by the police when the alarm blew. Nothing. Copters searched out beyond the roadblocks. Stopped a lot of campers, fruit trucks. Nothing more. We've been searching a hundred mile radius since dawn. Negative results so far."

Benicoff kept his cool—but there was a sharp edge of anger to his voice. "Are you telling me that a large truck loaded with heavy files, and at least five men in it as well, just vanished? Right out of a flat, empty valley with desert on one end and a first-gear grade on the other."

"That's right, sir. If we do find out anything more, you'll be the first to know."

"Thanks—" His phone bleeped and he unhooked it from his belt. "Benicoff. Tell me."

"I have a message for you, sir, from Dr. Snaresbrook—"

"Put her on the line."

"I'm sorry, sir, but she disconnected. Message says meet me soonest San Diego Central Hospital."

Benicoff looked back at the lab building as he folded the phone away. "I want copies of everything that you find— and that means everything. I want your evaluation—but I also want to see every bit of evidence as well."

"Yes, sir."

"Fastest way to San Diego Central Hospital?"

"Police chopper. I'll get one now."

It was waiting on the pad when he reached it, rose up with a roar of blades as soon as he had buckled in. "How long to San Diego?" he asked.

"About fifteen minutes."

"Do a circle around Borrego Springs before we go. Show me the roads out."

"Sure thing. If you look over there, going straight east down the valley, past the badlands, you'll see the road to the Salton Sea and Brawley. If you look that way, in the foothills to the north, that's the Salton Seaway. Goes east too. Forty miles to the Salton Sea. Now, going south is that one, the SW5, with plenty of grades and switchbacks all the way up to Alpine. Pretty slow. So most folks use the Montezuma Grade there. We'll go west now, right over the top of it."

Below them the desert ended abruptly at the wall of surrounding mountains. A two-lane road had been scratched up from the valley rising and twisting higher and higher until it reached the wooded plateau above. Benicoff looked back as they climbed—and shook his head. There was just no way out of the valley that the truck could have taken that was not watched, blocked.

Yet it was gone. He put the mystery from his mind, filed it away and thought instead about the wounded scientist. He took out the medical reports and read through them again. It was grim and depressing—and from the severity of the injuries Brian was probably dead by now.

The copter bounced as they hit the thermals over the rocky valleys at the top of the grade. The plateau beyond was flat, grazing lands and forests, with the white band of a major road far beyond. Towns, cities—and the freeway in the distance. A perfect escape for the truck. Except for the fact that it would probably still be grinding up the twelve miles of eight-degree grade. Forget it! Think about Brian.

Benicoff found Dr. Snaresbrook in her office. Her only concession to age was her iron-gray hair. She was a strong and alert woman, perhaps in her fifties, who radiated a feeling of confidence; she frowned slightly as she looked at the multicolored 3-D image before her. Her hands were inserted in the DataGloves of the machine to rotate and move the display— even peel away layers to see what was inside. She must have just come from the operating room because she was wearing a blue scrub suit and blue booties. When Snaresbrook turned around, Benicoff could see that the fabric of the sleeves and front was spattered and stained with blood.

"Erin Snaresbrook," she said as they shook hands. "We haven't met before—but I've heard about you. Alfred J. Benicoff. You're the one who beat down the opposition to the use of human embryonic tissue grafts. That's one of the things that made my work here possible."

"Thank you—but that was a long time ago. I'm in government now, which means that I spend most of my time looking at other people's research."

"A waste of talent."

"Would you prefer a lawyer in the job?"

"God forbid. Your point taken. Now let me tell you about Brian. I have very little time. His skull is open and he is on life support. I'm waiting for the next V.I. records."

"V.I.?"

"Volume Investigation. Infinitely better than looking at X rays or any other single type of image. It combines the results of every available type of scan—including the old tomograms and NMRs as well as the latest octopolar antibody fluorescence images. These are all churned up together in an ICAR-5367 spatial signal processing computer. This can display not only images from the patient's data, but can also highlight or exaggerate the differences between that patient and the typical person, or changes since earlier scans of the same patient. So when the new V.I. data is ready I will have to go. Up until now it has been emergency procedures just to save Brian's life. First total body hypothermia, then brain cooling to slow oxygen intake and all the other metabolic processes. I used anti-hemorrhage drugs, mainly RSCH, as well as anti-inflammatory hormones. With the first surgery I cleaned the wound and removed necrotic tissue and bone fragments. In order to restore the anatomy of the ventricles I was forced to sever part of the corpus callosum."

"Isn't that part of the connection between the two halves of the brain?"

"It is—and it was a serious, and possibly dangerous, decision. But I had no choice. So at this time the patient is really two half-brained individuals. Were he conscious this would be a disaster. But, having severed the corpus callosum cleanly, I hope to be able to reconnect the two halves completely. Tell me—what do you know about the human brain?"

"Very little—and all probably out of date since my undergraduate days."

"Then you are completely out of date. We are at the threshold of a new era, when we will be able to call ourselves mind surgeons as well as brain surgeons. Mind is the function of the brain and we are discovering how it operates."

"Specifically, then, in Brian's case, how serious is the damage—and is it repairable?"

"Look here, at these earlier V.I. images, and you will see." She pointed to the colored holograms that apparently floated in midair. The three-dimensional effect was startling—as though he was looking inside the skull itself. Snaresbrook touched a white patch, then another. "This is where the bullet went into the skull. It exited here, on the right. It passed through the cortex of the brain from side to side. The good news is that the cerebral cortex of the brain seems mostly intact, as are the central organs of the middle brain. The amygdala here appears to be undamaged, as well as most important of all, the hippocampus, this roughly seahorse-shaped organ. This is one of the most critical agencies involved in forming memories, and retrieving them. It is the powerhouse of the mind—and it wasn't touched."

"That's the good news. And the bad—"

"There is some cortical damage, though not enough to be very grave. But the bullet severed a large number of bundles of nerve fibers, the white matter that makes up the largest portion of the brain. These serve to interconnect different parts of the cortex to one another—and also to connect them to other midbrain organs. This means that parts of Brian's brain are disconnected from the data bases and other resources that they need for performing their functions. Therefore at this moment Brian has no memories at all."

"You mean his memory is gone, destroyed?"

"No, not exactly. Look—the largest parts of his neocortex are still intact. But most of their connections are broken— see here, and here. To the rest of the brain they do not exist. The structures, the nerve connections that constitute his memories are still there—in various sections of his shattered brain. But they can't be reached by the other parts, so they are meaningless by themselves. Like a box full of memory disks without a computer. This is a disaster since we are our memories. Now Brian is essentially mindless."

"Then he is a... vegetable."

"Yes—in the sense that he cannot think. You might say mat his memories have been largely disconnected from his brain computers, so that they cannot be retrieved or used. He cannot recognize things or words, faces, friends, anything. In short, so far as I can see, he no longer can think to any degree. Consider this. Other than size, one could say that there is little observable difference between most of the brain of a man and a mouse—except for those magnificent structures of our higher brain—the neocortex that evolved in the ancestors of the primates. In this present state, poor Brian, my friend and my collaborator, is little more than a selfless shell, a submammalian animal."

"Is that it? The end?"

"No, not necessarily. Although Brian cannot actually think, he is definitely not brain-dead as the lawyers put it. A few years ago nothing more could have been done. This is no longer true. I am sure that you know that Brian has helped me in a practical application of his AI theories, the development of an experimental technique to rebuild severed brain connections. I have had a measure of success, but only on animals so far."

"If there is a chance, any chance at all, you must take it. Can you do it, can you save Brian?"

"It is too early to say anything with any degree of certainty. The damage is extensive and I don't know how much I can repair. The trouble is that in addition to the general trauma the bullet has severed millions of nerve fibers. It will be impossible for me to match up all of them. But I hope to identify a few hundred thousand and join them.''

Benicoff shook his head. "You just lost me, doctor. You are going into his open skull and identify something like a million different and severed nerve fibers? That will take years."

"It would if I had to do them one by one. However, computer-controlled microsurgical technology can now operate on many sites at one time. Our parallel computer can identify several connections every second—and there are 86,400 seconds in each day. If everything goes as planned the memory-probe process should only take a few days to identify and label the nerve fibers we must reconnect."

"Can this be done?"

"Not easily. When a nerve fiber is cut off from its mother cell it dies. It is fortunate that the empty tube of the dead cell remains in place and this makes regrowth of the nerve possible. I will be using implants of my own design that will control that regrowth." Snaresbrook sighed. "And after that, well, I fear that the nerve repair will just be the beginning. It is not simply a matter of connecting up all the severed nerves we can see."

"Why is that not enough?"

"Because we must restore the original connections. And the problem is that all nerve fibers look, and are, almost the same. Indistinguishable. But we have to match them up correctly to get the right connections inside the mind. Memory, you see, is neither in the brain cells nor in the nerve fibers. It is mostly in the layout of the connections between them. To get things right, we shall need a third stage—after we've finished the second stage today. After that, we shall have to find a way to access and examine his levels of memory—and rearrange the new connections accordingly. This has never been done before and I am not sure that I can do it now. Ah, here we are."

The technician hurried in with the multiscan cassette of the V.I. and inserted it into the projector; the three-dimensional hologram sprang into existence. Snaresbrook examined it closely, nodded grimly. "Now that I can see the extent of the damage, I can finish the debridement and prepare for the second and vital stage of this operation—the reconnection."

"Just what is it you plan to do?"

"I'm going to use some new techniques. I hope to be able to identify the role that each of his nerve fibers once played in his various mental activities—by finding out where each of them fit into his semantic neural networks. These are the webs of brain connections that make up our knowledge and mental processes. I must also take the radical step of severing the remaining portions of his corpus callosum. This will provide the unique opportunity of making connections to virtually every part of his cerebral cortex. This will be dangerous—but will provide the best chance to reconnect the two halves completely."

"I must know more about this," Benicoff said. "Is there any chance you will let me observe the operation?"

"Every chance in the world—I have had up to five residents in the O.R. breathing down my neck at one time. It's fine with me as long as you stay out of my way. What's this sudden interest?"

"More than morbid curiosity, I assure you. You've described the machines you use and what they do. I want to see them in operation. I need to know more about them if I am going to ever know anything about AI."

"Understood. Come along, then."

3

February 10, 2023

Benicoff, gowned and masked, stretchable boots pulled over his shoes, pressed his back to the green tiles of the wall of the operating room and tried to make himself invisible. There were two large lights on ceiling tracks that one of the nurses moved about and focused until the resident surgeon approved their positioning. On the table sterile blue sheets had been draped tentlike over Brian's still figure. Only his head was exposed, projecting beyond the end of the table and held immovably by the pointed steel spokes of the head holder. There were three of them, screwed through the skin of his scalp and anchored firmly in the bone below. The bandages that covered the two bullet wounds were stark white in contrast to his orange skull, shaved smooth and painted with disinfectant.

Snaresbrook looked relaxed, efficient. Discussing the approaching operation with the anesthesiologist and the nurses, then supervising the careful placement of the projector. "Here is where I am going to work," she said, tapping the hologram screen. "And this is where you are going to cut."

She touched the outlined area that she had hiked onto the plate, checking once again that the opening would be large enough to reveal the entire area of injury, large enough for her to work within. Nodding with satisfaction, she projected the holograph onto Brian's skull and watched while the resident painted the lines on the skin, following those of the image, matching it exactly. When he was finished more drapes were attached to the surrounding skin until only the area of the operation remained. Snaresbrook went out to scrub: the resident began the hour-long procedure to open the skull.

Luckily Benicoff had seen enough other surgical procedures not to be put off. He was still amazed at all the force that is needed to penetrate the tough skin, muscle and bone that armor the brain. First a scalpel was used to cut through to the bone; the scalp, spreading apart as it was severed, was then sewn to the surrounding cloth. After the bleeding arteries were sealed shut with an electric cautery it was time to penetrate the bone.

The resident drilled holes by hand, with a polished metal brace and bit. Bits of skull, like wood shavings, were cleared away by the nurse. It was hard work and the surgeon was sweating, had to lean back so that the perspiration could be dabbed from his forehead. Once the holes were through the bone he enlarged them with a different tool. The final step was to use the motorized craniotome, fitted with a bone-cutting extension, to connect the holes. After this had been done he worked the flat metal flap elevator between skull and brain to slowly pry up and free the piece of skull; a nurse wrapped the piece of bone in cloth and put it into an antibiotic solution.

Now Snaresbrook could begin. She entered the O.R., her scrubbed-clean hands held up at eye level, poked her arms through the sleeves of the sterile gown, slipped on the rubber gloves. The instrument table was rolled into position, the tools on it carefully laid out by the scrub nurse. The scalpels, retractors, needles, nerve hook, dozens of scissors and tweezers, all the battery of equipment needed for the penetration of the brain itself.

"Dural scissors," Snaresbrook said, holding out her hand, then bent to cut open the outer covering of the brain. Once it had been exposed to the air, automatic sprays kept it moist.

Benicoff, standing against the wall, could not see the details now; was just as glad. It was the final stage that mattered, when they rolled over the odd-looking machine that was now pushed back against the wall. A metal box, with a screen, controls and a keyboard, as well as two shining arms that rose from the top. These ended in multibranching fingers that grew smaller and smaller in diameter, each tipped with a glistening fuzziness. This was caused by the fact that the sixteen thousand microscopic fingertips at the branching ends of the instrument were actually too small to be seen by the human eye. The multibranching manipulator had been developing for only a decade. Unpowered now, the fingers hung in limp bundles like a metallic weeping willow.

It took the surgeon two hours, working with the large microscope, scalpels and cautery, to clean the track of destruction, a slow and precise debridement of the lesion left by the bullet.

"Now we repair," she said, straightening up and pointing to the manipulator. Like everything else in the O.R. it was on wheels; it was pushed into position. When it was switched on, the fingers stirred and rose, descended again under her control into the brain of its designer.

Snaresbrook's skin was gray and there were black smears of fatigue under her eyes. She sipped her coffee and sighed.

"I admire your stamina, Doctor," Benicoff said. "My feet hurt just from standing there and watching. Do all brain operations last that long?"

"Most of them. But this one was particularly difficult because I had to insert and fix those microchips into place. It was like combining surgery with solving a jigsaw puzzle, since every one of those PNEPs had a different shape in order to perfectly contact the surface of brain."

"I saw that. What do they do?"

"They are PNEP film chips—programmable neural electron pathway devices. I have applied them to every injured surface of his brain. They will make connections to the cutoff nerve fibers that end at those surfaces, that control the regrowth of Brian's nerves. They have been under development for years and have been thoroughly tested in animals. These chips have also been wonderfully effective in repairing human spinal injuries. But until now they have never been used inside human brains, except in a few small experiments. I would certainly not be using them if there were any good alternative."

"What will happen next?"

"The chips are coated with living embryonic human nerve cells. What they should do is grow and provide physical connections from the end of each of the severed nerves to at least one of the quantum transistor gates on the surface of the PNEP. That process of growth should already have started, and will continue for the next few days."

"As soon as those new nerve fibers grow in, I'll start to program the PNEP chips. Each chip has enough switching capacity to take every nerve signal that comes in from any part of the brain and route it out along an appropriate nerve fiber that goes to another location in the brain."

"But how could you know exactly where to send it?"

"That is precisely the problem. We will be dealing with several hundred million different nerves—and we don't know now where any of them should go. The first stage will be to follow Brian's brain's anatomy. This should give us a crudely approximate map of where most of those fibers should go. Not enough to support fine-grained thought but enough, I hope, to restore a minimal level of functional recovery, despite all the errors in wiring. For example, if the motor area of his brain sends a signal to move, then some muscle should move, if not the right one. So we'll have a response that later could be relearned or retrained. I have implanted a connector in Brian's skin, just about here." Erin touched the back of her neck just above her collar. "The computer communicates by inserting the microscopic ends of fiber-optic cables that communicate with each of the PNEP chips inside. Then we can use the external computer to do the search—to find opposite areas relating to the same memories or concepts. Once these are found, the computer can send signals to establish electronic pathways inside, between the appropriate PNEPs. Each separate chip is like an old-fashioned telephone exchange where one phone was plugged through a board to another phone. I'll start using the neural telephone exchange inside Brian's brain to reestablish the severed connections."

Ben took a deep breath. "That's it, then. You'll restore all of his memory!"

"Hardly. There will be memories, skills and abilities that will be lost forever. Really all I hope to do is restore enough so Brian may be able to relearn what is now gone. An incredible amount of work is needed. To understand the complexity of the brain, you must realize that there are many times more genes involved in growing the structure of the brain than in any other organ."

"I appreciate that. Do you believe that the personality, the person we know as Brian, is still alive?"

"I believe so. During the operation I saw his limbs move through the drapes, a familiar movement that reminded me of the way we move when we are dreaming. A dream! What could that half-ruined brain possibly dream about?''

Darkness...

Timeless darkness, warm darkness.

Sensation. Memory.

Memory. Awareness. Presence. Around and around and around. Going nowhere, relating to nothing else, an endless loop.

Darkness. Where? The closet. Safety was in the darkness of the closet. Refuge of a child. No light. Just sound. The memory repeated itself, over and over.

Sound? Voices. Voices he knew. Voices he hated. And a new one. A strange one. An accent like on telly. Not Irish. American, he recognized that. Americans, they came to the village. To the pub. Took pictures. One took a picture of him. Gave him a golden twenty pence. Spent it on sweets. Ate them all. Americans.

Here? In this house. Curiosity took his hand to the knob on the closet door. He held it, turned it and opened it slowly. The voices were louder now, clear. Shouting even, that would be his uncle Seamus.

"A bloody sodding nerve to come here! Nerves of brass, you blackguard. Come here right to the house where she died and all. Bloody nerve—"

"There is no need to shout, Mr. Ryan. I told you why I came. This."

That was the new voice. American. Not really American. As Irish as everyone, but sometimes American. This was too unusual to miss. Brian forgot his anger at being sent to his room so early, forgot his tantrum that had sent him to the closet, into the darkness to bite his knuckles and cry where no one could see or hear him.

On tiptoes he crossed the tiny room, the wood cold on his bare feet, warm on the rag rug by the door. Five years old, he could look out through the keyhole now without standing on a book. Pressed his eye close.

"This letter came a few weeks back." The man with the accent had red hair, freckles. He looked angry as he waved the piece of paper. "And there's the postmark on the envelope. Right here, Tara, this village. Do you want to know what it says?"

"Get out," the heavy, phlegmy voice rumbled, followed by a deep cough. His grandfather. Still smoked twenty a day. "Can you not understand the simple words—you're not wanted here."

The newcomer slumped back, sighed. "I know that, Mr. Ryan, and I don't wish to argue with you. I just want to know if these allegations are true. This person, whoever it was, has written that Eileen is dead—"

"True enough, by God—and you killed her!" Uncle Seamus was losing his temper. Brian wondered if he would hit this man the same way he hit him.

"That would be difficult since I haven't seen Eileen in over five years."

"But you saw her once too often, you twisting sonofabitch. Got her with child, ran out, left her here with her shame. And her bastard."

"That's not quite true—nor is it relevant."

"Get away with your fancy words!"

"No, not until I've seen the boy."

"I'll see you in hell first!"

There was a scrape and crash as a chair went over. Brian clutched the doorknob. He knew that word well enough. Bastard. That was him, that's what the boys called him. What had this to do with the man in the parlor? He did not know; he had to find out. He would be beaten if he did. It didn't matter. He turned the knob and pushed.

The door flew back and crashed against the wall and he stood in the doorway. Everything stopped. There was Grandfer on the couch, torn gray sweater, the cigarette end in his lips sending a curl of smoke into his half-closed eye. Uncle Seamus, fists clenched, the fallen chair behind him, his face red and exploding.

And the newcomer. Tall, well dressed, suit and tie. His shoes were black and shiny. He looked down at the boy, his face twisted with strong emotions.

"Hello, Brian," he said, ever so quietly.

"Watch out!" Brian shouted.

Too late. His uncle's fist, hard from years in the mine, caught the man high on the face, knocked him to the floor. Brian thought at first that it was going to be one of those fights, like on Saturday night outside the pub, but it wasn't going to be like that, not this time. The newcomer touched his hand to his cheek, looked at the blood, climbed to his feet.

"All right, Seamus, maybe I deserved that. But just that once. Put your fists down, man, and show some intelligence. I've seen the boy and he's seen me. What's done is done. It's his future I care about—not the past."

"Look at the two of them," Grandfer muttered, holding back a cough. "Alike as two pennies, the red hair and all." His temper changed abruptly and he waved his arms, sparks flying from his cigarette. "Get back into your room, boy! Nothing here for you to see—nothing here for you to hear.

Inside before you feel my hand."

* * *

Incomplete, disjointed, adrift in time. Memories, long forgotten, disconnected. Surrounded and separated by blackness. Why was it still dark? Paddy Delaney. His father.

Like slides in a cinema, flickering and quick, too quick to see what was happening. The blackness. The slides, suddenly clear again.

A loud roaring, the window before him bigger than any window he had seen before, bigger even than a shop window. He clutched tightly at the man's hand. Frightened, it was all so strange.

"That's our plane," Patrick Delaney said. "The big green one there with the bump on top."

"747-8100. I seen a pitcher in the paper. Can we go into it now?"

"Very soon—as soon as they call it. We'll be the first ones aboard."

"And I'm not gonna go back to Tara?"

"Only if you want to."

"No. I hate them." He sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Looked up at the tall man at his side. "You knew my mother?"

"I knew her very well. I wanted to marry her but—there were reasons we couldn't get married. When you are older you will understand."

"But—you're my father?"

"Yes, Brian, I am your father."

He had asked the question many times before, never really sure that he would really get the right answer. Now, here, in the airport with the big green plane before them, he believed it at last. And with the belief something seemed to swell up and burst inside him and tears welled out and ran down his face.

"I never, never want to go back."

His father was on his knees, holding him so tightly that he could barely breathe—but that was all right. Everything was all right. He smiled and tasted the salt tears, smiling and crying at the same time and unable to stop.

4

February 12, 2023

Erin Snaresbook was tired when she entered the operating room the next day. Yet when she saw Brian she forgot the fatigue. So much had been done; so much was left to do. The wrecked brain tissue, mostly white matter, had been removed. "I am about to begin the implanting series," she said, almost in a whisper to herself. This was for the record, not for the edification of the others working in the O.R. The sensitive microphones would pick up her words, no matter how softly or loudly she spoke, and record everything. "All of the dead tissue has now been removed. I am looking at a severed section of white tissue. This is the area where the axons of many neurons have been severed. The proximal end of each cut nerve will still be alive because the cell body will be located there. But the distal end, the other part of the axon that goes on to join the synapses of other cells, all these will be dead. Cut off from food and energy supplies. This necessitates two different techniques. I have made molds of the surfaces of the cleanly cut and transected areas of white matter. Flexible PNEP microfilm chips have been fabricated from these molds. The computer remembers each mold so will know where each matching chip is to go. Connective tissue cells will anchor the chips into place. First the proximal fibers will be freed up to make contact with the connection chips as I insert them. Each axon stump will be coated with growth-stimulating protein. The chip film is coated with chemical spots that when electrically released will attract each growing axon to extend and then attach itself to the nearest film-chip connection pad. That is what I will begin doing now."

As she talked she activated the connecting machine and instructed it to move over the open skull, told it to descend. When she did this the tiny, branching fingers slowly widened, spread apart, moved slowly downward. The computing capacity of the machine's computer was so great that every single one of the microscopically fine fingers was separately controlled. The fingertips themselves did not contain the lenses, which needed a larger number of wavelengths of light to form an image. So the lenses themselves were a few branches back. The image from the lens on each finger was relayed back to the computer, where it was compared with the other images to build an internal three-dimensional model of the severed brain. Down the tendrils went again, some moving slower man the others until they were close to the surface, spread out and obscuring the surgeon's view of the area.

Snaresbrook turned to the monitor screen, spoke to it.

"Lower. Stop. Lower. Tilt back. Stop."

Now she had the same view as the computer. A close-up image of the severed surfaces that she could zoom in on—or move back to get an overall view.

"Begin the spray," she ordered.

One in ten of the tendrils was hollow; in reality they were tiny tubes with electronic valves at the tip. The spray—it had to be a microscopically fine spray so small were the orifices—began to coat the surface of the severed brain. It was an invisible electrofluorescent coating.

"Turn down the theater lights," she ordered, and the overall illumination dimmed.

The connection machine was satisfied with its work and had stopped spraying. After selecting the lowest area of the wound, Snaresbrook sent the tiniest amount of ultraviolet light down the hair-thin fiber optics.

On the screen a pattern of glowing pinpoints speckled the brain's surface.

"The electroluminescent coating has now been sprayed onto all the nerve endings. Under UV light it emits enough photons to be identified. Only those nerves that are still alive cause the reaction that is activated by the UV. Next I will put the implants into place."

The implants, specially manufactured to conform to the contours of the raw surfaces of Brian's brain, were now in a tray in which they were immersed in a neutral solution. The tray was placed on the table next to Brain's head and the cover removed. With infinitely delicate touch the tendrils dropped down into it.

"These PNEP implants are custom-made. Each consists of layers of films, flexible organic-polymer semiconductor arrays. Flexible and stretchable because the severed tissues of the brain will have changed slightly since they were measured for the manufacture of these chips. That is what is going to happen next. The chips appear to look identical, but of course they are not. The computer measured and designed each of them to fit precisely to a selected area of the exposed brain. Now it is able to recognize and match each of them to the correct area. Each film has several optical-fiber connecting links that will be attached to adjoining chips multiplexing in-out cross-communication signals between parts of the brain. If attention is directed to the upper surface of the films it will be seen that there is also an I-O wire on each of them. The importance of this will be explained at the next operation. This particular session will be completed when all ten thousand of the implants are in place. The process will now begin."

Although Snaresbrook was there to supervise, it was the computer that controlled the implants, the fingers moving so fast that they blurred into invisibility. In flashing procession the thin-film chips were guided one after the other into place, until the last one was secure. The fingers withdrew and Snaresbrook felt some of the tension drain away. She straightened and realized that the pain in her back was sharp as a knife point. She ignored it.

"The next stage, the connecting process, has now begun. The film surfaces are a modification of active matrix display technology. The object is for each semiconductor, when activated by the luminescence, to identify a live nerve. Then to make a physical connection with that nerve. The films are coated with the correct growth hormones to cause the incoming nerve fibers to form synapses with the input transistors. The importance of these connections will be made manifest at the next implant procedure. Each dead distal fiber must be replaced by a fetal cell that is genetically engineered to grow a new axon inside the sheath of the cell it is replacing—then grow new synapses to replace the old, dying distal ones. At the same time as the fetal cells, dendrites will grow to contact the output pad on the film chip."

The operation took almost ten hours. Snaresbrook was present the entire time.

When the last connection had been made the fatigue hit like a locomotive. She stumbled and had to clutch the door frame as she left the room. Brian required constant monitoring and attention after the operation—but the nursing staff could handle this.

The procedures to mend Brian's brain were exhausting— yet she still had other patients and scheduled operations that had to be done. She rescheduled them, sought out and received the best assistance from the top surgeons, took only the most urgent cases. Yet she was still working a full twenty-four hours, had been for days. Her voice trembled as she made verbal notes on the procedure just finished. Her desk computer would record and transcribe them. Dexedrine would see her through the day. Not a good idea but she had little choice.

Finished, she yawned and stretched.

"End of report. Intercom on. Madeline." The desk computer accepted the new command and bleeped the secretary.

"Yes, Doctor."

"Send in Mrs. Delaney now."

She rubbed her hands together and straightened her back. "Switch on and record as file titled Dolly Delaney," she said, then checked to see that the tiny red indicator in the base of the desk light came on. The door opened and she smiled at the woman who hesitantly entered. "It was very good of you to come," Snaresbrook said, smiling, standing slowly and indicating the chair on the other side of the desk. "Please make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Delaney."

"Dolly, if you please, Doctor. Can you tell me how he is?" Her voice had a tight edge to it as though she was working hard to keep it under control as she spoke. A thin, sharp-eyed woman clutching her large handbag in her lap with both hands; a barrier before her.

"Absolutely no change, Dolly, not since I talked to you yesterday. He is alive and we must be grateful for that. But he has been gravely injured and it is going to be weeks, possibly months, before we will know the outcome of the procedures. That is why I need your help."

"I'm not a nurse, Doctor. I don't see what I can possibly do." She straightened the purse on her lap, keeping the barrier in place. She was a good-looking woman—would have looked better if the corners of her mouth hadn't turned down sharply. She had the appearance of a person the world had not been kind to and who resented it. "You say you need help— yet I don't have any idea at all what has happened to Brian. Whoever called me simply said that there had been an accident in the laboratory. I had hoped that you would be able to tell me more. When will I be able to see him?"

"Just as soon as possible. But you must realize that Brian has suffered extensive cranial damage. Severe trauma of the white matter of his brain. There is—memory impairment. But he can be helped if I find a way to evoke enough of his early memories. That is why I need more information about your son..."

"Stepson," she said firmly. "Patrick and I adopted him."

"I didn't know, I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Doctor, there is certainly nothing to be sorry about. It is common knowledge. Brian is Patrick's natural son. Before we met, before he left Ireland, he had this... liaison with a local girl. That was Brian's mother." Dolly took a lace hanky from her bag, touched it to her palms, pushed it back into the bag, which closed with a loud snap.

"I would like to know more about that, Mrs. Delaney."

"Why? It's past history, nobody's business now. My husband is dead, has been for nine years. We had... separated by that time. Divorced, I have been living with my family in Minnesota. He and I did not communicate. I didn't even know that Paddy was ill, no one ever told me anything. You can understand my being a little bitter. The first I knew that something was wrong with his health was when Brian called me about the funeral. So that is all in the past as you can see."

"I am very sorry to hear about the separation. But, tragic as this is, it does not alter in any way the earlier details about Brian's life. That is what you must tell me about. It is Brian's developing years that I want to understand. Now that your husband is dead, you are the only person in the world who can supply this information. Brian's brain has been severely injured, large areas have been destroyed. He needs your help in restoring his memories. I admit that much of what I am doing is experimental, never tried before. But it is the only chance he has. In order to succeed I must know where to look—and what to look for in his past.

"The problem is that in order to reconstruct Brian's memories I will have to retrace his mind's development from his infancy and childhood. The enormous structure of a human mind can be rebuilt only from the bottom up. The higher-level ideas and concepts cannot be activated until their earlier forms again become able to operate. We will have to reconstruct his mind—his mental societies of ideas—in much the way they were built in the first place, during Brian's childhood. Only you can guide me at this point. Will you help me give him back his past in the hopes that he will men have a future?"

Dolly's mouth was clamped tightly shut, her lips white with the strain. And she was shivering. Erin Snaresbrook waited in patient silence.

"It was a long time ago. Brian and I have grown apart since then. But I raised him, did my best, all that I could do. I haven't seen him since the funeral..." She took her handkerchief out again and touched it to the corners of her eyes, put it away, straightened up.

"I know that this is very difficult for you. Dolly. But it is essential that I get these facts, absolutely vital. Can I ask you where you and your husband first met?"

Dolly sighed, then nodded reluctant agreement. "It was at the University of Kansas. Paddy came there from Ireland, as you know. He taught at the university. In the School of Education. So did I, family planning. As I am sure you know, there is finally the growing awareness that all of our environment problems are basically caused by overpopulation, so the subject is no longer banned in the schools. Paddy was a mathematician, a very good one, overqualified for our college, really. That was because he had been recruited for the new university in Texas and was teaching in Kansas until they opened. That was part of the arrangement. They wanted him under contract and tied up. For their own sake—not his. He was a very lonely man, without any friends. I know he missed Dublin something fierce. That was what he used to say when he talked about it, something fierce. Not that he talked about himself that much. He was teaching undergraduates who were there just for the credits and didn't care at all about the subject. He really hated it. It was just about that time when we began going out together. He confided in me and I know that he found comfort in my companionship.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this. Perhaps because you are a doctor. I've kept it inside, never talked about it to anyone before. Looking back now, now that he is dead, I can finally say it out loud. I don't... I don't think he ever loved me. I was just comfortable to have around. There is a lot of mathematics in demography, so I could follow him a bit when he talked about his work. He lost me rather quickly but he didn't seem to notice. I imagine that he saw me as a warming presence, to put it simply. This didn't matter to me, not at first. When he asked me to marry him I jumped at the chance. I was thirty-two then and not getting any younger. You know that they say that if a girl is not married by thirty that's the end of it. So I accepted his proposal. I tried to forget about all the schoolgirl ideas of romantic love. After all, people have made successes of arranged marriages. Thirty-two is a hard age for a single girl. As for him, if he loved anyone it was her. Dead, but that didn't matter."

"Then he did talk about this earlier relationship with the girl in Ireland?"

"Of course. Grown men aren't expected to be virgins. Even in Kansas. He was a very honest and forthright man. I knew he had been very, very close to this girl but the affair was long over. At first he didn't mention the boy. But before he proposed he told me what had happened in Ireland. Everything. I'm not saying I approved, but past is past and that's all there was to it."

"And how much did you know about Brian?"

"Just as much as Paddy did—which was precious little. Just his name, that he was living with his mother in some village in the country. She didn't want to hear from Paddy, not at all, and I knew that made him very upset. His letters were returned unopened. When he tried to send money, for the boy's sake, it was refused. He even sent money to the priest there, for the boy, but that didn't work either. Paddy didn't want it back, he donated it to the church. The priest remembered that, so when the girl died he wrote Paddy about it. He took it badly, though he tried not to show it. In the end he worked hard to put it all from his mind. That's when he proposed to me. As I said, I knew a lot of his reasons for what he did. If I minded I kept it to myself. She was dead and we were married and that was that. We didn't even talk about it anymore.

"That is why it was such a shock when that filthy letter came. He said he had to see what was happening and I didn't argue. After he came back from that first trip to Ireland, I have never seen anyone so upset. It was the boy that mattered now, past was past. When Paddy told me about his plans for the adoption I agreed at once. We had no children of our own, could have none, there were fertility problems. And the thought of this motherless little boy growing up in some filthy place at the end of the world, you see there was really no choice."

"You have been to Ireland?"

"I didn't have to go. I knew. We had been in Acapulco for our honeymoon. Filthy. People ought to realize that there is nothing wrong with the United States—and it is a lot better than all those foreign places. And by this time the new position had come through and Paddy was teaching at the University of Free Enterprise, double the Kansas salary. A good thing too, the amount we had to pay to those Irish relatives. But it was worth it to save the child from that kind of a life. Paddy did it all—nor was it very easy. Three trips to Ireland before it was settled. I fixed up the boy's room while Paddy went back that final time. He had a friend there, a Sean something he had been to school with. A lawyer now, a solicitor they call it over there. Paddy had to go to court, before a judge. Ours is a Catholic marriage, that was the first thing they wanted to know. No chance of adoption if we weren't. Then paternity tests, humiliating. But worth it in the end. The plane was four hours late getting in but I never left the airport. It seemed they were the last ones off. I'll never forget that moment. Paddy looked so tired—and the boy! Skin the color of paper, must have never been out in the sun for his entire life. Skinny, arms like matchsticks sticking out of that filthy jacket. I remember I looked around, almost ashamed to be seen with him dressed like that."

Snaresbrook raised her hand to stop her, checked again that the recording light was on. "Do you remember that moment well, Dolly?"

"I could never forget it."

"Then you must tell me about it, every detail. For Brian's sake. His memory has been—shall we say injured. It is there but we have to remind him about it."

"I don't understand."

"Will you help me—even if you don't understand?"

"If you want me to, Doctor. If you tell me that it is that important. I am used to taking things on faith. Paddy was the brains in the family. And Brian of course, I think they both looked down on me, not that they ever said. But a person can tell."

"Dolly, I give you my word that you are the only person in the world who can help Brian now, at this moment in time. No one can look down on you now. You must restore those memories. You must describe everything, just as you remember it. Every single detail."

"Well, if you say it is that important, that it will help, I will do my best." She sat up straight, determined. "At that time, when he was young, the boy was very dear to me. Only when he was older did he grow so distant. But I think, I know, that he needed me then."

They both looked so tired as they came toward her, Paddy holding the boy's hand. Father and son—there was no mistaking that red hair with the gold highlights.

"I must get the bags," Paddy said. His unshaven cheek rough when he kissed her. "Look after him."

"How do you do, Brian? I'm Dolly."

He lowered his head, turned away, was silent. So small too for an eight-year-old. You would have guessed his age at six at the most. Scrawny and none too clean. A bad diet for certain, worse habits. She would take care of that.

"I've fixed your room up—you'll like it."

Without thinking she reached out to take him by the shoulder, felt him shiver and pull away. It was not going to be easy; she forced a smile, tried not to show how uncomfortable she felt. Thank God, there was Paddy now with the bags.

When the car started the boy fell asleep almost at once in the backseat. Paddy yawned widely then apologized.

"No need. Was it an awful trip?"

"Just long and wearisome. And, you know"—he glanced over his shoulder at Brian—"not easy in many ways. I'll tell you all about it tonight."

"What was the problem about the passport you mentioned on the phone?"

"Red tape nonsense. Something about me being born Irish and a nationalized American and Brian still being Irish, though the adoption papers should have taken care of that. But not according to the American consul in Dublin. They found some forms to fill out and in the end it was easier to get Brian an Irish passport and sort the rest out at this end."

"We'll do that at once. He is an American boy now and has no need for a strange foreign passport. And wait until you see. I fixed up the spare room like we agreed. A bunk bed, a little desk, some nice pictures. He's going to like it."

Brian hated this strange place. He was too tired at first to think about it. Woke up when his father carried him into the house. He had some strange-tasting soup and must have fallen asleep at the table. When he woke in the morning he cried out in fear at the strangeness of everything. His bedroom, bigger than the parlor at home. His familiar world was gone—even his clothes. His shorts, shirt, vest, gone while he slept. New clothes in bright colors now replaced their grays and blacks. Long trousers. He shivered when the door opened, pulled up the covers. But it was his father; he smiled, ever so slightly.

"Did you have a good sleep?" He nodded. "Good. Take yourself a shower, right in there, it works just like the one in the Dublin hotel. And get dressed. After breakfast I'll show you around your new home."

The shower still took some getting used to and he still wasn't sure that he liked it. Back home in Tara the big cast-iron bathtub had been good enough.

When they walked out he felt that it was all too strange, too different to take in at once. The sun was too hot, the air too damp. The houses were all the wrong shape, the motorcars were too big—and drove on the wrong side of the road. His new home was a strange place. The pavement was too smooth. And water all around, no hills or trees. Just the flat, muddy-looking ocean and all the black metal things in the water on all sides. Why did it have to be like that? Why weren't they on land? When they had arrived at the big airport they had changed to another plane, had flown across the state of Texas—that is what his father had called it—to get here, an apparently endless and empty place. Driven from the airport and parked the car.

"I don't like it here." He said it without thinking, softly to himself, but Paddy heard.

"It takes some getting used to."

"Middle of the ocean!"

"Not quite." Paddy pointed to the thin brown line on the distant horizon; it shimmered in the heat. "That's the coast, just over there."

"There ain't no trees," Brian said, looking around at this strange new environment.

"There are trees right in front of the shopping center," his father said.

Brian dismissed them. "Not real trees, not growing in barrels like that. It's not right. Why isn't this place properly on the land?"

They had walked the length of the metal campus and the adjoining housing area. Stopped now to rest on a shaded bench overlooking the sea. Paddy slowly filled his pipe and lit it before he spoke.

"It's not simple to explain, not unless you know a lot about this country and how things work here. What it comes down to is that it is all a matter of politics. We have laws in the United States about research money, research projects at the universities, who can and cannot invest. A lot of our big corporations felt we were falling behind Japan, where government and industry cooperate, share money and research. They couldn't change the laws—so they bent them a little bit. Here, outside the continental three-mile limit, we are theoretically exempt from state and federal law. This university, built on old oil rigs and dredged land, is ruthlessly product-orientated. They have spared no expense at headhunting teachers and students."

"Headhunters live in New Guinea and kill people and cut off their heads and smoke them and shrink them. You got them here too?"

Paddy smiled at the boy's worried look and reached out to ruffle his hair; Brian pulled away.

"Different kind of headhunters. That's slang for offering someone a lot of money to leave their old job. Or giving big grants to get the best students."

Brian digested this new information, squinting out at the glare of the sun upon the water. "Then if you was headhunted here, then you must be something special?"

Paddy smiled, liking the way Brian's brain worked. "Well, yes, I suppose I must be if I am here."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a mathematician."

"Twelve and seven is nineteen like in school?"

"You start there and then it gets more complicated and more interesting."

"Like what f'rinstance?"

"Like after arithmetic there's geometry. And after that comes algebra—and then calculus. There is also number theory, which is sort of out of the mainstream of mathematics.''

"What's number theory?"

Paddy smiled at the serious expression on the little boy's face and started to dismiss the question. Then thought twice about it. Brian seemed to be always surprising him with odd bits of information. He appeared to be a bright lad who believed that everything could be understood if you asked the right questions. But how could he possibly begin to explain higher mathematics to an eight-year-old? Well, one step at a time.

"Do you know about multiplying?"

"Sure—it's fun. Like 14 times 15 is 210 because so is 6 times 35 and 5 times 42."

"Are you positive?"

"Ain't no mistake. Because they're both as 2 times 3 times 5 times 7. I like 210 because it's made up of four. different chunky numbers."

"Chunky numbers? Is that an Irish term?"

"Nope. Made it up myself," the boy said proudly. "Chunkies are numbers with no parts. Like 5 and 7. And big ones like 821 and 823. Or 1721 and 1723. A lot of the big ones come in pairs like that."

Chunky numbers was Brian's term for prime numbers, Paddy realized. Should eight-year-olds know about primes? Were they taught at this age?—He couldn't remember.

It was after eleven that night when Dolly turned off the television. She found Paddy in the kitchen. His pipe had gone out and he was staring, unseeing, out into the darkness.

"I'm going to bed," she said.

"Do you now what Brian seems to have done? All by himself. At the age of eight. He has discovered prime numbers. Not only that—he seems to have worked out some pretty efficient ways to find primes."

"He's a very serious little boy. Never smiles."

"You're not listening. He's very bright. More than that—he has a basic understanding of mathematics, something almost all of my students are lacking."

"If you think so then have them do an I.Q. test in school. I'm tired. We can talk about it in the morning."

"I.Q. tests are too culturally orientated. Later maybe, when he has been here a while. I'll talk to his teachers about it when I take him to school."

"Not the very first day you won't! He has to get used to things first, settle in. And it's about time you thought about your own classes, research. I'll take him to school tomorrow. You'll see, it's going to work out fine."

Brian hated the school. From the very first moment he arrived. Hated the big fat black headmaster. He was called a principal here. Everything was different. Strange. And they laughed at him, from the very beginning. It was the teacher who started it.

"That will be your class seat," she said, pointing not too precisely at the row of desks.

"The terd one?"

"The third one, yes. But you must say it correctly. Third." She waited, smiling insincerely at his silence. "Say third, Brian."

"Terd."

"Not turd, that is a different word. Third."

That was when the children laughed, whispered "Turd!" at him as soon as the teacher's back was turned. When the bell rang and the class ended he went into the hall with the others, but kept going right out of the school, away from them all.

"And that was the very first day in school," Dolly said. "Ran away after his very first class. The principal phoned and I was worried sick. It was after dark before the police found him and brought him home."

"Did he tell you why?" Snaresbrook asked.

"Never, not him. Either closemouthed or asking too many questions, nothing in between. Not sociable either. You might say that the only friend he had was his computer. You would think he would have had enough of that during school hours. All computerized now, you know. But no. As soon as he was home he would be right at it again. Not just games, but writing programs in LOGO, the language he had learned in school. Very good programs too, that's what Paddy said. The boy was writing learning programs that wrote their own programs. There was always something special between Brian and computers."

5

February 18, 2023

Benicoff was waiting when Snaresbrook came out of the operating room.

"Do you have a moment to spare, Doctor?"

"Yes, of course. You can tell me what is happening at your end..."

"Can we continue this in your office?"

"Good idea. I have a new coffee machine that I want to try out. It just arrived and was installed this morning."

Benicoff closed the office door, then turned and raised his eyebrows at the brass machine. "I thought you said new?"

"New to me, that is. This gorgeous device must be ninety years old if it is a day. They just don't make them this way anymore."

"With good reason!"

It was six feet high, an impressive gleaming array of valves, pipes, riveted plates, cylinders---all of which was crowned by a bronze eagle with wide-spread wings. Steam hissed loudly from a protruding pipe when Dr. Snaresbrook twisted a knob. "Espresso or cappuccino?" she asked, loading fragrant black coffee into the black-handled holder.

"Espresso—with a twist of lemon."

"I can see that you have been around. That's the only way to drink it. Is there any news on the thieves?"

"Negative—but a hard-worked negative. The FBI, the police and a dozen agencies have kept this investigation going night and day. Every possible lead has been followed, every detail of that night's events investigated exhaustively. Yet there's not a thing discovered worth mentioning since I talked to you last. That's good coffee." He sipped again and waited until Snaresbrook had made one of her own. "And that, I am sorry to say, is all that I have to report. I hope you have better news about Brian."

Erin Snaresbrook stared into the steaming dark liquid; stirred in another spoonful of sugar. "Basically the good news is that he is still alive. But the severed nerves deteriorate more every day. I'm racing against time—and I don't know yet if I am winning or losing. As you know, after a nerve fiber dies, a sort of empty tube remains. That was why I have implanted fetal brain cells to grow and replace those fibers. The manipulating machine will also inject tiny amounts of the nerve growth drug gamma-NGF to induce the fetal cells' axons to grow down those tubes. This technique was discovered in the 1990s by researchers looking for a way to repair spinal-cord injuries—they used to always result in permanent paralysis. Now we repair brain injuries by using this and another drug, SRS, that overcomes the tendency of mature brain cells to resist invasion by other nerve fibers trying to make new connections."

Benicoff frowned. "Why would brains do such a thing, if it keeps them from repairing themselves?"

"An interesting question. Most other body tissues are very good at making repairs, or admitting other cells that offer help. But think for a moment about the nature of a memory. It is based on the precise relations of unbelievably tiny fiber connections. Once those connections are made, they have to persist, with almost no change, for twenty, or fifty, or even ninety years! Therefore the brain has evolved many peculiar defenses of its own, defenses found in no other tissue, to prevent most normal kinds of change. It appears that the advantage of having better memory outweighs the advantage of being able to repair injury.

"Brian's recovery is going to take some time. The slowest part of the process will be regrowing the severed nerve fibers. That will require at least a few months, even using NGF, since we don't dare to use it in large doses. NGF causes uninjured brain cells to grow as well—which if not monitored closely will disrupt the parts of the brain that still work! To say nothing of the risk of cancer. Because of this, Brian's progress will be very slow."

"Will you be proceeding with this process now?"

"Not at once, not until the new nerve fibers have grown. When that has happened we will have to find out what the brain cells do on each side of the injury. When we have sorted that out, we can think about reconnecting the correct pairs."

"But there must be millions of them!"

"There are—but I won't have to untangle them all. I'll start by finding the easiest ones. Bunches of nerve fibers that correspond to the most common ideas, ones that every child has. We'll display pictures of dogs, cats, chairs, windows, a thousand objects like that. And look for fibers that are active for each one." For the first time she forgot her chronic exhaustion, buoyed up by enthusiasm.

"Then we'll go on to words. The average educated person normally uses about twenty thousand. That's really not very many when you think about it. We can play a tape of them in less than a day—then go on to word relationships, groups, sentences."

"Excuse my stupidity, Doctor, but I don't see the sense of this. You've been trying to talk to Brian for days now—with absolutely no sign of response. He doesn't seem to hear anything."

"It looks like that—but Brian is not a him right now. He is only a shattered brain, a collection of nonconnecting parts. What we must discover is what these parts, these agencies are—and reconnect them. That is the entire point of what we are doing. If we are ever to rebuild his mind, we must first go back and retrieve its parts, so that we can integrate them and bridge between his memories. And this was a good day as far as input. About Brian's early school years, the important, formative time that shaped his life to come. It was fortunate that your people located his school psychiatrist, he's teaching now in Oregon, and flew in. Man by the name of Rene Gimelle. He met Brian the first day the boy arrived in the school, saw him regularly after that. In addition he had many interviews with the boy's father. He gave us some excellent input."

"Is there anything wrong, Dr. Gimelle?" Paddy asked, trying to keep the concern from his voice and failing badly. "I came as soon as I got your message." Gimelle smiled and shook his head.

"Quite the opposite, very good news. When I talked to you and your wife last I remember telling you to be patient, that Brian was going to need time to adjust to this totally new life. Any child who is plucked from a small town—in a different country—and sent around the world is going to need time to get accustomed to all the changes. When I did my evaluation I was sure that Brian would have his troubles and I was prepared for the worst. It didn't take long to find out that he had been bullied and rejected by his peer group in Ireland, laughed at—if you will excuse the word—for being a bastard. Even worse, he felt rejected by all of his close relatives after his mother died. I have been seeing him once a week and doing what I can to help him to cope. The good news is that he seems to need less and less help. Admittedly, he's not very social with his classmates, but this should get better in time. As far as his classwork goes—it would be hard to improve upon it. With very little persuasion by his teachers he has gone from failing grades to straight A's in every subject."

"Persuasion sounds ominous. What do you mean?"

"Perhaps that was the wrong word to use in this context. I think rewards-for-effort might express it better. As you well know, experienced teachers will make sure that good behavior, good classwork, is noticed and complimented. It is really a matter of positive reinforcement, a technique with proven efficacy. Doing the direct opposite, pointing out failures, accomplishes very little—other than instilling a sense of guilt, which is almost always counterproductive. In Brian's case the computer proved to be the key to any learning problems he had. I've seen the recordings—you can look at them as well if you wish—of just what he has accomplished in a very few weeks—"

"Recordings? I am afraid that I don't understand."

Gimelle looked uncomfortable, arranging and rearranging paper clips on the desk before him. "There is nothing unusual or illegal in this. It is common practice in most schools—in fact it is required here at UFE. You must have seen it in your employment contract when you signed it."

"Hardly. There were over fifty pages of fine print in the thing."

"What did your lawyer say about it?"

"Nothing—since I didn't consult one. At the time life for me was, shall we say, rather stressful. What you are saying is that all of the students in this school have taps on their computers, that everything they enter can be seen and recorded?"

"A common and accepted practice, a very useful diagnostic and educational tool. After all, in the days of written notebooks they were turned in to be graded. You might say that accessing a student's computer is very much the same thing."

"I don't think it is. We grade notebooks—but not personal diaries. All of which is beside the point. I'll consider the morality of this dubious practice some other time. Now we are thinking about Brian. What did these clandestine recordings reveal?"

"An exceedingly unusual and original mind. LOGO, as you know, is more man a first computer language that children learn. It is very flexible when implemented correctly. I was delighted to see that Brian not only solved the problems of the class assignments, but when he had a solution he tried to write a meta-program that incorporated all of his solutions. He invented data bases of IF-THEN rules for his own programming. For example if an answer was needed then he would insert some lines of code. And edit later. Very easy to do in LOGO—if you know how— because all the tools are there. For example, while other students were learning to draw pictures, graphics programs, using LOGO, Brian was way ahead of them. He saved and indexed each useful drawing fragment with changeable parameters, along with geometric constraints on where to draw it. His programs now draw recognizable caricatures of the other students, and myself as well. They can even change expression. That was last week—and he has unproved the programs already. Now the figures can walk, and solve simple problems, right on the screen."

Paddy had a good deal to think about when he went home that night.

Benicoff and the surgeon both looked up, startled, when the door slammed open and General Schorcht stamped in, the pinned-up empty sleeve of his jacket swinging as he stabbed the index finger of his left hand at Snaresbrook.

"You. If you are Dr. Snaresbrook you're coming with me."

The surgeon turned about slowly to face the intruder. She had to lean back to look up at the tall General's face. She appeared not to be impressed.

"Who are you?" she said coldly.

"Tell her," Schorcht snapped at Benicoff.

"This is General Schorcht who is with..."

"That's identification enough. This is a military emergency and I need your help. There is a patient here in intensive care, Brian Delaney, who is in great danger."

"I am well aware of that."

"Not medical danger—physical attack." Benicoff started to speak but the General waved him to silence. "Later. We have very little time now. The hospital authorities inform me that the patient is too ill to be moved at this time."

"That is correct."

"Then the records must be altered. You will come with me to do this."

Snaresbrook's skin grew livid; she was not used to being spoken to in this manner. Before she could explode Benicoff quickly intervened.

"Doctor, let me fill you in very quickly. We have firm reason to believe that when Brian was shot, that others were killed as well. There must be national security involved or the General would not be here. I am sure that explanations will be forthcoming—but for the moment would you please be of assistance?"

Brain surgeons are well used to instant, life-and-death decisions. Snaresbrook put down her coffee cup, turned at once and started toward the door.

"Yes, of course. Come with me to the nurse's station."

The General had certainly made no friends since he had entered the hospital. The angry head nurse was reluctantly pacified by Snaresbrook and finally convinced of the urgency of the matter. She dismissed the other nurses while Snaresbrook managed to do the same with the staff doctor. Only when they were gone did the General turn to the gray-haired head nurse, who matched him glare for glare.

"Where is the patient now?" he asked.

She turned to the indicator board and touched a lit number. "Here. Intensive care. Room 314."

"Are there any other rooms on this floor that are empty?"

"Just 330. But it is a double..."

"That doesn't matter. Now change the indicator board and the records to show Delaney in 330, and 314 as being empty."

"There will be trouble..."

"Do it."

She did—with great reluctance. As she punched in the changes another nurse hurried in, still pinning on her badge. Schorcht nodded grimly.

"About time, Lieutenant. Get into the station. The rest of us are leaving. If anyone asks, the patient Brian Delaney is in room 330." He silenced the staff nurse with a quick chop of his hand. "Lieutenant Drake is a military nurse with a great deal of hospital experience. There will be no trouble." His beeper sounded and he switched on his radio and listened to it. "Understood." He put it back on his belt and looked around him.

"We have about two minutes, possibly. Listen and don't ask questions. We will all leave this area—leave this floor in fact. Lieutenant Drake knows what to do. We have just learned that there will be an attempt on the patient's life. I not only want to prevent this crime but obtain information about the would-be perpetrators. You can all help by simply leaving now. Understood?"

The General led the way; there were no arguments. Nurse Drake stood almost at attention as they were hurried down the corridor to the stairwell and off the third floor. Only when they were gone did she take a deep breath and relax slightly. She pulled her uniform straight and turned to the mirror on the wall to make sure her cap was square and correct. When she turned back she controlled her start of surprise when she saw the young man standing at the counter.

"Can I help you... Doctor?" she said. He was dressed in hospital whites and had an electronic stethoscope hanging from his pocket.

"Nothing important. I just came on. Passed some worried visitors asking about a Brian Delaney. A new admittance?" He leaned over the counter and tapped the indicator. "Is that him?"

"Yes, Doctor. Intensive care, 330. Critical but stable."

"Thanks. I'll tell them when I go out."

The nurse smiled at him. Nice-looking, tanned, late twenties, carrying a black bag. Still smiling, she put her hand to her waist and as soon as he had turned his back pressed twice on the button of what appeared to be an ordinary pager.

Whistling softly through his teeth, the young man went down the corridor, turned a corner and past 330 without a glance. He stopped at the next cross corridor and looked both ways—then ran swiftly and silently back to the room. No one was in sight. With his hand in the black bag he threw open the door and saw the empty beds. Before he could react the two men inside the room, one to each side of the door, pushed automatic pistols into his midriff.

"Whatever you're thinking of doing—don't!" the taller one said.

"Hello there," the young man said and let the bag drop, swinging up the bulbous-tipped revolver at the same time.

They fired to wound, not kill. Quick shots into his arms and shoulder. He was still smiling as he fell face-forward. Before they could grab him and roll him over, there was a muffled pop.

They looked very uncomfortable when Schorcht came stalking in.

"He did it himself, sir, before we could stop him. Single shot into the chest with an explosive bullet. Blew a great damned hole in himself. Nothing left to patch up—even being right here in the hospital."

The General's nostrils flared and his glare, aimed first at one then the other of them like a swiveling cannon, was far worse than anything he could have said. It smoked with demotion, reprimand, blighted careers. He turned on his heel and stomped out to the waiting Benicoff.

"Get the FBI onto the body. Find out anything, everything!"

"Will do. Can you tell me now what this is all about?"

"No. This is a need-to-know situation—and you don't need to know anything further. Let us say only that this Megalobe business has become slotted into something much larger that we have been aware of for some time. And this sort of attack will not be permitted to happen again. There will be guards here right around the clock until the patient can be moved. When he can he is going to go right out of here and over there, across the bay to Idiot's Island. Coronado. I don't like the Navy—but at least they are part of the military. They should be able to guard one man inside their hospital inside the largest naval base in the world. I hope."

"I am sure that they can. But you are going to tell me the background to this assassination attempt. Or my own investigation will be compromised."

"When the time comes you will be informed." Icily. But Benicoff was not buying it; his voice was just as cold as the General's.

"Not satisfactory. If the people behind this are the same as the ones who shot Brian then I do need to know. Now tell me."

It was a standoff—until General Schorcht reluctantly made the decision.

"I can tell you the absolute minimum. We have an informant in a criminal organization. He discovered this assassination attempt, contacted us as soon as he could. He knows only that the killer was hired—but as yet he doesn't know who made the approach. If and when he acquires that information it will be passed on to you. Satisfactory?"

"Satisfactory. As long as you remember to tell me." Benicoff smiled cheerfully in response to General Schorcht's glare of hatred, turned and left. He found Snaresbrook in her office, closed and locked the door before he told her what had happened.

"And no one knows yet who is behind this attempt, or why they are doing it?" the surgeon asked.

"The why is pretty obvious. Whoever stole the artificial intelligence equipment and details wants a monopoly—and no witnesses. They wanted to be sure that Brian would never be able to talk."

"In that case—let us see what we can do to interfere with their plans. But the relocation to Coronado will not be easy—or soon. Brian's in no condition to be moved, nor am I willing to interrupt the healing process. As I have said, this is a battle against time. So you and your obnoxious General will just have to find a way to make this hospital secure."

"He is going to love that. I'll take another coffee before I even think about facing him."

"Help yourself. But I have to get back to the O.R."

"I'm going with you. I'm staying there until I see just what kind of security the General comes up with."

6

February 19, 2023

The next morning Benicoff got to Dr. Snaresbrook's office just before she left for the operating room.

"Got a moment?"

"Just that and nothing more. This is going to be a difficult day."

"I thought you might want to know about the assassin. As was expected no identification, no labels in his clothes, no identification. His blood was more revealing. The report said that his blood type placed his origin in South America. Colombia in fact. I didn't know they could be that specific."

"Blood typing is getting more and more refined—and you will probably find that given enough time they will be able to pinpoint his origin exactly. Is that all?"

"Not quite. He had full-blown AIDS and was a three-bag-a-day heroin addict. He came down from his high just long enough to pull the job—but he had a hypodermic in his bag loaded with a dose that would kill a horse. So we have a hired gun, more than ready to kill for his expensive fix. The trail gets cold there but the investigators are trying to work through the people who arranged the contract with him for the hit. I have not yet even been told who they are or how this information reached us. So you will appreciate that it is not very easy."

"I appreciate. Now if you will excuse me I have to go to work. Come with me." They scrubbed and dressed in silence, then went into the O.R. Once more the covering on Brian's open brain was pulled back.

"This operation will hopefully be the last," Erin Snaresbrook said. "This is a computer that will be implanted in his brain."

She was balancing an oddly shaped black plastic form on the palm of her gloved hand, holding it up so that the camera that was recording the operating procedure could get a clear view of it. "It is a million-processor CM-10 connection machine with a 1,000-megahertz router and then a thousand megabytes of RAM. It has the capacity to easily do 100 trillion operations per second. Even after the implantation of the connection chip films there is space in the brain left for this where the dead tissue was removed. The computer case was shaped to exactly fit into this space."

She laid the supercomputer on the sterile tray. The tendrils of the machine above dropped down over it, examined it, picked it and rotated it into the correct position for implantation. When the preparation was complete the computer was lifted, then lowered into the opening in Brian's skull.

"Before being finally positioned the connections are made between the computer and each of the films. There, the connections have been made, the case is being fitted into its permanent position. As soon as the last, external connection is complete we will begin closure. Even now the computer should be in operation. It has been programmed with reconnection-learning software. This recognizes similar or related signals and reroutes the nerve signals within the chips. Hopefully these memories will now be accessible."

"It's a strange kind of graduation present," Dolly said. "The boy needs clothes and a new jacket."

"He'll get them, just take him shopping after school," Paddy said, grunting as he bent to tie his shoes. "Anyway, clothes aren't any kind of real present for a boy. Especially on an occasion like this. He's finished high school in less than a year and is looking forward to the university. And he's only twelve years old."

"Have you ever thought that we are pushing him too fast?"

"Dolly—you know better than to say a thing like that. There's no pushing here. If anything we have to work hard not to hold him back. It was his idea to finish high school so quickly because there are courses he wants to take that aren't available in secondary education. That's why he wants to see where I work. The security regulations prevented him coming until now. So this is a very exciting moment in his life because he now has all the grounding that he needs to go ahead. To him the university is the horn of plenty, bursting with good things to consume."

"Well that's all right. He really should eat more. He gets into that computer and forgets where he is."

"A metaphor!" Paddy laughed. "Intellectual food to feed his curiosity."

She was hurt, tried not to show it. "Now you're laughing at me, just because I worry about his health."

"I'm not laughing at you—and his health is fine. And his weight's fine, he grows like a weed and swims and works out just like every other kid. But his intellectual curiosity— that's what is different. You want to come with us? This is his big day."

She shook her head. "It's not for me. Just enjoy yourself and see that you are back by six. I'm making a turkey with all the trimmings and Milly and George are coming over later. I want to be cleaned up before they get here—"

The door crashed open and Brian thundered in.

"Aren't you ready, Dad? Time to go."

"Ready when you are." Brian was at the front door, almost out of it; Paddy called after him. "And say good-bye to Dolly."

"Bye," and he was gone.

"An important day for him," Paddy said.

"Important, of course," Dolly said quietly to herself as the door closed. "And I'm just the housekeeper around here."

The artificial island and attendant oil platforms were home to Brian now; he was no longer aware of this unusual environment. When it all had been new to him he used to explore the rigs, sneaking down the gangways to the bottom level with the sea surging around the steel legs below. Or up to the helipads, even climbing around a locked barrier once to clamber up the ladder to the communication mast on the administration building, the highest point in UFE. But his curiosity about these mechanical constructs had long since been satisfied; he had much more important and interesting things to think about now as they walked across the bridge mat led to the lab rig.

"All the electronic laboratories are here," Paddy explained. "That's our generator over there, the dome, since we need a clean and stable power supply."

"Pressurized water reactor from the submarine Sailfish. Junked in 1994 when the global agreement was signed."

"That's the one. We go in here, second floor."

Brian stared about in silence, tense with excitement. It was Saturday so they had the place entirely to themselves. Though an occasional sudden humming of drives and a glowing screen showed that at least one background program had been left running.

"Here is where I work," Paddy said, pointing to the terminal. A charred briar pipe was resting on top of the keyboard and he removed it before he pulled the chair out for Brian. "Sit down and hit any key to turn it on. I tell you I'm proud of this yoke, the new zed seventy-seven. It gives you an idea of the kind of work we're doing if they pop for something like mis. Makes a Cray look like a beat-up Macintosh."

"Really?" Brian's eyes were wide as he ran his fingers along the edge of the keyboard.

"Well, not really." Paddy smiled as he rooted in his pocket for his tobacco. "But it is faster in certain kinds of calculation and I really need it for the development work on LAMA. That's a new language that we are developing here."

"What's it for?"

"A new, rapidly developing and special need. You write programs in LOGO, don't you?"

"Sure. And BASIC and FORTRAN—and I'm learning E out of a book. My teaching has been telling me something about Expert Systems."

"Then you will already know that different computer languages are used for different purposes. BASIC is a good first hands-on language for learning some of the simplest things computers can do—for describing procedures, step by step. FORTRAN has been used for fifty years because it is especially good for routine scientific calculations, though it now has been replaced by formula-understanding Symbolic Manipulation systems. LOGO is for beginners, particularly children, it is so graphical, making it easy to draw pictures."

"And it lets you write programs that write and run other programs. The others don't let you do that. They just complain when you try."

"You'll discover that you can do that in LAMA, too. Because, like LOGO, it is based on the old language LISP. One of the oldest and still one of the best—because it is simple and yet can refer back to itself. Most of the first expert programs, in the early days of artificial intelligence, were developed by using the LISP language. But the new kinds of parallel processing in modern AI research need a different approach—and language—to do all those things and more. That's LAMA."

"Why is it named for an animal?"

"It isn't. LAMA is an acronym for Language for Logic and Metaphor. It is partially based on the CYC program developed in the 1980s. To understand artificial intelligence it is first vital that we understand our own intelligence."

"But if the brain is a computer, what is the mind? How are they connected?"

Paddy smiled. "A question that appears to be a complete mystery to most people, including some of the best scientists. Yet as far as I can see it's really no problem at all, just a wrong question. We shouldn't think of the mind and brain as two different things that have to be connected, since they are just two different ways of looking at the same thing. Minds are simply what brains do."

"How does our brain computer compute thoughts?"

"No one really knows exactly—but we have a pretty good idea. It isn't really just one big computer. It's made of millions of little bunches of interconnected nerve cells. Like a society. Each bunch of cells acts like a little agent that has learned to do some little job—either by itself or by knowing how to get some other agents to help. Thinking is the result of all those agents being connected in ways that make them help each other—or to get out of the way when they cannot help. So even though each one can do very little, each one can still carry a little fragment of knowledge to share with the others."

"So how does LAMA help them share?" Brian had listened with complete concentration, taking in every word, analyzing and understanding.

"It does this by combining an Expert System shell with a huge data base called CYC—for encyclopedia. All previous Expert Systems were based on highly specialized knowledge, but CYC provides LAMA with millions of fragments of common sense knowledge—the sorts of things that everyone knows."

"But if it has so many knowledge fragments, how does LAMA know which ones to use?"

"By using special connection agents called nemes, which associate each knowledge fragment with certain others. So that if you tell LAMA that a certain drinking-cup is made of glass, then the nemes automatically make it assume that the cup also is fragile and transparent—unless there is contrary evidence. In other words, CYC provides LAMA with the millions of associations between ideas that are needed in order to think."

When Paddy stopped talking to light his pipe the boy sat in silence for almost a minute.

"It's complex," Paddy said. "Not easy to pick up the first time around."

But he had misunderstood Brian's silence, misunderstood completely because the boy had followed what he had said to its logical conclusion.

"If the language works like that—then why can't it be used to make a real working artificial intelligence? One that can think for itself—like a person?"

"No reason at all, Brian, no reason at all. In fact that is just what we are hoping to do."