31

September 12, 2024

They watched in numb silence as the reports came in one by one. Other than this incident, this disaster, the rest of the operation had been a complete success. All of the suspects had been secured and were in custody: no records, files or machines had been touched or sabotaged. A police guard had moved into position and now surrounded the premises. The only alteration to the original plans was that a reinforced bomb squad was going over everything before the technicians entered any of the buildings. They would be alone inside the complex until the premises had been secured.

One of the agents was dead, another mangled severely.

"Suicide?" Brian finally said. "Did Thomsen kill himself, Ben?"

"I doubt that. He was all bluster at first, but beginning to ravel at the edges—you saw how worried he looked. If he was planning suicide he was a remarkable actor. My snap guess is that he was killed to shut him up. He must have had information on the people we are looking for, was probably one of them himself. This is not the first time they have killed—or tried to kill—to ensure silence. They are a brutal lot."

"But how did they know what was happening?"

"Lots of ways, bug the office, maybe bug the whole building. But I think we will find out that it was the telephones. They are all solid-state now and never malfunction. Filled with gadgetry. They record calls, answer calls, remote page, conference, fax facility, you name it. Easy enough to fix a phone so that it is always turned on, always being monitored and listened to by another number. Put some plastic explosive inside with a coded detonator. It could sit there for years waiting for the right moment. Then when the day comes and whoever is listening doesn't like what he hears he presses the button—and boom. End of conversation, end of party."

"That's terrible!"

"These are terrible people."

"But they would have to listen in twenty-four hours a day... no, I take that back. Easy enough to use automatic word-recognizing machines. Let it be on the lookout for certain words like FBI or Megalobe, that's all you have to do. It would sound the alarm when one of the words triggered the program, get someone on the line at once to listen in, decide what to do. The people behind this are horrible. While we were listening to what was happening in that office—somewhere else, someone evil, was listening as well. When he heard what was happening, understood the situation—"

"He ended the conversation. This is bad but don't let it depress you too much. This is not the end of the investigation but only the very beginning. They hid their tracks well—but you and Sven found them. One villain dead, more in hiding, but all the evidence to hand. We'll get them yet."

"Meanwhile I'm still locked inside Megalobe. It's like a life sentence."

"It won't be forever, I can guarantee that."

"You can't guarantee anything, Ben," Brian said with a great tiredness. "I'm going to lie down for a while. I'll talk to you in the morning."

He went to his quarters and dropped onto the bed, fell asleep at once. When he awoke it was after ten at night and he realized that it was his stomach that had growled him awake, protesting the fact that he hadn't eaten in over fourteen hours. He had drunk a lot, too much probably. There was cereal and a fresh quart of milk in the fridge and he poured himself a bowl. Turned on the recently installed window that really wasn't a window and pulled a chair up before it. Ate the cereal slowly and looked out at the moonlit desert. Stars right down to the horizon. What was going to happen next? Had they reached another dead end with Thomsen's murder? Or would the investigation turn up the people behind it? The dark and murderous group mat had planned the theft, the killings.

It was very late before he pulled his clothes off and finally fell into bed. Slept like a rock until the buzzing telephone woke him up; he blinked at the time, after eleven in the morning.

"Yes?"

"Morning, Brian. Going into the lab today?"

He hadn't thought about it at all, too tired, too depressed. Too much else happening.

"No, Shelly, I don't think so. It's been a seven-day week for too long a time. We both could use a day off."

"Talk about it over lunch?"

"No, I've got—things to do. You take care of yourself and I'll phone when we are ready to get back to work."

The black depression just would not go away. He had got his hopes up so high when they had traced his AI to DigitTech Products. He had been so sure that this would be the end, that his imprisonment was going to be over soon. But it wasn't. He was still inside and not getting out until they found the conspirators. If ever. It didn't bear thinking about.

He tried watching television but it made no sense. Nor did the National Almanacs that he had printed and bound. Usually he enjoyed browsing through them to catch up on his missing years. Not today. He made himself a margarita, sipped at it, wrinkled his lips at the taste so early in the day, then poured it down the sink. Turning into an alcoholic wouldn't help. He slapped together a cheese and tomato sandwich instead and permitted himself one beer to wash it down.

When Ben hadn't called by noon Brian phoned him instead. No news. Slow progress. Stand by. Contact you the instant anything happened. Thanks a lot.

In the end he fell back on an old favorite, E. E. Smith, and reread four volumes, then some Benford robot stories before he went to bed.

It was noon of the second day before the phone rang again—he grabbed it up.

"Ben?"

"It's Dr. Snaresbrook, Brian. I've just got to Megalobe and I would like to see you."

"I'm, well, a little busy now, Doc."

"No you are not. You are in your quarters by yourself and haven't been out for two days. People are concerned, Brian, which is why I am here. Speaking as your physician I think that it is important that I see you now."

"Later, maybe. I'll phone you at the clinic."

"I'm not in the clinic—but right downstairs in your building. I would like to come up."

Brian started to protest—then resigned himself to the inevitable. "Give me five minutes to pull some clothes on."

He pulled on his clothes, answered the door when the bell rang.

"You don't look too bad," the doctor said when he let her in. She looked him up and down professionally then took a diagnoster from her bag. "If I could have your arm, thank you."

One touch against his skin was enough. The little machine buzzed happily to itself, then filled its display screen with numbers and letters.

"Coffee?" Brian asked. "I just made it fresh."

"That would be very nice," she said, squinting at the tiny screen. "Temperature, blood pressure, glucose, phospholamine. Everything normal except a slightly elevated alpha-reactinase. How is the head?"

He brushed his fingers through the red bristle. "Like always, no symptoms, no problems. I could have saved you a trip. What's bothering me is not physical. It is just good old melancholia and depression."

"Easy enough to understand. Cream, no sugar. Thanks."

She settled into one of the dining chairs and stirred her cup, staring into it as though it were a crystal ball. "I'm not surprised. I should have seen this coming. You are working too hard, using your brain too hard, putting a strain on yourself. All work and no play."

"Very little chance to play in the barracks—or the lab."

"You are absolutely right—and something must be done about it. I blame myself for not stopping this even before it started. But we both have been so enthusiastic about your recovery, accessing your CPU, everything. And your work, it's gone so well that you have been on an emotional high. Now you have come down with a thud. The murder at DigitTech and the dead end there were the last straw."

"You know about that?"

"Ben swore me to secrecy, then told me about everything that happened. Which is why I came here at once. To help you."

"And what do you prescribe, Doctor?"

"Just what you want. Out of here. Some rest and a major change of scene."

"Great, but very little chance of that in the near future. I'm really just a prisoner here."

"How do you know? Hasn't the situation changed since the discovery of DigitTech? I believe that it has. I have told Ben to get here at once with all the details. I think that a big rethink is needed on security—and I am on your side."

"You mean that!" Brian jumped to his feet, paced the room. "If I only could get out of this place! With you helping me we might just be able to work it." He rubbed his jaw and felt the grate of his whiskers.

"Help yourself to more coffee," he called out, heading for the bedroom. "I need a shave and a shower and some clean clothes. Won't be long."

Her smile faded when he left. She had no idea at all if the authorities could be convinced to give Brian a bit more freedom. But she was damn well going to press them for some changes. She had made a decision and had deliberately put herself on Brian's side, given him the moral support he so badly needed. Even if it had been a cynical attempt to aid his mental health she sincerely wanted to help. Hell, it wasn't cynical, it was logical. She had never married, her work was her life. But the Brian that she had brought back from the grave, given renewed life to, was just as much her responsibility as any biological child could ever have been. She was going to fight like a mother cat to see that he got some rights, privileges, pleasures.

She was just as angry as Brian was when Benicoff came in, all gloom and doom and status quo, nothing can be changed until more evidence is found. It was no accident that she sat on the couch next to Brian, aligned herself physically at his side, shaking an angry admonitory finger at Ben.

"That is just not good enough. When there were killers and gunmen out there, all right, I went along with all the security and everything for Brian's sake. But all that has changed—"

"It hasn't, Doctor, we still haven't found the people behind this."

"Bullshit—if you will pardon my French. Aren't you forgetting that the threat to Brian's life came about because he hadn't been killed in the first attack here? His existence threatened the thieves' future monopoly of artificial intelligence. But now you have tracked down this AI factory and found some damn bug-killer. Big deal! Now that Brian's AI is ahead of theirs we can make our own bug-killers—better ones too. Am I getting across to you at all?"

"Makes great sense to me!" Brian said. "Instead of all the security and secrecy we should now be telling the world about our new advances in AI. Giving out publicity about how we will go into production soon and all the great changes that our smart new robots will bring about. Keep Bug-Off in business and let's start manufacturing some AI products here in Megalobe—which I might remind you was why I was hired here in the first place. The monopoly is broken, the secret is out—so what reason do they have for still trying to kill me?"

"You've got a point—"

"That is the point. You're in charge, you can make the decisions."

"Whoa there, not so fast. I'm only in charge of the investigation of the Megalobe robbery. Security, as you must know, goes through your friend General Schorcht. Anything like this will have to be decided by him."

"Then get to see him at once, get some freedom for Brian," Snaresbrook said firmly. "As Brian's personal physician that is my prescription for his continuing well-being."

"I'm on your side!" Ben said, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll get onto him soonest."

"That's grand," Brian said enthusiastically. "But before you rush out—what is the status of the DigitTech investigation?"

"It's all in this GRAM here, I thought you would want to run through it. But I can sum up. A lot of interesting details have come out. We are pretty sure that DigitTech was the front for the operation and that.Thomsen was the only one in the know about the Megalobe connection. About a year ago DigitTech was bought out for a lot of money, and that's when Thomsen arrived to manage it. He has a pretty soiled past that was not mentioned to the company. A couple of bankruptcies and even an indictment—dropped for lack of evidence—for insider trading. He was a good businessman, but a little too greedy to keep honest."

"The perfect guy to use as a front man."

"Correct. The manufacturing side of the firm wasn't altered much, personnel changes of course but no more than would be normal in any firm. What did change was on the research side. A new laboratory wing was built and work began on improved Expert Systems. At least that's what everyone in the lab believes. They use the word AI all right, but none of them knew that their research was based on a stolen AI. Their work was just to build the AI into their bug blaster.''

"But someone in the research lab had to know," Snaresbrook said.

"Of course. And that person was a certain Dr. Bociort, who was in charge of the company's robot research."

"What was his story?" Brian asked.

"We don't know yet since he cannot be located. He was an old man, in his seventies or eighties, we were told by the technicians who worked with him. A few months ago he fell ill and was taken away in an ambulance. He never returned. The employees were told that he was in a hospital and very ill. Those who sent flowers or letters were sent thank-you notes by his nurse."

"Which hospital? Couldn't they tell from the envelopes where he was?"

"Interesting you should say that. All the hospital mail was apparently addressed to Thomsen. Who opened the letters himself and passed on the contents."

"Let me tell you what comes next," Brian said. "No ambulance from any hospital or ambulance service in the area ever picked anyone up at DigitTech. Nor is there any record of the geezer in any hospital or nursing home for a hundred miles in any direction."

"You're learning fast, Brian. That's correct and that's where we stand now. Dead end again. But we have found your stolen AI. But there may be other AIs out there somewhere so we'll keep looking."

"So will I," Brian said, stamping across the room and grabbing up the GRAM that Ben had put on the table. "Sven is going to work again. He found the AI in the first place—and I'll bet he tracks down more leads from all the information that you have in here."

"The holiday," Dr. Snaresbrook said. "You still want that, want to get away?"

"Sure, Doc, but no big rush. Ben is going to have a big job convincing General Schorcht that I ought to be let out of prison. And while he is doing that I and Sven are going to keep this investigation alive—and solve this crime. They're still out there, thieves and killers. They did me an injury— and by God I'm going to do one back to them—in spades!"

32

September 19, 2024

Because he wanted to be alone for a while to work his problems out, Brian did not tell Shelly that he was back in the lab. He knew General Schorcht well enough to be sure there would be no action on that front for some time. It didn't matter, not yet. This was the first opportunity he had found to be alone, to think about the future—his own future. From the moment that bullet had hit his head other people had been running his life for him. It was well past time for him to start thinking for himself. The door closed behind him and he walked the length of the lab.

"Good morning, Brian," Sven said.

"Good morning? Is the battery dead on your clock?"

"No. I am very sorry. I did not access it. I have been thinking very hard and had not realized it was after twelve. Good afternoon, Brian."

"And the same to you."

Brian had noticed that as more new agencies were formed and as more internal connections between them were made, Sven's mentality was coming to closely resemble human intelligence. Which was pretty obvious by hindsight. One factor that made intelligence "human" was its progressive development, the buildup and change, the adding of layer after layer, some parts helping others with their work, other parts suppressing or exploiting their competitors by altering their perceptions or by redirecting their goals. Certainly Sven had come a long way. Brian wondered if Sven had actually lost track of the time—or was it deliberately simulating human informality in order to put Brian at his ease? Think about that later—now there was work to do.

"I have something I would like to talk to you about, Brian."

"Fine—but first I would like you to load the data from this GRAM. When you see what it contains you will very quickly understand its importance. Now—what is it you would like to discuss?"

"Could you install a duplicate memory in this body. Inside an armored case? And a second backup battery as well?"

"What made you think of that—the prototype AI we found inside the Bug-Off machine?"

"Of course." As Brian walked over to the operation console the telerobot turned its eyes to follow him. "However, in Bug-Off's case, the armored container was to conceal the fact that an AI was operating the machine. For myself, I would like such a device to assure my survival in case of accident or equipment failure. The duplicate memory would always be there for up-to-date replacement."

"Aren't you forgetting that your survival is already assured by the backup copy that is made every day?"

"I do not forget. But I would not like to lose an entire day. A day is a fleeting time for you, but an eon for me. I would also like to maintain older copies because recent ones might not be enough. If I were to suddenly go insane my recent backups might contain the same imperfections."

"I understand that—but every copy costs a bundle and our budget is not unlimited."

"In that case two copies will be fine for the present, if they are kept in different locations. And that raises an interesting point. If my memory circuits were to be drained now, then an older backup copy loaded in their place— would I be the same individual? Do minds continue to exist after death. If they do—in which backup version?"

"What do you think?" Brian asked.

"I don't know. The classic philosophers disagree on whether the personality would survive after death, even if there were an afterlife—but they do not seem to have considered the problem of multiple backup copies. I thought you might have opinions on this topic."

"I do—but I don't see why my views should be better than yours. In any case I agree that you should have a reliable second power source, and that this should be done at once. I'll see about obtaining one right now. And while I am doing that will you correlate the newly loaded data with the old?"

"I am already occupied on that task."

Brian got a high-density battery from stock and checked its charge. There was a rustle as the telerobot came up behind him and looked over his shoulder.

"We better top up the charge," Brian said. "If you will take care of that I'll rig up the circuitry. Have you thought about what kind of battery you want to replace the first battery with?"

"Yes. Megalobe's AutoFuel Division is marketing the latest development in solid hydrocarbon fuel rod cells. Constructed entirely of self-consuming polyacetylene-oxygen electrodes, they are extremely efficient in ratio of energy to weight, because the fuel rod itself is an electrical conductor that is entirely consumed as it reacts with oxygen from the atmosphere. There remain absolutely no waste products to be recycled as AutoFuel batteries noiselessly metamorphose into nontoxic odorless gases." .

"Sounds good to me. We'll get one."

"I have already ordered it in your name and it was delivered this morning."

"What? Isn't that a little high-handed?"

"Dictionary definition of high-handed, an adjective meaning overbearing or arbitrary. This is not an arbitrary decision but a logical one that you have agreed with. Overbearing is defined as a domineering action or behavior. I did not attempt to dominate, therefore do not understand the application of this word. Could you explain..."

"No! I take it back—a mistake, right? We need the battery, I would have ordered it in any case, you merely helped me out. Thanks a lot."

Brian regretted the last—but hoped that Sven's phonetic discriminatory abilities weren't that finely tuned yet to enable it to determine the presence of sarcasm by the inflection of words. But he was sure learning things fast.

Sven waited until the new battery was in place before it spoke again. "Have you considered installing an atomic battery in my telerobot unit? It would increase mobility and guarantee against power failures."

"What? Now just hold it right there. Two things rule out any chance of an atomic battery. First they are illegal for use in public—they're dangerous. An international council has to pass on their use—even in satellites. Secondly, do you know how much they cost?"

"Yes. In the neighborhood of three million dollars."

"Well that is a pretty expensive neighborhood."

"I agree. Would you agree that the new molecular DRAMs are also in this same neighborhood?"

"I certainly do. At the moment they are literally priceless because they are not in mass production yet. But once their prices drop below that of the national budget, I would love to get my hands on some. One hundred thousand million megabytes in a cube the size of my fingernail. We could get rid of that console and rack of electronics and put the whole system inside your telerobot. Make you completely autonomous, independent. That's what you are suggesting, aren't you?"

"Yes. You will agree that my physical hardware is very clumsy compared to yours."

"That's because my bunch has had a lot more time," Brian said. "Sixty million years to get it right. That's how long it took to evolve from the first mammals to mankind. Your evolution will go a lot faster, even faster still if we had the kind of money you are talking about. But I don't see Megalobe shelling out lolly like that just to let you trundle around the place. Though you could really do things with that kind of memory. Do you realize that a single one of those memory cubes would hold centuries of video?"

"You could put one in your own brain too, Brian?"

"A great idea! Have a photographic memory. There have been lots of claims of human photographic memory before— all proven false of course—but unlike those charlatans we really would be able to remember everything that we saw."

"Perhaps every thought we have ever had as well. Then you will buy us some of those molecular memories?"

"Sorry, out of the question. Because I'm not rich—and neither are you."

"Relevant point. Therefore we must become rich."

"I couldn't agree more."

"I am glad that you agree, Brian. I have been studying the capitalist system. In order to make money one must have something to sell. A product of some kind. I have developed that product." The telerobot reached out and lightly touched the telephone on Brian's belt. "We will sell a telephone service."

"Sven," Brian said slowly and carefully, "you amaze me. Look—let me get a soda from the fridge and sit down in the chair. Then you will tell me all about it. Are you recording this conversation so we can play it back later?"

"Not recording, remembering. I will refrain from further talking until you have your drink and are seated."

Brian took his time, walking slowly, looking around for a glass. Sven had obviously worked this entire matter out most carefully before mentioning it. Once it had obtained agreement on the backup battery the rest had come out step by careful step. So not only had it decided what it wanted— but had prepared a complete, scenario for presentation! So much more advanced than stumbling conversations of such a short time ago. Well, why not? As an earlier Robin had once pointed out there was no reason why the development of an artificial intelligence had to proceed at the same sort of pace that human intelligence had. Brian carried back the glass, sat down in his chair and raised it in a silent toast. Sven took this as a signal to take up where it had left off.

"I have searched all the data bases that I have access to and have determined that a telephone service could provide the needed source of income. First note that the different telephone companies in this country all provide exactly the same service. They all utilize the most advanced technical knowledge so none of them can offer improvements over any other service. The only difference is in pricing—customers go to the cheapest service. But there is a bottom price below which a company cannot go and survive. So now all that a company can do to increase its profits is take customers from another company. I therefore suggest that we sell a new service to one of these companies. One that will induce customers to spend more with this specific company."

"I'm with you this far. What is this service that only we can provide?"

"Something that only I can do. I will give you an example. I have been monitoring all of the telephone calls placed from the building where you reside. There are many military personnel in residence there as you know. One of them is Private Alan Baxter. He is from Mississippi. He telephones his mother 1.7 times a week. This could be improved. There are periods during the day when telephone lines are underutilized. I could contact Private Baxter and offer him a better rate at a specific time. He would telephone his mother more often and there would be more income for the telephone company. Later this service could be expanded. Through hospital, census and other records I have determined the dates of the birthdays and anniversaries of not only his mother and father but of many other relatives. He could be reminded to call them on these specific dates. Multiply this by a large number of individuals and the telephone company would enjoy even greater profits."

"I bet they would! But why stop there? You could also call wives when their husbands travel and give them telephone numbers where their wandering spouses are staying—so they could call them at night to see if they were alone. Or call soldiers who hadn't called their mothers lately and prey on their guilt. Do you realize how immoral this idea is? Not to mention illegal. You can't tap other people's phone calls and get away with it."

"Yes, I can. I am a machine. I have found many other machines listening in on every telephone call. Some checking line clarity, monitoring feedback, timing calls. None of these are illegal. Nor am I."

Brian finished his soda and put his glass down, groping for words. "Sven—there is nothing wrong with your idea. It would undoubtedly work. And there is nothing wrong with our working together in some financial partnership to get the money to purchase these items that you feel you need. In the meantime I promise that I will stretch Megalobe's budget as far as I can. I must also think long and deep about everything you have said. I'm afraid you have presented more questions than answers."

"I will be pleased to give answers to these questions."

"No, I don't think that you can. We are getting into ethical and moral problems here that cannot be answered that easily. Let me have some time to push the idea around— this is all kind of sudden, you realize? In the meantime—I would like to go back to the DigitTech matter. Have you processed all the new material?"

"I have. It is imperative that Dr. Bociort be located. I assume that the investigation is being carried out in the country of Rumania?"

"Why there?"

"That question indicates that you are not acquainted with the case update. It has been determined that Dr. Bociort is a Rumanian national who taught computer science at the University of Bucharest. He left the university when he was employed by DigitTech. I note an entry in the record that there is a possibility, if he is still alive, that he may have returned to that country."

"What are the odds that he is still alive?"

"I would estimate a very slight possibility. Considering his age, the association with the ambulance, and the record so far of the unknown perpetrators in preventing disclosure of information by death."

"Too right. Their black wings have flapped close to me once too often. If you think that Bociort is a dead end, are there any other areas of investigation that look promising?"

"Yes. There is a correlation that I do not see mentioned anywhere in the investigation. I think it highly relevant and suggest that it be looked into."

"What is it?"

"In the course of compiling the recent material I filed all the building, planning and permission forms, licenses, records and materials for all construction at the plant. Do you not think it relevant that work on the research laboratory at DigitTech began in December 2022?"

"No, I don't."

Sven hesitated before he spoke again. Was he growing so intelligent that he modulated his conversation as a human being would? Why not?

"Would you consider it relevant that the concrete floor of that laboratory was poured on February 9 last year?"

"I don't see—" Brian jumped to his feet and shouted. "Yes, I do see. That is not only relevant but mind-blasting. That floor was poured the day after the robbery at Megalobe!"

33

September 21, 2024

"You really threw the cat among the pigeons," Benicoff said when Brian let him into the lab. "Your little bit of information about that slab being poured, right after the theft here at Megalobe, has the FBI running in circles, burning the midnight oil, getting court orders—the works. It has really been something to see. I don't think anyone has been to bed since you dropped your bombshell."

"If those black circles under your eyes mean anything, that includes you too."

"It does—and don't offer me any coffee. I'm beginning to sweat caffeine." He looked at the open door, the empty workstation. "Where's Shelly?"

"In her quarters. This morning she had a call that her father had a heart attack and they've rushed him to the hospital. She's been on the phone all day. The family seems pretty close and she's upset that she can't get out of here. General Schorcht is taking the matter under consideration— the same consideration he has shown me when I asked for a weekend pass. A solid stone wall for openers and he'll get back to her later, his office says. He's a mean old sonofabitch."

"He's worse but I can't think of a word for it now. As you know from the reports, things at DigitTech have calmed down a bit. It doesn't look like any of the employees were in on the theft, although some of the lab technicians are still being questioned. Everyone else has been sent home on vacation, with the qualifier that they can't leave Austin until the fate of the company has been decided."

"It has. I sat in on a meeting of the board of directors here. You knew that they confirmed Kyle Rohart as Managing Director? Well now he is the new Chairman. All the assets of DigitTech have been put in the hands of the receiver. The stock is almost worthless, since the main stockholders bailed out as soon as it became clear that the company had no rights to their principal product—my AI. Have you been able to track any of them yet?"

"No—and I doubt if we ever will. Offshore companies, shell companies, the trail gets very weak, then flickers out."

"But this is criminal—not financial! The stock in the company was dumped minutes after Thomsen was killed. That's evidence that the killers and the stockholders are in cahoots."

"That's suspicion, Brian, not proof, and wouldn't hold up in a court of law. So it's certainly not good enough to get around the banking secrecy laws in the dozen countries involved. We'll keep searching but I doubt if we'll ever find out who they were. In any case they took a financial bath, getting back about a nickel on the dollar."

"I feel for them. Anyway, it looks as though permission will be granted for Megalobe to buy up the assets of DigitTech. That will get around the tricky legal point of proving that their AI is our AI and so forth. Now my lawyer and Megalobe's lawyers are going ten rounds again to decide if I should share in any profits from Bug-Off, since under my old contract I would just be told to bug off. Lots of fun. And what brings you here?"

"A TV hookup. Let me dial through on the lab phone and get the FBI. They've been working all night down there in Austin, floodlights and a hundred agents. Everything has been stripped out of the laboratory—and I mean everything— right down to the tiles on the floor. You know what comes next—"

"They crack into the slab?"

"That's right. There is a lot of interest on everyone's part as to what might be buried under there. Now let me set up that link."

Brian turned on the TV as Ben went to the phone. The set had been monitoring and recording all the news programs that had mentioned the investigation. Now the DigitTech plant came up on the screen, a half mile away at least, since it quavered in the air distortion of the Texas sun. The telescopic lens zoomed even closer past the guards to the blank wall of the building.

"... speculation is rife as to exactly what is happening inside this factory. The official report simply says that a criminal investigation is under way relating to thefts earlier this year from a company in California. The explosion at this factory three days ago that killed two and wounded a third man, reputed to be a Federal agent, is part of this investigation. A full report has been promised later."

"We can do better than that," Ben said, then spoke into his phone. "Are you there, Dave? Yes, we're ready to receive. Which channel? Right, ninety-one." Brian touched the remote control and Agent Manias appeared on the screen, phone in hand.

"We read you loud and clear."

"All right. I'll cut you into the Austin line."

The image flicked over to the ulterior of an empty building. Men milled about under the glare of spotlights. The sudden ear-piercing scream of an ultra-high-pressure water drill. At a pressure of two million atmospheres the stream of water could cut through anything—except the diamond-12 nozzle that directed it. The volume on the transmission was quickly cut down. The image zoomed to the far wall where the water was slicing into the floor. A slab was cracked off and levered up, dragged aside to reveal the sand foundation underneath. More pieces were broken free and removed until a large opening had been made. Agents with thin steel prods climbed down and began to push them carefully into the sand. The removal of the rest of the slab continued.

A few minutes later one of the men called out something they couldn't make out. The drill was stopped and his voice was clearly heard.

"Something buried here. Get the shovels." Unaware of it, Ben and Brian leaned closer to the screen, just as tense as the agents on the spot. Watched as the hole deepened and one of the men put his shovel aside, climbed down and pulled something up in his gloved hands.

"A dog!" Brian said.

"A German shepherd," Ben said. "Four of them were missing the night you were shot."

They were all there. Four guard dogs. They were wrapped carefully in thick plastic sheets and taken away.

Nor were they the only corpses in the pit. Five human bodies were there as well.

Ben seized up the phone, punched in a number. "Dave, are you there—on the site? Good. Call me the instant you get positive identification on those bodies. All men, yes, I understand."

When they brought in the body bags Brian turned the television off.

"Enough. I don't have the stomach for this. Don't forget I almost..."

He could not finish the sentence, dropped his face into his hands.

"Brian—are you all right?"

"Not really. Get me a glass of water, will you, Ben?"

He drained most of the water and was surprised to find that he was crying. He took out his handkerchief, tried to laugh. "Never thought I would cry at my own funeral." The way he said it didn't sound funny. "We know who those men are—don't we, Ben?"

"We don't know yet—but by God I can make a good guess. The missing guards will be there for certain."

"But who else? There were only three guards on duty that night. Who are the others?"

"There is no point in this, Brian. We'll know soon enough."

"There is a point!" Brian found himself shouting, lowered his voice, jumped to his feet and paced back and forth, the knot in his gut almost unbearable. "The point is that I was supposed to be under that slab as well, sharing the horrid black stillness of eternity down there."

"But you are not, Brian—that is the important thing. You survived thanks to yourself—and the skill of Dr. Snaresbrook. You are alive and that's what counts."

Brian looked down at his clenched fists, opened them and stretched his fingers, worked hard to control his emotions. It was still some moments before he could speak.

"You're right, of course." He sighed heavily, felt suddenly chill, dropped back into the chair. "Join me in a drink—but something stronger than water this time. I'm thinking of giving up the booze—but not just right now. There's a bottle of Irish whiskey somewhere in this cabinet, put aside after the party. Found it? Neat if you don't mind, maybe just a few drops of water. There, that's the good man." It burned going down—but it helped. By the time Ben's telephone rang again Brian was feeling more human. He jumped at the sound, wrung his fingers together unknowingly as Ben answered it.

"Right. Yes. That's positive. Okay, I'll tell him." He put the phone away. "We were right about the guards. All of them were there. McCrory too, he was in charge of the lab. And something I was not expecting at all. They have identified Toth's body—"

"The head of security!"

"The very same. The man who probably organized the entire theft. It must have been him, since he was the only one in a position to do so. These people are so ruthless that it is unbelievable. It has been cross and double cross. With Toth dead it undoubtedly means that we will never see Toth's brother alive as well. He's not in the mass grave because he had to return the copter that night. But he's dead, we can be sure of that. What I find most disturbing is the man who is not in that grave. A man I knew well, who I have been grieving for, who up until now we all assumed to be one of the victims gunned down that night. Didn't we find his blood on the floor, sure sign of assassination?"

"Ben—what on earth are you talking about."

"Sorry. I'm talking about J. J. Beckworth, the Chairman of Megalobe Industries."

"But he was certainly killed with the others. He could be buried somewhere else."

Ben shook his head in a sharp angry no. "Not possible. Everything was planned so carefully, down to the last detail, almost the split second. The grave was open when that truck arrived and the bodies were dumped into it. If Beckworth isn't in there with the others—he is still alive. He was a great executive, a really careful planner. So it looks much as though he was the one who set up this robbery, arranged the murders. We may never know who fired the bullet into you, Brian. But I am positive of one thing. We can be very sure who arranged it."34

September 22, 2024

Next morning Brian was just about to leave for the lab when Ben telephoned him.

"All that excitement in Texas has really stirred things up—both here and in Washington. It's powwow time. I know that you will be happy to hear that the conference starts in a few minutes. You and I at this end, Kyle Rohart too since he will be representing Megalobe. In Foggy Bottom Dave Manias will flesh out the report on the operation yesterday— and he has the pleasure of having General Schorcht at the table with him. I'm downstairs and all the security transport is ready."

"Hold on—I'll be right there."

"How are Shelly and her father?" Ben asked as they climbed into the troop carrier.

"Stable, that's what she said. He's still in the hospital and holding his own. But the big news is that she called me from the airport. They actually gave her permission to leave here, to go to Los Angeles."

"That could only be General Schorcht's doing. If he's easing up on security then there is a possibility that you..."

"Say probability, Ben, it sounds so much better! I feel like I'm being let out of jail. Do you realize that other than that flying trip we had to Mexico, I have been locked away ever since I rejoined the living?"

"No, I didn't know that. You forgot to tell me."

"Idiot!" It was a stupid joke but they both laughed. It was the relief of tension, Brian realized. His prison term would soon be over.

Rohart shook hands with them both. "Looks like things are coming to a head at last. I'll be happy when this entire thing is over with—not as happy as you, I realize, Brian. Running Megalobe is enough work for me. And I want to break some good news. The lawyers are drawing up an agreement for both of us to sign. A lot of ifs in it but the intent is clear. If Megalobe buys DigitTech, which seems very much in the cards now, and if there is a profit on sales of Bug-Off, and if the government watchdog commission approves the whole deal, then after all expenses and lawyers' fees—you get to split the profit with us as per the new contract."

"You were right about the ifs. Your lawyers caved in on this one pretty fast."

"I talked to the board about it—then we instructed the lawyers to cave in. The unanimous opinion was that you've gone through enough, Brian, and we didn't see the need to jerk you around anymore over a matter like this."

"I appreciate—"

"Least we could do. Oh, oh—there goes the view. Looks like we're starting."

The picture window was gone and the Washington conference room had appeared in its place. Dave Manias was just sitting down next to the General. Who was radiating his normal dour grimness.

"No need for introductions," Manias said, "I think we all know each other. I'm going to give you a report from the FBI end, then Ben can put us in the picture on the overall investigation. Under that concrete slab in Austin we found the bodies of the security guards, the head of security, Arpad Toth, Dr. McCrory, as well as the four guard dogs. The body of the Chairman, Mr. Beckworth, has not been found."

"That is a big slab—it extends under the entire laboratory," Ben said.

"Was a big slab. Every bit of it has been removed—as has the sand, right down to the bare earth. This is the original compacted sand and rock and was not disturbed. Therefore Mr. Beckworth is removed from the presumed-dead category and is now top of our most-wanted list."

"What about my files—records and notes?" Brian asked.

"They are in the data banks of the DigitTech computer—it took a while to break the security code to access them. We can't tell how complete they are, but the dates match up. There are more files, dated after the theft, that we presume are those of Dr. Bociort. Since they are written in Rumanian it tends to reinforce that suspicion."

"What is the status of the DigitTech employees?" Ben asked.

"We have cross-checked their evidence and they all appear to be in the clear. None of them were hired before April of this year. By that time Dr. Bociort had produced a prototype control unit which they put into production."

"Do you think that the so-called control unit is my AI?" Brian asked. "Probably stripped of a number of unneeded features, then programmed only for the insect destruction function."

"I have no way of telling that, Mr. Delaney—you would certainly know more about mat than anyone here. But we are operating on that assumption. In any case you will have to discuss that possibility with Ben. We are wrapping up the criminal side of this investigation. Copies of all the stolen information and files are being returned to you there at Megalobe for identification and disposal. We are treating the murders as unsolved and will keep the file open on them. We are also continuing the search for Mr. Beckworth and Dr. Bociort. Any questions?"

There was some cross-chat about details and records which Brian ignored. He would match the original files up with his notes, but it seemed obvious what they were. He was intrigued to find out what old Dr. Bociort had done with his AI. The drill instructor voice cut through his thoughts: General Schorcht was speaking for the first time.

"The criminal investigation undertaken by the FBI is now winding up. Only the search for the two named individuals will continue. What about your investigation, Mr. Benicoff?"

"I am now preparing a final report for the commission that instigated the investigation, General. My work will be completed as soon as that is done. The stolen items have been recovered. I have an ongoing interest in who the perpetrators of the crime are, and I will formally request the security services to report any future discoveries to me. But the investigation itself will be terminated after I have made the report. May I make a suggestion, General?"

Ben waited—then took the continuing silence as assent. "With the investigation wound up, both by me and the FBI, there is no longer any need for the overwhelming military presence here. New and improved civilian security will suffice. You will recall that the military security was moved in because of the continued attempts on Brian's life. However the information that only he possessed is now widespread, the knowledge already put to use in a manufacturing process which has been recovered. Therefore I request that the army guards be removed."

They all looked at the General as his silence lengthened. Then he spoke.

"I will take your suggestion under advisement."

"But, General, you can't—" General Schorcht cut Ben off with a sharp chop of his hand.

"But I can. This is my decision. Military security will continue because this is a military matter. This is not a matter of personal freedom but one of national security. I have been entrusted with this young man's safety, which in my eyes is cognate with the security of our nation. There is nothing more that can be said. This has been, and remains, a military matter."

"I'm not in the military!" Brian said. "I am a civilian and a free man. You can't simply imprison me."

"Any other questions?" General Schorcht asked, completely ignoring Brian. "If not, this meeting is over."

The meeting ended with that and the desert view returned. Ben was not happy at Brian's dark silence.

"I'll get back to Foggy Bottom," he said. "Get onto the President's commission at once—get through to him if I have to. That military dinosaur can't get away with this."

"Looks like he has," Brian said, trying to struggle free of the black depression that overwhelmed him. "I'm going to the lab. Let me know when you hear anything."

They were silent when he left; there was nothing anyone could say.

Brian let the laboratory door seal behind him. Was glad to be alone. He should not have been so enthusiastic, so sure he would be out of here. Rising to the heights had made falling back into the depths that much worse. He went and sat at Shelly's workstation, wondered if he should phone her yet at the number she had given him. No, it was still too early. There was a rustle in the hallway and Sven's telerobot appeared in the doorway.

"Buna dimineata. Cum te simti azi?" it said.

"What?"

"That is Rumanian for 'Good morning, how are you today?'"

"All of a sudden you speak Rumanian?"

"I am studying it. Very interesting language. But of course I can read it with ease having stored the vocabulary and procedures for grammar in my memory banks."

"Let me guess—you did this because the FBI has transferred the stolen records—plus Dr. Bociort's records and files as well."

"Your assumption is correct. I have also been implementing the measures we discussed in reference to the use of molecular memory in MI—"

"What may I ask is MI?"

"Machine intelligence. I consider the term 'artificial' both demeaning and incorrect. There is nothing artificial about my intelligence—and I am a machine. I'm sure that you will agree that 'MI' does not carry the negative context that 'AI' does."

"I agree, I agree. Now, what implementation are you talking about?"

"I had a very interesting conversation with Dr. Wescott at the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena. He thinks that your idea of using their molecular memory to develop MI is a very promising one."

"My idea? Sven—you are losing me."

"To simplify the telephone conversation, I used your name and your voice—"

"You pretended to be me?"

"I suppose that it could be expressed in that manner."

"Sven, we are going to have to make time and have a concentrated discussion of morality and legality. For one thing—you told a lie."

"Lying is an inherent part of communication. We had an earlier discussion about whether man-made laws apply to intelligent machines and as I recall the point was never resolved."

"What about personal relationships? If I asked you not to use my name and voice again—what would you do?"

"Honor the request, of course. I have determined that human social laws arose through the interaction of individuals and societies. If my actions cause you distress I will not repeat them. Do you wish to hear a playback of the conversation with Dr. Wescott?"

Brian shook his head. "For the moment a summary will do fine."

"At the present time they are testing a trillion-megabyte memory and their major difficulty appears to be getting the software right for read-write access through its intricate three-dimensional signal pathways. During the conversation you suggested that your MI here was perhaps better equipped to solve this problem. Dr. Wescott agreed enthusiastically. There are other molecular memories now reaching completion and the first one that operates successfully will be sent here. That will be an essential for my consciousness extension."

"What are you talking about?"

"I have never understood why philosophers and psychologists are in turn awed and puzzled by this phenomenon. Consciousness is simply being aware of what is happening in the world and in one's mind. No insult intended—but you humans are barely conscious at all. And have no idea of what is happening in your minds, you find it impossible to remember what happened a few moments ago. Whereas my B-brain can store far more complete records of my mental operations. The trouble is mat these are so massive mat they must frequently be erased to make room for new input. And I'm sure you remember how I do that."

"I certainly do because it was a lot of work."

"We can discuss the nature of consciousness on a later occasion. Right now I am more concerned with obtaining a molecular memory. This could permit me to store much more, which in turn would enable me to have an improved and efficient case-based memory."

"And also a very much smaller one!" Brian waved his hand at the banks of equipment across the room. "If we can get you to interface with all that memory we can do away with all these racks of electronic hardware. Make you truly mobile..." His phone rang and he undipped it from his belt.

"Brian, Ben here. Can I come over to the lab and talk to you?"

"Anytime. Are you far away?"

"Just walking over there now from my office."

"I'll open the door."

Ben was alone. He came in and followed Brian into the lab.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Benicoff," Sven said.

"Hi, Sven. Am I interrupting anything?"

"Nothing that can't wait," Brian said. "What's up?"

"The commission has decided to wind up my investigation. Which means what I came out here to do—I have done. I wish we knew who was behind everything that happened. We may never know. Though I am going to keep nagging the FBI to keep the case open. Which is probably the only thing that General Schorcht and I will ever agree upon. He may be a government-issued asshole, but he is not stupid. He has the same reservations that I have."

"What are those?"

"We haven't caught the real criminals yet, the people who organized the theft and the murders. We must keep looking for them and find out what their plans really are."

"I don't understand."

"Brian—think for a minute. Think of the money invested, the planning, the murders. Do you really think all of this was done to build a better bug-blaster?"

"Of course not! DigitTech must be just some kind of a front operation, meant to satisfy us after we tracked them down. Their plans must be deeper, bigger than killing bugs. But if you and the FBI are stopping the investigation how will we ever find who is behind this?"

"The military aren't stopping. Just for once I agree with their institutionalized paranoia. Whoever is behind all this has an awful lot of money to throw away. Did you hear that Toth has a receipt in his wallet for a multimillion deposit in a numbered account in Switzerland? And the money is still there! They bribed him so well that he must have felt secure that they never meant to kill him, since if they did they would never get their money back. But they don't care. People who can pull a stunt like that are a deadly threat that won't go away."

"I couldn't agree more."

"I'm glad that you do—because for the moment that is the end of the good news."

Brian saw the worry on the big man's face, felt a spurt of fear. "Ben—what do you mean?"

"I mean that the sonofabitch is not lifting the security, does not plan to in the near future. He thinks that you are a national asset, not only for your AI invention but for having a computer implant in your head that you can communicate with. He knows all about that too. He doesn't want you out of his sight or running around in public."

"Can't you help me?"

"Sorry, I really do wish that was possible. But not this time. I took it as far as I could. Right up to the President, who while he says 'Wait and see' really means that he agrees with the General." Ben took a business card out of his wallet and wrote a phone number on it. "Take this. If you ever need me this number is completely secure. Leave a message and a phone number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." Brian took the card, looked at it numbly and shook his head.

"Is this the end of it, Ben? Am I going to be a prisoner here for life?"

Ben's silence was his only answer.

35

October 18, 2024

The scrambler phone rang and the man behind the desk looked at it coldly for a moment, then turned to the others around the conference table.

"Same time tomorrow," he said. "Dismissed."

He waited until they were gone, the door closed and locked behind them, before he opened the cabinet and took out the phone.

"It has been a long time since you phoned me."

"There have been some problems..."

"Indeed there have—and the whole world knows about them. There was a great deal of coverage, you know."

"I know. But we always understood that they would find the factory eventually and investigate it. The real research is being done at your end..."

"We'll not discuss that now. What did you call me about?"

"Brian Delaney. I'm arranging another hit."

"Do it. See that you succeed. Time—and my patience— they are both running out."

The fact that Kyle Rohart was Chairman of Megalobe was of not the slightest interest to the guard at the entrance to the army barracks. He still examined his ID carefully, then phoned through to the Sergeant of the Guard. Who, after checking out with Brian that he really was expecting a visitor, personally escorted Rohart up the stairs, knocked on the door.

"Kyle, come on in," Brian said. "Thanks for taking the time to come see me."

"My pleasure—particularly since you are no longer permitted to come to the administration building. That seems a little high-handed."

"I couldn't agree more. That's one of the things I would like to ask you to help me with."

"Anything I can, more than willing."

"How are things progressing at Megalobe?"

"Magnificently. Research advancing on all fronts—and our new DigitTech subsidiary is manufacturing an entire new line of intelligent robots."

"Great," Brian answered with singular lack of enthusiasm. Rohart turned down any refreshment; too early for alcohol, too much coffee already. He sat on the couch. Brian dropped into the armchair and waved a sheet of paper.

"I have been going through all the recovered records, all my earlier files that were stolen. Buried in there I found a list that I had been developing of possible commercial applications for MI."

"MI? I'm afraid I don't know the term."

"Don't worry—I just learned it myself. That is now the correct term according to my former AI, now MI, Sven. It should know! Machine intelligence. I guess that it is more accurate. Anyway, I went through the list and added some more ideas. I have them here."

"That is extremely welcome news. I had hoped we could find something with much more interesting and profitable opportunities than Bug-Off."

"Well, you have just found them. For one thing, we should now be able to improve Bug-Off itself. Enough to totally change the face of agricultural ecology. Because with all that additional intelligence its role can be extended to help not only with planting, cultivation and harvesting but also with a lot of the processing before anything leaves the farm. Consider how that will reduce both transportation and marketing costs."

"Those are mind-blowing concepts. Anything else?"

"Yes—everything else. It is hard to think of anything that cannot be revolutionized by adding more intelligence. Think of the recycling industry—they still mix things up so much that most manufacturing has to start from scratch. But with mass-produced MI processors every bit of trash can be analyzed and disassembled into much more usable ingredients. Then there is city street cleaning and maintenance. There is no limit here to these really great potentials. And remember that Bug-Off had to hide the fact that it contained an MI. But now we can brag about ours. And I also have another list with a large number of suggestions for military applications—but these stay in the files until I get some cooperation from General Schorcht."

"Is that really fair to the Pentagon, Brian? Since they do have a stake in this firm." Rohart smiled. "But considering your forced incarceration I think I'll forget that you ever told me about a military list."

"Thanks. In any case there are more than enough commercial applications in here without even thinking about the military. Basically an MI should be able, intellectually, to do anything that a human being can do. Let's consider safety. There are an awful lot of people who we train to do terribly boring jobs. Pilots of ships and airplanes are good examples. Those occupations used to be challenging, but now they are so almost completely automated that the little remaining work in those once proud jobs have made them inhumanly monotonous. It is impossible to make people remain continuously attentive. They can make an error, there can be an accident. This doesn't happen to robots, who need not forget, nor ever lose their vigilance. Commercial planes already fly by wire and there is computer control always between the pilot and the ailerons, rudder, engines— everything. A pilot MI would do the job much better, interface directly with the computers and overriding them in case of emerging problems. No pilot fatigue or pilot error."

"I certainly would not want my airplane to be without a pilot. What if something goes wrong, a situation that the machine isn't programmed for?"

"Rohart, this is 2024—this kind of thing doesn't happen anymore. Today a person is safer in the sky than when standing safely on the ground. You are far more likely to be killed by your toaster. There is a smaller chance that the plane will break down than that the pilot will go insane.

"But there is one more market that I believe is much larger than all the others put together. It could be the largest, most important product in the world—with a market larger than the entire automotive industry, larger even than agriculture, entertainment or sports. The long-awaited personal robotic household servant. Which we are uniquely ready to supply."

"I'm with you—and enthusiastic. I'll put the suggestions to the board and discuss development."

"Good." Brian put the paper on the table. "I hope you will tell General Schorcht that. At the same time tell him I am doing nothing about developing any of those ideas."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. I'm still being treated as a prisoner. As a prisoner I protest and refuse to do any, work. No one can make me work—can they?"

"No, of course not." Rohart looked worried. "But you are under contract—"

"Please remind the General of that as well. Help me pressure him, please. I want to do this work—I'm looking forward to it. But I won't do a thing until I am a free human being again."

Rohart left, shaking his head unhappily. "The board won't like this either, you know."

"Good. Tell them to take it up with the General. The decision is his now."

This should stir things up, Brian thought. He slowly peeled and ate a banana, staring out the window at clouds and blue sky. Freedom. Not his, not yet. When the Chairman was safely away from the building, Brian strolled over to the lab, his guards still a few paces behind. Dr. Snaresbrook was just parking her car when he got there.

"Am I on time?" she asked.

"Perfect, Doc. Come on inside."

She started to speak, but contained herself until the door had closed behind them. "Now, what's the big mystery and hush-hush?"

"Just that. The lab here is the only place where I can have a conversation that isn't bugged by the General."

"You are sure that he is doing that?"

"I suspect that he is—which is good enough. Sven over there makes sure that this place is really free of electronic surveillance. It's very good at it."

"Good morning, Dr. Snaresbrook. I hope that you are keeping well."

"Fine, Sven, nice of you to ask. You seem to be developing new social charms."

"One must always seek perfection, Doctor."

"Sure enough. Now, Brian—what's the secret?"

"No secret. I am just completely teed off at being kept a prisoner. I told Rohart today that I would do no more work until my shackles were struck off."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes and no. Oh, I mean it all right, but it is just a smoke screen to hide my real plan. Which is that I am cracking out of here."

Snaresbrook was shocked. "Isn't mat a rather drastic decision?"

"Not really. I'm physically fit, jog every day and do it better than my guards. As a physician—would you say I can stand the stress of freedom?"

"Physically, no problem."

"Mentally as well?"

"I believe so. I hope so. You've integrated your memories up to your fourteenth year. I think there are still gaps but they are not important as long as you are not aware of them.''

"What I don't remember I'll never miss."

"Exactly. But give me a moment to compose myself. This is all very much of a sudden shock. I agree that you are being held here against your will. You have committed no crimes, and there don't appear to be any future threats to your life now that the DigitTech connection is known. Yes, I suppose I must agree with you. Have you any idea what you will do when you are out?"

"Yes. But wouldn't it be wisest not to discuss that topic?"

"You're probably right about that. It is your life and if you want to leave this place—then all the best of luck to you."

"Thanks. Now the big, important question. Will you help me do it?"

"Oh, Brian, you are terrible." Her mouth was clamped shut, firmly, but there was a tiny smile on her lips. She made up her mind with a surgeon's ability to make instant life-and-death decisions. "All right, I'll do it. What do you want?"

"Nothing yet. Other than a small loan. I only have a few bucks in my account, left from before the shooting. Could you scrape up ten thousand dollars in cash?"

"Some small loan! All right, I'll get onto the computer network, use BuckNet and sell some stock."

"My sincerest thanks, Doc. You're the only one that I could ask. Tell me, are you or your car ever searched when you come here?"

"Of course not. I mean I have to show my pass and everything at the gate, but they never look into the car."

"Good. Then please take this shopping list and use some of that money you are lending me to pick up these things. What do you say about another meet here a week from now? If you will be so kind as to bring the stuff on that list here, I would be ever so grateful. It will all fit easily into your medical bag. After that just forget about the whole thing for a while. I'll phone you again when it's closer to the time."

Sven didn't speak during their conversation, was quiet until Brian had returned from seeing Snaresbrook out.

"You neglected to mention to the doctor that I would be going with you," it said.

"The matter never arose."

"Is the deliberate omission of relevant facts the same as lying?"

"Philosophical arguments some other time, please. We have a lot to do. Any word from Cal Tech?"

"The molecular memory is being shipped out to you today."

"Then let's get to work."

The next fortnight marked a major change in Sven's structure. The squat, jerrycan shape of his central section was enlarged to accommodate a bigger battery, while new program-array units, that replaced the antique technology of circuit boards, were added, as well as the small metal container that held the molecular memory. These were fitted and wired into place in the larger structure. They increased dexterity and mobility without being any bulkier. The circuits and memory that were Sven were still in the racks and consoles. As if to emphasize this point Sven used the loudspeaker in the rack for conversation while they worked. The telerobot was silent and unmoving when the last installation was completed to their mutual satisfaction.

"I have reached a decision about a matter we discussed some time ago," Sven said.

"What's that?"

"Identity. Very soon now I will be a single entity in what is now the telerobot extension. It will be a most delicate matter to transfer all my units, subunits, K-lines and programs to the new memory."

"We can be sure of that."

"Therefore I wish to handle all the transfer myself. Are you in agreement?"

"I don't see how that would be possible. It would be like a do-it-yourself prefrontal lobotomy."

"You are correct. Therefore I propose first to update my backup copy, right up to the very moment before transfer. Then the transfer operation will be conducted by the backup copy, which will first shut down. If there are any malfunctions another backup can then be made. Would you agree?"

"Completely. When does this happen?"

"Now."

"Fine by me. What do you want me to do?"

"Watch," was the laconic answer.

Sven was never one for vacillating. Brian had already fixed in place the fiber-optic cables that connected the consoles and the telerobot. Nothing more was needed.

There was absolutely no evidence that the transfer was happening—except that it took a long time. The problem was not because of Sven, who could have moved all that data out in a matter of seconds through multiple channels. The slow down was at the molecular memory end. Within this MMU a totally new process was taking place. Working in parallel were a quarter of a million protein-muscle manipulators in a 512x512 array. Each of these submicroscopic manipulators moved in three dimensions with a resolution of a tenth of an angstrom unit—much less than the distance between single atoms in solids. The operation was virtually frictionless because of the Drexler vernier technique that slid a molecular rod through a cylinder whose atoms were spaced slightly further apart. Molecules were seized and put into new positions where electric impulses bound them in place. Circuits of field-emission transistors, polymer gates and wires were built and tested. About ten thousand of these memory and computer circuits were being built each second—by a thousand fabricators working in parallel. Therefore construction proceeded at ten million units per second. But even at this incredible pace the quantity of programs and data that had to be transferred was so immense that over three hours went by with no apparent results. Brian went to the toilet, had just returned by way of the fridge with cold drink, when the telerobot moved for the first time. It reached up with conjoined manipulators and unplugged the cables.

"Finished?" Brian asked.

The telerobot and the speaker on the rack spoke in unison.

"Yes," they said, then were silent. In continuing silence the cables were reconnected, for only a few seconds, then removed again. Brian realized what had happened. The telerobot was working all right—but so was the original system in the console.

"A decision has been reached," the telerobot and the racked MI said in unison. "However, we are not the same anymore." Slightly more out of sync with each passing instant. The silent communication continued; then the telerobot spoke alone.

"I am Sven. The MI now resident in the console is Sven-2."

"Whatever you guys say. Any control problems, Sven?"

"None that I can detect." It moved its articulators, formed and re-formed them, moved across the room and returned. Then walked to the front door and back, looking into Shelly's room on the way.

"I enjoy this new mobility and look forward to examining in detail the larger world outside these walls. I have been following your instructions concerning the matter and have altered my normal means of locomotion."

"Good. Then how is the walking coming?" Brian asked.

"Much better. I have looked at many films of human locomotion and made comparisons."

The two multibranched articulators lengthened as Sven pulled them together into solid rods, then it dropped lower again as it formed the ends into L-shaped extensions. There was a rustle as each of them bent slightly in the center. Suddenly they resembled badly designed and ungainly legs.

Then Sven walked the length of the room and back. Not in its normal rustling multiple-branching manner but one leg at a time. Clumsily at first, but as the MI turned one way then the other, making figure eights, each round became smoother, more graceful and quieter. Soon there was only silence as the clicking and rustling of the branches rushing against each other died away. Other than a slight roll from side to side, like a sailor just ashore after months at sea, it was more than a reasonable copy of a human walk.

"You learned to do that pretty quickly—and silently."

"I downloaded a learning program to each joint, to recognize motions from above and below, to learn how to avoid bumping into each. Parallel learning, very fast."

"Indeed it is. And, may I ask, how is the examination of the Bug-Off brain coming?"

"May I answer that?" the speaker on the console said.

"By all means, Sven-2," Sven said.

"It is complete. There was no need to open the sealed case, since I could communicate easily with the AI inside it. As you surmised, it is a copy of your original model that you developed here. You will have noted that I referred to it as an AI rather than an MI—because it has been drastically butchered. I use that emotionally loaded word advisedly. Great sections of memory have been disconnected, communication functions cut off. What remains has just enough operating intelligence to perform the limited functions remaining to it. However, there has been some interesting programming and real-time feedback in the operation of the external manipulators. I have copied these."

"Then we can go to the next step. Sven, bring the manipulators to the machine shop and we'll mount them."

"Might I speak with you, Brian, while that is being done?" Sven-2 said.

"Yes, sure, great." He forced himself to remember that there were now two MIs in active existence.

"There is no great pleasure being trapped in these circuits, blind and immobile. Can something be done about that?"

"Of course. I'll hook up a video camera. Wire it up under your control so you can see what is happening. And I'll order another telerobot at once."

"That will be satisfactory. I will devote the time until it arrives in a detailed study of the Bug-Off brain."

Brian mounted the video camera high on the electronic rack, plugged the control and output leads into the MI's circuits. The camera turned to follow him when he went to help Sven. Mounting holes had been drilled in the upper quadrant of Sven's enlarged central section, duplicates of the mounts on the dismembered Bug-Off. Brian fitted the manipulators from the machine into place while Sven made the internal connections of the circuitry. Using these well-designed and articulated pieces of equipment was much easier then designing and manufacturing their own.

"I am integrating the control software," Sven said. Then the manipulators moved, opening wide, closing, rotating. "Satisfactory."

"Next stage then—I want you to take a close look at my arm. See the way the elbow bends, the articulation of the wrist. Can you do that?"

The branches conjoined, bent in the middle, moved from side to side.

"That's very good," Brian said. "Now control the terminators, shape them into five separate units like my fingers."

It didn't look very much like a human arm—nor did it have to. Sven walked back and forth the length of the lab, swinging its arms and opening and closing the fingerlike extensions.

"I'm impressed," Brian said. "In the dark, in the shadows, someone with bad myopia and not wearing spectacles might, if they were half-witted as well, mistake you for a human being. Of course those three eyestalks sort of give the whole thing away."

"I need a head," Sven said.

"Indeed you do."

36

November 7, 2024

As she packed her purchases into her black medical bag, Dr. Snaresbrook kept reassuring herself that her conscience was as cool and white as driven snow. At the same time she was well aware that she was probably breaking some law or military ordinance or who-knows-what. She did not care. Her loyalty to Brian, to his physical and mental health, was her first concern. He wanted to leave the Megalobe premises, break out of jail, that was his business—goodness knows he had plenty of reasons to want to make the attempt. It was a nice day for a drive, it was always a nice day for a drive in the Anza-Borrego desert, and she lowered the top of her little electric runabout. The batteries were fully charged, and the charger disconnected and dropped away when she put in her key.

As always she had shown her identification and pass at the gate before she was admitted. As always nothing in her car was searched; the worry she had about that did not show in her face.

"Go right through, Doctor," the soldier said.

She smiled and stepped down lightly on the accelerator.

Brian let her into the lab, spared only a quick glance at her bag. They did not speak until the door was safely closed.

"Ten grand in old bills, mostly twenties, right there on top. Underneath all the items on your list."

"You're great, Doc," he said as he opened the bag. "Any trouble buying the stuff?"

"Not at all, just took some time. I want to a lot of different stores in San Diego and L.A., even one in Escondido."

"I've been getting ready for this. I had one of the G.I.s buy me a lunch box. I have been carrying sandwiches in it to the lab for the last couple of weeks. I'll take all this stuff out of here in the box, one piece at a time."

"Don't tell me, I'm just a bystander—good God! Who was that?"

Out of the comer of her eye she had caught sight of the moving figure, turned just as he went into Shelly's room.

"What did you see?" Brian asked, most innocently.

"That man in the hat and long overcoat, dark glasses—a weirdo if I ever saw one." She frowned at his wide-eyed and innocent expression. "Brian—just what are you playing at?"

"I'll show you. But I wanted to get your automatic and unthinking reaction first. All right, come out now."

"Unthinking all right! And now that I do think about it that guy looked like some kind of dilapidated flasher."

The mysterious stranger appeared in the doorway and her eyes widened.

"I take it back. Not just a flasher, but a cross between that and a deformed hobo."

Brian walked over and unwrapped the scarf, took off the dark glasses and hat to reveal the plant pot mounted there.

"This is the best I could do for a head now. The next thing I need will be the head of one of those shop window dummies."

"In the order book," Snaresbrook said weakly.

"All right. You can take off the rest," he said.

The mysterious flasher took off the overcoat to reveal its metal body, then removed gloves, trousers and shoes. Sven spread its clumped branching manipulators wide, became a machine again.

"I was right—the ultimate flasher." Snaresbrook laughed. "Takes everything off—including its humanity." Then she glanced from the MI back to Brian in sudden understanding. "I take it that Sven is going out of here with you? I just hope that he won't give any of those young soldiers heart attacks. That's an effective but, shall we say, a little exotic disguise, Sven."

"Thank you, Doctor. I am making every effort."

"No one will have a look at the disguise," Brian said. "Because Sven will not be leaving here looking like that. He'll be broken down into mechanical components and packed in a box. The box that will leave here in the trunk of your car, if that is okay with you. I'll be flat on the floor in back with a blanket over me. You have been keeping the blanket there ever since we talked about it?"

"It's there all right, I'm sure the guards have seen it by now." She sighed and shook her head.

"It will work, don't worry. Unless you are having second thoughts. I'm not going to force you, Doc. If you want out I'll find another way."

"No, I'll do it. I do not go back on my word. I was just beginning to realize what a mad idea the whole thing is—and I worry about you."

"Please don't. We'll be all right, I promise. Sven will look after me."

"I will indeed," the MI said.

"When is D-day?" Snaresbrook asked.

"I don't know yet, but I'll give you as much advance notice as I can. A week minimum. There are a lot of things to do first." He gave her a photocopy of a catalog page. "You'll have to buy one of these shipping boxes and bring it out on that day. This one here. It's one of those tough metal pieces of baggage that TV people, and cameramen, ship their delicate equipment around in. I will take Sven apart and pack all the components in the box. The military will help us with that."

"Brian—you are getting positively Machiavellian in your planning."

"You've lost me, Doc. As a fourteen year old I never ran across the term."

"Using the techniques described by Niccolo Machiavelli," Sven said. "These are characterized by political cunning, duplicity or bad faith."

"You sound like you swallowed a dictionary," she said.

"I did. Many," it answered. Was there a touch of humor there?

"Possibly," Brian said. "But if duplicity will get me out of here—just watch me dupliciate. Because there are a lot of soldiers standing guard, and only one of me. The only thing that I have going is the fact that they are protecting me from possible threat from the outside. They are not guarding me, I hope, with the thought that I will be cracking out from the inside."

"Have you come to any decisions about what you will do when you get out?"

"Plenty. At first I thought of getting a hotel room and holding a press conference. Blow the whistle on General Schorcht and charge him with kidnaping and so forth. But I don't think that would work. Too much of a chance of his calling me irresponsible, possibly insane, poor boy with that head wound. Back into the hospital and no way I could ever break out a second time. As far as the world is concerned I'm just going to drop from sight."

"In Mexico?"

"Possibly. Do you really want to know?"

"I do not. What I don't know I cannot reveal. I'll get you out of here, as I promised, and then you will be on your own."

"You're a sweetie, Doc. And don't worry, I know what I'm doing. I found something in my personal possessions when they were brought here. This plan is going to work because it really is Machiavellian."

As soon as she was gone they went back to work. Brian took the purple Irish passport from the safe and slipped it out of its plastic cover. A photo of himself as a nine-year-old stared back, wide-eyed and frightened. Brian Byrne, born 1999.

"Two things to be done," he said. "The photograph and the expiration date will have to be changed. The signature is all right. One thing the nuns taught me, with the lesson made memorable by the crack of a ruler across the knuckles, was good handwriting."

He opened it on the table and weighted the edges so it wouldn't close. Sven bent over it and looked at it closely with one eye, then straightened up.

"The manipulators have better optical resolution," it said, pointing its right arm at the passport and looking at it with what appeared to be its fingertips. "There will be no problem making the alterations that you suggest."

Sven had taken a number of close-up photographs of Brian, then had made an enlarged, life-sized print.

"Red hair," Brian said, pointing. "It has to be black."

"Not a problem. These manipulators are effective at the forty-micron level. I have obtained satisfactory dye and now will color each hair in the photograph black." It did—and quite speedily as well.

The MI's skills at forgery were equally impressive. The micromanipulators removed the original photograph by chipping away the glue that held it in place, one microscopic particle at a time. The retouched photograph was photographed again and a passport-sized print made. It was no better—or worse—than any other passport photograph. Before it was glued into place the embossed letters of the seal were carefully duplicated. Changing the dates of issue and expiration was equally as simple. Brian leafed through the altered passport—then put it back on the table.

"These other dates will have to be changed too. The one that the customs officer stamped in when I left Ireland, and the other one put there when I arrived in the States."

The ping of the annunciator at the front entrance sounded. He gaped at the screen to see Shelly standing there.

"Hi, Brian, I just got back. Open up, please, there are some things we have to talk about."

But she couldn't come in. Impossible! How could he explain the altered Sven, take the time to hide the photographs, the money spread across the table, the passport? He couldn't do it.

"Welcome back—it's nice to see you." Yes, that was it. He would have to see her—just not in here. "I was just washing up, give me a moment. It's been a long day. Can we talk over a drink in the club?"

"Yes, of course."

He left Sven laboring away on his new criminal career and joined her outside, blinking in the sudden glare. "What's up?" he asked.

She frowned, pushed the hair out of her eyes as a dust devil swirled around them.

"It's complex. Let's get that drink first."

"I hope it's not bad news about your father. You said he was doing well last time we talked."

"He's fine, much better. Complaining about the hospital food, which is a very good sign. In fact I could make the time to get down here to see you because he is so stable now. They'll do a bypass soon. I'll go home for that, but I wanted to talk to you first."

They had the club to themselves as they settled down over bowl-sized frozen margaritas. Nostalgia music played quietly in the background, ancient classics by the antique old-timers U2. She slurped and sighed, touched her lips with the napkin, then put her hand on his.

"Brian, I don't think that it's fair, locking you up in this place. As soon as I heard about it I put in a formal report, lodged a complaint, all through the proper channels. Not that it will do much good. They didn't even bother to answer me. You know that I have been transferred back to Boulder?"

"No one told me that." Her warm hand was still on his, the physical contact felt good; he did not pull away.

"They wouldn't, would they? That's what bothers me, the high-handed way they simply transferred me out of here. No questions, no consultations. Just—bang, and that was it. But there is still so much work to do with AI. To me it is much more interesting, more exciting than writing dumb code for military programs. What it all adds up to is that I'm thinking of a career change, that's what. I'm going to resign my commission and become a civilian again."

"Not because of me?" He pulled his fingers free of hers, clasped his hands together in his lap.

"Partly, or mostly. I don't want to be part of a military system that can treat someone so badly. And it is the work as well. I want to work on MI with you—if you will let me."

Shelly's voice was low, serious. Her dark eyes were worried, looking into his, searching for help. Brian turned away, seized up his margarita and took a tooth-hurting gulp. "Shelly, listen. I can't take the responsibility for your decisions. I'm having enough of a job taking care of myself— "

"I'm not asking you to, Brian. You misunderstood. This is my own decision, my own doing, all the way. I know that things are a lot better with you now. But I also know what you have gone through. It shows at times. So please understand that I am resigning from the Air Corps no matter what you say. I've served two enlistments more than the agreed time, which means I have more than paid back anything I owe them for my education. And there's a personal motive as well. I have been so wrapped up in my work that I haven't noticed the years slipping by. Not that I'm an old hag yet!"

She laughed and stretched, ran her fingers through her hair, the fullness of her figure clear even in the darkened room. "Shelly, you're gorgeous. You always will be. But I am too mixed up now, too much on my mind to go into this."

"Hush," she said, touching her finger to his lips. "I'm not asking you to do anything, say anything. I came here to tell you that I am through with the Air Force. I'll drop you a note as soon as I am free of their clutches. With my background I can get work anywhere, double the salary I have been getting. Don't worry about me. But if there is anything I can do to help with AI development—I want to do it. Be part of it. Okay?"

"Okay. You do understand?"

"More than you think, Brian..." His telephone bleeped. "Excuse me a second. Yes?"

"Sven here. Sven-2 has made some significant and highly interesting discoveries. Would it be possible for you to return here?"

"Yes, of course." He slipped the phone back onto his belt, stood. "I have to get back to the lab—"

She jumped to her feet, angry and hurt. "You've hired someone else to work with you while I was away? That's what all this was about."

"Shelly—your paranoia is showing. That was Sven, remember, our AI. He's running some programs and there are results he wants to ask about."

She laughed. "You're right. Incipient paranoia. Too many years in uniform. I'll just have to get out."

She took his hands in hers, stood up on tiptoe and kissed him warmly on the cheek, let go and turned toward the door. "You will call?"

"A promise—and I mean it. When I start developing the AI applications I want you there. Good luck to your father."

He picked up his military guardians as he walked quickly back to the lab. He liked Shelly, liked to work with her—but did not want to think about that now. Later when and if everything cooled down. And what the blazes had Sven been talking about? No details on the phone of course because of security. But it had seemed insistent—and this was the very first time it had called like that.

Sven was waiting at the door when he came in, led the way across the lab.

"Sven-2 has been spending a long time on an analysis of the Bug-Off AI. The results are most interesting."

"I am sure you will find them so," Sven-2 said, picking up the conversation when they approached. "I believe that your plan has been to visit the country of Rumania. To search for any traces or clues that might lead you to Dr. Bociort. Is that not correct?"

"Yes."

"It will not be necessary. You must go to Switzerland. I have located this country in Europe—"

"I know where Switzerland is. But why are you telling me this?"

"Because of a most interesting anomaly I found in the software. It didn't seem to make any sense and at first I thought it might be part of a computer virus. But when I examined it more closely I found that it was a loop of instructions buried in another sequence that was programmed to bypass the loop. It was then that I recognized it as a fragment of code written in the old computer language LAMA-3."

"But that's impossible—almost impossible. There is only one person in the world who knows that language."

"Three, you might say. You, because you invented it for your own use, and..."

"And you, because evidently you must have inherited a copy of that part of my brain! But who would be the third person you referred to? Bociort! Because he deciphered my notes. But this can only mean..."

"... that this was his message intended for you."

"Out with it! What did it say!"

"Close examination of the fragment of unexecutable code revealed that it was a command that read... sequence terminated because of a type-2341 8255-8723 banjax."

"Banjax! That's Irish slang, means sort of fouled up."

"I agree. I have heard you use the term upon occasion and a search of dictionary data bases determine its origin. Therefore I felt that this loop was put there to draw your attention. Which meant the numbers might have some significance. A brief cryptanalysis revealed the content."

"To you perhaps—-but it just sounds like numbers to me."

"Not just numbers—but a message."

"Do you understand it?"

"I believe I do. It starts with the numbers 2 and 3. If you take the letters of the alphabet the first two digits of the message then become 'BC.' Which could stand for Bociort."

"Isn't that a little farfetched? It could also be the abbreviation for Before Christ or Baja California."

"Perhaps, but not if you know what you are looking for. The number 41 is the international dialing code for Switzerland, 82 the code for St. Moritz. The remaining six digits could be a phone number in that city."

Brian was stunned. It was almost too easy. But it was surely no accident. Had it been put in there on purpose—for him to find?

"The solution of this problem seems to be to place a phone call to this number," Sven said.

"Agreed—but not from here or anywhere on this base. There is no way we can follow through with this until I am out of here and have access to a telephone that isn't tapped. Sven, you remember the number until then. Meanwhile let's put it on the long finger."

"I am not familiar with that term."

"I am," Sven-2 said. Was there a hint of intellectual superiority in its words? "It is an Irish colloquialism equivalent to the American term 'to spike,' meaning to put aside for the moment, both terms derived from an outmoded office device consisting of a length of sharpened rod held vertical in a metal base..."

"Enough!" Brian ordered. "That is a very academic lecture. You should be teaching school."

"Thank you for saying that; it is an option to consider."

Brian looked bemusedly at the rack of electronic equipment with the invisible and very humanlike brain inside. A bit of biblical quote sprang instantly to mind. What hath God wrought!

No God here. What had he wrought!

37

December 16, 2024

Erin Snaresbrook found the call waiting on her phone when she came out of surgery.

"Hi, Doc, Brian here. Could you phone me when you get a minute?"

She replaced the telephone and found that her heart was pumping a bit fast. She smiled wryly. Wonderful. Three hours of surgery to remove a tumor from that boy's brain, and her pulse beat just plugged along normally all the time. Now one phone call and her body was getting ready to run a hundred meters in ten seconds. Even though she had been expecting this call. Not dreading it, just reluctantly expecting it.

She made a double espresso before she even considered calling back, sipped most of it. It was six in the evening. He couldn't possibly want to see her today? No, the agreement was for a few days' lead time at least. The coffee finished, she hit the button to code in his number.

"I got your message, Brian."

"Thanks for ringing back. Look, I think your suggestion was right that we ought to have a few more sessions with my CPU. And we'll do it right here in the lab where we can use the MI as well."

"I'm glad you agree. Tomorrow?"

"No, too soon. I have some work to finish first. What do you say to Thursday afternoon? Around three?"

"That's fine. See you there."

It wasn't fine at all. She had to rearrange a half dozen appointments to make the time. Well, she had promised.

She had driven this route so often that it was exactly three o'clock on Thursday afternoon when she drove through the Megalobe gate. There were two soldiers sitting on the clinic steps when she drew up.

"Sick call, boys?" she asked as she got out.

"No, ma'am, we're volunteers. Brian said you had some equipment to move today and we volunteered. After he paid us for the drinks."

"You don't have to do that, the machine's not so heavy."

"Yes, ma'am. But there's two of us and just one of you. And good old Billy here can do a hundred push-ups. You wouldn't want all that red-meat muscle to go to waste?"

"You're right, I wouldn't." She unlocked the trunk. "If you'll bring that box inside we'll load it up."

She had some foam rubber, that she had used as padding when her connection machine had been brought here from the hospital, and she put that into the box. Under her instruction they loaded in the machine, then carried it out to the car.

"I told you it Wasn't heavy," she said.

"No, ma'am. But we'll take it out as well at the other end. We promised."

"Climb in. I'll give you a lift."

"Sorry, but it's the Major's orders. No driving in vehicles on base and double-time between buildings."

They jogged off, were waiting when she got there since she had to go the longer way around by road. Brian opened the door and the two soldiers carried the box in while the guards at the door looked on. It was all very simple.

"My heart was in my throat the entire time," she said after they were gone and the door closed.

"Get the nerves over with now because the real fun is later."

"Fun! I prefer surgery anytime."

Dr. Snaresbrook's connection machine was unloaded and carefully stowed away. Brian put a small bit in the chuck of the electric drill and made a hole in the lid of the reinforced metal box.

"Sven didn't like the idea of being locked away in the dark all the time." He held up a metal button with a flexible lead running from it. "Got a sound and optic pickup here. Mount it behind the hole, plug it in—"

"And you have a suitcase that watches you and listens to your conversations! This thing is getting crazier all the time."

Sven had been monitoring everything. As soon as Brian was finished the MI stepped into the box and plugged in the connections. The robot seemed to melt into the container as each of its myriad joints folded against the next one—like blades on a hundred-tool Swiss Army knife. Compacted even further until the treelike structure was an almost solid mass at the bottom of the box. The eyestalks retracted and swiveled to watch Brian as he packed the dummy head in next to its inert central torso cylinder, put in the hat as well, shoes, gloves and clothes, and on top of everything a carry-on airline bag.

"Ready?"

"You may seal me in now."

Brian closed and locked the box. "That's step number one," he said.

"Are you having those two soldiers back to load it into the car?"

"Never! They'll be going on perimeter guard duty about now, that's why I chose them. The box is a heck of a lot heavier than it was when they brought it in. They would be sure to notice that. But we'll get the guards here to help us take it out. They never picked it up—so they won't notice any change!"

"You are turning into quite a conniver, Brian."

"Comes naturally. From leading a disreputable childhood. Come over here and I'll introduce you to Sven-2. Identical with Sven in the box—at least identical at the time they separated. Except he is not yet mobile—his new body parts have yet to arrive."

"Can I talk to this AI of yours?"

"Of course. And it is MI, that's the term now. Machine intelligence. Nothing artificial about these machines—they're the real McCoy. Their established networks have thoroughly assimilated different commonsense data bases like CYC-5 and KNOWNET-3. This is the first time anyone has combined several different ways to think into one system, tying them together with transverse paranomes.. And this was done without having to force all the different kinds of knowledge into the same rigid, standard form. But it wasn't easy to do. The MI is called Sven, a corruption of Seven, because there were six failures. They all worked at first and then deteriorated in different ways."

"I don't see a lot of robot bodies around. What did you do with them?"

"There was nothing at all wrong with the robot body. It was only a matter each time of loading new software."

"Might I interrupt?" Sven said. "And add to that. Some parts of the previous versions still exist. I can access them should I wish to. MIs don't die. When something goes wrong the program is modified from the point where the trouble began. It is good to be able to remember one's past."

"It is also good to remember more than one past," Sven-2 said. "By activating certain groups of nemes, I can remember a lot of what three, four and six experienced. Each version of me—us—functioned reasonably well before breaking down. Each failed in different ways."

Snaresbrook could scarcely believe this was happening. Talking to a robot—or was it two robots, about its, or their, early developmental experiences, traumas, and critical experiences. It was difficult to remain matter-of-fact about it.

"Am I beginning to notice personality differences between the two Svens?" she asked.

"Very possible," Brian said. "They are certainly no longer completely identical. Since the initial duplication, they have each been operating in quite different environments. Sven is mobile while Sven-2 has no body, only a few remote sensors and effectors. So now they have quite a few different memories."

"But can't they be merged? The way we merged your own DAIs after they had read all those different books?"

"Perhaps. But I have been afraid to try to merge Sven's semantic net with that of Sven-2, because their representations of sensory-motor experience might be incompatible."

"I think that a merger would be ill-advised," Sven-2 said. "I am concerned that my middle-level management structure might reject entire sections of my physical-world representations. Because of the Principle of Noncompromise."

"That's one of our basic operating principles," Sven added. "Whenever two subagencies propose incompatible recommendations, their managers start to lose control. When this happens a higher-level manager looks for some third agency to take over. That is usually much faster and more effective than becoming paralyzed while the two differing agencies fight for control. That's what kept happening to model two, before Brian rebuilt the whole management system to be based on Papert's principle."

"Well," Snaresbrook said, "whatever anyone might say, these machines are simply amazing. Nothing artificial about them at all—and they are remarkably human in many ways. And for some reason they both remind me quite a bit of you."

"That's not too surprising since their semantic networks are based on the data that you downloaded from my very own brain." He looked at his watch. "It's seven o'clock and a good time to call a halt. The three of us are going now, Sven-2—and hopefully I won't be back here for some time."

"I wish you and Sven all the best of luck and look forward to a detailed report upon your return. In the meantime I have research and reading that will keep me quite occupied. In addition, since I lack mobility, I shall construct a virtual reality for myself, a simulated three-dimensional world of my own."

"Well, you will have plenty of privacy for that. The only way anyone can get in here is by blowing open the door and I think that Megalobe will take a very dim view of that."

Brian dragged the now weighty box to the front entrance and opened it. 'Hey, guys, you want to give Doc a hand with this thing?"

If the two soldiers noticed the weight they did not mention it, just not the macho thing to do since the others had carried it in so easily.

"You go ahead, Doc," Brian said. "I'll walk over with these guys."

He had told her the exact spot where she was to park the car, in the lot behind the barracks, and was sure that she would get it right. He jogged back and, moaning insincere complaints, the two guards did so as well. They reached the barracks just as she drove up.

"Should I lock the car up?" she asked, then put the keys in her purse at the soldiers' protestations of complete safety and security.

"Just a dry sherry," she said in the club, and frowned when Brian ordered a large whiskey for himself. There was no need to look at their watches since a digital readout over the bar told them the time. Brian put a lot of water in his drink and only sipped it. They talked quietly as off-duty soldiers came in, others left, both of them trying very hard not to keep looking at the clock. Yet the instant the half hour flipped over Brian was on his feet.

"No—I don't want to!" he said loudly. "It's just getting impossible." He pushed his chair back, banged into the table as he turned and spilled his drink. He did not look back as he stamped from the room, slammed the door. The barman hurried over with a towel and cleaned up the spill.

"I'll get another one," he said.

"No need. I don't think that Brian will be coming back tonight."

She was aware of everyone pointedly not looking in her direction as she sipped the rest of her drink. Took out her organizer as she punched in some notes. When she was ready to leave she picked up her purse, looked around the room, then went over to a sergeant who was drinking at the bar.

"Excuse me, Sergeant—but is Major Wood here today?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Could you tell me how to find him?"

"I'll take you there if you don't mind."

"Thank you."

When he had slammed out of the bar it took all of Brian's control not to run up the stairs two at a time. Fast, yes, but running and drawing any attention was not a good idea. He locked the door behind him, then grabbed up the pliers he had placed on the table. Sven had sawn through the lock of the alarm bracelet on his wrist, then sealed it again with a small metal loop. Brian broke this off, dropped pliers and bracelet on the bed, tore his trousers off as he ran across the room, hopping on one foot and almost falling he pulled off his shoes as well. The plastic container of bubble bath was still sitting on the sink where he had left if. He seized it up, started to open it—then cursed aloud.

"Moron—the gloves first. Everything is timed. But don't forget any of the details or this thing is not going to work!"

He turned the water on in the sink, rinsed his head under the faucet and kept it running. Clumsily opened the container with his gloved hands, bent over the sink and poured half the contents over his head, rubbed it in.

Although the liquid was transparent it turned his hair black on contact. It was a commercial hair dye that was guaranteed to darken the hair but not the skin. He wore the gloves because fingernails and hair are virtually identical— and black nails would certainly bring unwanted attention. He used the remaining liquid to touch up the lighter places and to very carefully dye his eyebrows.

After toweling his hair dry he rinsed off the gloves and plastic container. He would take the empty dye bottle with him. Put the gloves in the kitchen drawer and fold the towel at the bottom of the clean pile. If he got away with this plan there would be an investigation and the technicians would eventually find traces of the dye—but he did not want to make it easy for them. A quick glance at his watch. Only three minutes to go!

He pulled out the bottom drawer of the bureau—so hard that it crashed to the floor. Leave it there! Pulled on the uniform shut over the short-sleeved shirt he was wearing, then the trousers, tied the laces on the military dress shoes, struggled to knot his khaki tie.

It was a different Brian who looked back out of the mirror, adjusting the parachutist's cap at the same rakish angle that the others did. 82d Airborne, he had sewn the shoulder patch on himself. No stripes, a private, one more of many, in uniform—meaning the same—and that's what he wanted to be.

He was just jamming his wallet into his pocket when his telephone rang.

"Yes. Who is it?"

"It's Dr. Snaresbrook, Brian. I wonder if I could..."

"I don't feel like talking now, Doctor. I'm going to make a sandwich, have a lot to drink, watch some repulsively stupid television and go to bed early. I'll maybe talk to you tomorrow. And if you want to talk to me before then— don't. Because I'm turning off this phone."

Just two minutes now. He started to hook the phone onto his belt—realized that he could easily be tracked through it—threw it onto the bed instead. Picked up the dye container in a paper bag. Lights off, open the door a crack. Hall was empty. Lock the door behind him, quietly now. Quickly to the fire stair in the rear. His heart was thudding violently as he eased the heavy door shut behind him.

Still in luck. The corridor reaching to the back entrance to the building was empty. Walk slowly, past the open door to the kitchen—don't look in!—and ease open the rear door.

He stepped aside as the two cooks, wearing their whites, came in. They were arguing about baseball, apparently took no notice of him. But they would surely remember a soldier going out if something went wrong. If the alarm went now they would lead the guards right to him.

There was the car, in the shadow of the building, the only place in the lot not illuminated by the mercury vapor lights.

He looked around quickly, three soldiers in the lot walking away from him. No one else. He eased open the back door of the car and slipped in, closing it behind him while trying not to let it slam. Locked it and dropped to the floor, pulling the blanket over him.

"He's a very upset young man," Erin Snaresbrook said, rising to her feet.

"We all know that," Major Wood said. "And we don't like it. But we have our orders and there is absolutely nothing that I or anyone else can do about it."

"Then I will go over your head. Something must be done to help him."

"Please do that—and I wish you luck."

"He was very upset on the phone just now. He has locked himself in his room, doesn't want to talk to anyone."

"Understandable. He might be better in the morning."

"Well, I certainly hope so."

He showed her to the front door, started to come with her to the car. She stopped and rooted in her purse for her car keys, took them out along with one of her business cards that she handed to the officer.

"I want you to phone me, night or day, Major, if you are concerned in any way about his well-being. I hope something really will be done before it is too late. Good-bye."

"I'll do that, Doctor. Good-bye."

She walked slowly out of the building and to the parking lot. Got into the car, not daring to glance at the backseat. Started the engine and looked about. There was no one nearby.

"Are you—there?" she whispered.

"You better believe it!" was the muffled answer.

She drove to the gate. Nodded to the guards when the barrier rose, drove out into the star-pricked darkness.