38

December 19, 2024

Erin Snaresbtook was forced to set the cruise control on the car, since her speed kept creeping up—and dropping back only when she noticed. The desert was an ocean of darkness on all sides, the headlights boring a tunnel of light down the undulating ribbon of the road ahead of her. She drove for over a mile before she saw the car parked on the shoulder of the road. She slowed and pulled over, stopping behind it. Sighed with relief, then turned her head and spoke over her shoulder.

"You're safe now. You can come out."

Brian popped up onto the backseat. "Thought I was going to suffocate. No problems, I guess—or we wouldn't be here."

"No problems. You can get out. Wait—let me turn the lights off first. And the inside light. Just in case."

Brian stepped out into the warm darkness. Free! For the first time in a year. He breathed deep of the dry desert air, allowed himself a long moment to take in the sky brimming over with stars, filled with them right down to the dark and jagged outline of the mountains. Heard the car door close as Snaresbrook came out and joined him. He turned to face her, looked past her and saw the other car, felt a surge of panic when he saw that someone was standing next to it.

"Who's there! What happened?"

"It's all right, Brian," Snaresbrook said quietly. "It's Shelly. She's here to help you. She knows about everything that is happening and is on your side."

Brian's throat was so tight that it took an effort to speak.

"How long have you known?" he asked when Shelly came and stood before him.

"Just for the last week. Ever since I told Dr. Snaresbrook about my leaving the military because of what they were doing to you. I convinced her that I wanted to help you— and she believed me."

"That's when I told her what you were planning to do. I have a great fear, Brian, that you are not ready to tackle the outside world on your own yet. I took the calculated risk that she was sincere—her presence here instead of the military police is proof that I was correct. I have been very concerned about you and, frankly, I did not want you to learn about her part in this affair until you were safely away from your prison."

Brian took a shuddering breath, let it out slowly—and smiled into the darkness. "You're right, Doc. I don't think I could have hacked it before. But now that it's done—I feel great! Welcome aboard, Shelly."

"Thank you both for letting me help. I'm coming with you. You are not going to be alone."

"I've got to think about that. Later. Right now we had better get moving." He unknotted his tie and pulled off the army shut. "Did the Major buy your story, Doc?"

"He likes you, Brian, they all seem to. I feel certain that no one will go near the room until the morning."

"I hope so. But when they do find that I'm missing it's going to really hit the fan. You know I feel sorry for them all. In a way it's a really dirty trick to play. They'll be in the yogurt for sure."

"A little late to think about that, isn't it?"

"No, I've already gone that route. I thought long and hard about it when I was planning the escape. I feel sorry for them—but they were my jailers—and I needed out of jail. Now, what's the plan?"

"Shelly takes over from here. I'm going back to Megalobe, do some work in my lab there. Spend the night. That will muddy the waters a bit, perhaps even prevent them from tying me in with the escape. The bigger the mystery the better the chance you have to pull it off. I'll even box my connection machine and put it back into the car so they will have trouble tying a missing box with your escape. So let's drag Sven out and put it in Shelly's car. The faster I get back, the better it will be."

As soon as this was done, after a quick peck on the cheek and hurried good-byes, they separated. When the other car had made a U-turn and headed back toward Megalobe, Shelly started her engine and drove west. Brian looked out at the hills moving by, felt an even greater sense of relief than he had when he first knew he was free.

"I'm glad that you are here," he said. "And maybe we better stick together. At least for a while." He looked at his watch. "At this speed we should reach the border by eleven at the latest."

"Are you sure? I've never driven this way before."

"Neither have I—that I remember. But I have been reading lots of guidebooks and maps. There shouldn't be much traffic and the total drive is only eighty-seven miles."

They were silent after that: there was very little now to say but a lot to think about.

They turned off 78 before Brawley and headed south toward El Centra and Calexico. The signs reading MEXICO led them around the town center to the border crossing. It was just half past ten when the customs booths appeared ahead. For the first time Brian felt nervous.

"All the travel books say that there is no hassle getting into Mexico. Is that right?"

"Come and bring your dollars. I've never been stopped going in—or even been looked at for that matter."

There were no American customs officers in sight when they drove across the national boundary. The Mexican official, sporting a large gun and even larger stomach, just glanced at their license plate then turned away.

"We did it!" Brian shouted as they rolled along the street of garish shops and bars.

"We sure enough did! What's next?"

"A change of plan for one thing. The original idea was for the doc to drop me and Sven off and go back to the States. She had no clue as to what my future plans would be."

"Do you?"

"Positively! I'm going to take the train to Mexico City tonight."

"So am I."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"All right. We stick to the original plan except you take the car back across the border, return by cab—"

"Nope. Too complicated, too time-consuming. And it leaves a trail. We just leave the car here with the key in the ignition."

"It'll get stolen!"

"That's the idea. It should vanish completely if the local car thieves are up to scratch. That's a lot better than having it found in a parking lot in Calexico to show which way we went."

"You can't do that. The money..."

"I wanted a new car anyway. And maybe someday I can collect the insurance. So not another word. Which way is the station?"

"I'll look at the street map."

They found the Ferrocarriles Nacionales de Mexico easily enough. Shelly drove past the station and around the corner to a badly lit street, parked under a burnt-out streetlight. She took a small suitcase from the trunk, remembered to leave the keys, then helped Brian lift out the heavy box.

"The first step—and the biggest one," he said.

"One hour and twenty-one minutes are left before the train leaves," the box said in muffled but possibly admonitory tones.

"More than enough time. Be patient—we're the ones dragging the box."

They got it as far as the station entrance before Shelly called quits.

"Enough! You watch this thing while I see if they rise to something as exotic as a redcap."

She was back a few minutes later with the man. He was wearing a battered cap, his badge of rank, and pushing a handcart.

"We have to buy tickets," Brian said as the porter eased the metal edge of the hand truck under the box. He hoped that the man spoke English.

"No problem. Where are you going?"

"Mexico City."

"No problem. You people, you just follow me."

The unhappy-looking woman behind the window grille also spoke English, he was relieved to find out. Yes, there was a first-class compartment available. The ancient machine at her elbow disgorged two tickets, which she hand-stamped. The only problem was money.

"Don't take dollars," she said, scowling, as though it were his fault. "Only moneda national."

"Can't we change money here?" Shelly asked.

"The change is closed already."

Brian's surge of panic was only slightly relieved when the porter said, "I got a friend, change money."

"Where?"

"Over there, he work in the bar."

The bartender smiled broadly, was more than happy to sell pesos for dollars.

"You know I gotta charge different from the bank because I lose on the exchange."

"Whatever you say," Brian said, passing over the greenbacks.

"I'm sure he's cheating you!" Shelly hissed when the man went to the till.

"I agree. But we're getting on the train and that's what counts."

Cheated or not he felt immensely relieved to see the thick bundle of pesos that he got in return for his dollars.

It was eight minutes to twelve when the porter put the box on the floor in the compartment, pocketed his ten-dollar tip, closed the door behind him as he left. Shelly pulled down the curtain while Brian locked the door and opened the box.

"The correct rate of exchange for selling dollars in Mexico is—"

"Keep it a secret from us, will you please?" Brian said as he took out his airline bag. "Been enjoying your trip so far, Sven?"

"If looking at the inside of dark car trunks is enjoyable, then I have enjoyed myself."

"It can only get better," Shelly said.

There was the clank of distant couplings and the train shuddered and began to move; an imperious knock rattled the door.

"I'll get that," Shelly said. "You had better relax."

"I would love to."

She waited until he had slammed the box shut before she unlocked and opened the door.

"Tickets please," the conductor said.

"Yes, of course." He passed them over. The conductor punched them and pointed to the seats.

"Just pull the back of the couch down when you are ready to retire, the bed is already made up. The upper bunk swings down like this. Have a pleasant journey."

Brian locked the door behind him and dropped onto the seat limply. This had been quite a day.

The train swayed as they picked up speed, the wheels clicked over the rails, lights moved by outside. He opened the curtain and watched the suburbs stream past, then the farms beyond.

"We've made it!" Shelly said. "I've never seen a more lovely sight in my life."

"I am sure that it is a most interesting view," the muffled voice said.

"Sorry about that," Brian said as he opened the box again. Sven pushed his eyestalks out so he could see through the window as well. Brian turned off the lights and they watched the landscape drift by.

"What time do we get there?" Shelly asked.

"Three in the afternoon."

"And then?"

Brian was silent, looking out into the darkness, still not sure. "Shelly, I still think I ought to be doing this on my own."

"Nonsense. In for a penny, in for a pound, isn't that what they say?"

"They say it in Ireland all right."

"It is my belief that you should accept Shelly's offer of aid," Sven said.

"Did I ask for your opinion?"

"No. But her suggestion is a good one. You have been quite ill, your memory has gaps in it. You can use her help. Take it."

"Outvoted," Brian sighed. "The plan is a simple one— but you had better have your passport with you."

"I do. Packed it in as soon as Dr. Snaresbrook mentioned she would be going to the Mexican border."

"What I must do is stay ahead of anyone who comes looking for me."

"Go to ground in Mexico?"

"I thought of that—but it's no good. The Mexican and American police cooperate very closely in chasing down drug runners. I am sure that General Schorcht would tag me as a criminal if that was needed to track me down. So I have to go further than Mexico. I checked the schedules and a lot of international flights leave Mexico City in the early evening. So we buy tickets and leave the country."

"Any particular destination in mind?"

"Of course. Ireland. You'll remember that I am an Irish citizen."

"That's a brilliant idea. So we get to Ireland—then what?"

"I am going to try and find Dr. Bociort—if he is still alive. Which will probably mean making a trip to Rumania. The people who stole my first AI and tried to kill me are still out there. I am going to find them. For a lot of reasons. Revenge might be one of them, but survival is the main one. With their threat removed I can stop looking over my shoulder. And General Schorcht will no longer have an excuse to cause me trouble."

"Amen to that." She yawned widely and covered her mouth. "Excuse me. But if you are half as tired as I am we should get some sleep."

"Now that you have said it—yes."

He pulled down the curtain and turned on the lights. As promised, the two berths were made up and swung easily into position.

"I'll take the upper," Shelly said, opening her suitcase and taking out pajamas and a dressing gown, grabbed her purse. "Be right back."

When she returned the only light on was the small one over her berth. Brian was under the covers and Sven had raised the curtain an inch and was looking out.

"Good night," she said.

"Good night," Sven said. A soft snore was the only other sound.

39

December 20, 2024

The scenery flowed by while they ate breakfast in the dining car. Small villages, jungle and mountains, an occasional glimpse of ocean as they skirted the Sea of Cortez. While they were finishing their coffee a phone rang and Brian saw one of the other diners take it from his jacket pocket and answer it.

"I'm being stupid," he said. "I should have thought of it before this. Do you have your phone with you?"

"Of course. Doesn't everyone?"

"Not me, not now. You know that you can receive a phone call no matter where you are. Did you ever think of the mechanism involved?"

"Not really. It's one of those things you take for granted."

"It was so new to me that I looked into it. There are fiber-optic and microwave links everywhere now, cellular nets right around the world. When you want to make a call you just punch it in and the nearest station accepts it and passes it on. What you might not realize is that your phone is always on, always on standby. And it logs in automatically when you move between cells by sending your present location to the memory bank of your home exchange. So when someone dials your number the national or international telephone system always knows where to find you and pass on the incoming call."

Her eyes widened. "You mean it knows where I am now? That anyone with the authority could obtain this information?"

"Absolutely. Like General Schorcht for instance."

She gasped. "Then we have to get rid of it! Throw it off the train—"

"No. If a phone goes out of commission a signal is sent to the repair service. You don't want to draw any attention to yourself. We can be fairly sure that no one is looking for you yet. But when they find that I'm missing and the search begins, they will be sure to contact everyone who worked with me. Let's go back to the compartment—I have an idea."

There was a panel under the window that looked perfect. Brian pointed to it.

"Sven, do you think you can take those screws out?"

Sven swiveled his eyes to look. "An easy task."

The MI formed a screwdriver head with its manipulators and quickly took out the screws that held the plastic panel in place. There were two pipes and an electric cable passing through the space there behind the panel. Brian pointed.

"We'll just put your telephone in here. The plastic panel won't block any signals. If the military call and you don't answer they are going to have a busy time tracking the signal while it's moving around Mexico. By the time they sort it out we will be long gone."

The train pulled out of Tepic at lunchtime and turned inland towards Guadalajara, reaching Mexico City exactly on time. Sven was packed safely away and ready for the porter who came for their luggage. He led the way to the Depósito de Equipajes, where they checked everything in. Brian pointed to the bank next to it.

"The first thing we do is get some pesos. We don't want a repetition of Mexicali."

"And then?"

"We find a travel agency."

Outside of the Buenavista railroad station, Mexico City was cold and wet; the smog hurt their eyes. They ignored the cab rank and walked out through the crowds and along Insurgentes Norte until they came to the first travel agency. It was a large one and a placard in the window said english spoken, a very hopeful sign. They turned in.

"We would like to fly to Ireland," Brian told the man behind the large desk. "As soon as is possible."

"I'm afraid that there are no direct flights from here," the agent said as he turned to his computer and brought up the tables of departing flights. "There is an American flight that connects daily through New York City—and a Delta flight through Atlanta."

"What about non-American carriers?" Shelly asked, and Brian nodded agreement. Safely out of the States they were in no hurry to return, however briefly. In the end they settled for MexAir to Havana, Cuba, with an Aeroflot Tupelov leaving three hours later for Shannon. The tickets were priced in pesos, but the agent called the bank for the current rate of exchange.

"Let's hold on to the cash," Shelly said. "We're going to need it. Use my credit card instead."

"They'll track you down."

"Like the phone—I'll be long gone."

"Cash or credit card, both okay," the agent said, and pulled over the booking form. "American passports?"

"One. The other is Irish."

"That will be fine. This will only take a few moments." The computer link checked the credit card account, booked the seats and printed the tickets. "I hope you enjoy your flight."

"I hope so too," Brian said when they were back in the street. The query about their passports was a depressing reminder that they were going to have to pass through customs. The travel books had been quite clear about this and he knew he faced trouble. He hoped he could avoid it by what was called the mordida. He would soon find out.

"I'm cold and wet," Shelly said. "Do we have time to buy a raincoat—maybe a sweater?"

He looked at his watch. "A good idea. More than enough time before we have to be at the airport. Let's try that department store."

He bought two more shirts, underwear, a light jacket as well as the raincoat. Just the basic items that would fit into the carry-on bag. Shelly did far better than that, shopping so well that she had to buy another small suitcase. Back in the train station Brian dug out the stub, retrieved Sven and their bags, then took a cab to the airport.

There were no problems at the check-in counter. They watched Shelly's bag and the crated MI move slowly away on the belt as the airline clerk tore out sheets from their tickets and stapled them to the boarding cards.

"Might I see your passports, please?"

This first hurdle was easy enough to get over. All she wanted to do was look at the first page to see if the passports were current and had not expired. She smiled and passed them back. Shelly went through security first. He followed, clutching his passport and boarding pass, putting his bag on the belt of the X-ray machine before he stepped through the archway next to it. The machine bleeped and the security guard turned to him with a dark and suspicious look.

He took the coins from his pocket, even undipped and removed his brass belt buckle and put that on the tray as well. Stepped back through the arch, which bleeped again.

Then Brian realized what was happening. The magnetic field detected metal—and electronic circuitry.

"My head," he said, pointing at his ear. "An accident, an operation." Not a computer—keep it simple. "I have a metal plate in my skull."

The guard was most interested in this. He used the magnetic field hand detector, which only bleeped when it was near Brian's head. No weapon there; he was waved through. Everyone was just doing their job.

Including the customs officer. He was a dark-skinned man with an elegant mustache. When Brian gave him his passport he flipped the pages slowly, went back and repeated the action. Looked up and frowned.

"I do not see the visa entry showing where you entered Mexico."

"Are you sure? Can I see the passport again?" He pretended to look through it and, with the great fear that he was making a total fool of himself, slipped a hundred-dollar bill between the pages. It is one thing to read about bribes—another to really attempt bribery. He was sure he would be under arrest within moments.

"I didn't know I needed one. We crossed the border by car. I didn't know about a visa."

He pushed the passport back and watched with horror as the officer opened it.

"These things happen," the officer said. "Mistakes can be made. But you will need two visa stamps. One to enter the country, one to leave. If the lady is with you she will need two stamps as well."

The man looked bored as he returned the passport unstamped. Brian flipped through its empty pages—empty of money as well as visas—then realized what was happening.

"Of course. Two stamps, not one. I understand."

They both understood. Three more hundred-dollar bills went the way of the first; there were two thuds and he had the passport back. Shelly's was treated in the same way. They were through and on their way!

"Did I see what I thought I saw?" Shelly hissed in his ear. "You are a crook, Brian Delaney."

"I am as surprised as you are. Let's find our gate and sit down. This kind of thing is not easy on the nerves."

The plane was only an hour late in leaving; the rest of the trip passed in a blur. They could only manage to doze on the plane and fatigue was beginning to tell. Havana was just a dimly lit transit lounge with hard plastic seats. The Aeroflot flight left two hours late this time. They ate some of the tasteless airline food, drank some Georgian champagne and finally fell asleep.

It was just after dawn in Shannon. The plane dropped down through the cloud-filled sky, came in low over cows grazing in green fields as they approached the runway. Brian pulled on his coat and took down his bag from the overhead rack. They left the plane in silence along with the rest of the weary travelers. Another transatlantic flight had arrived at the same time, so they were a long time shuffling along in the line of unshaven men, bleary-eyed women, whimpering and wailing children. Shelly went through first, had a visa stamped in her passport, turned to wait for him.

"Welcome home, Mr. Byrne," the wide-awake and sprightly customs man said. "Been away on a holiday?"

Brian had been prepared for this moment and his accent was purest Wicklow without a trace of American. "You might say so—thousands wouldn't. The food's a shock and they seem to think that overcharging is a way of life."

"That's very interesting." The man had the rubber stamp in his hand but he was not using it. Instead he raised cold blue eyes to Brian.

"Your current address?"

"Number 20 Kilmagig. In Tara."

"A nice little village. Main Street with the primary school just across from the church."

"Not unless they've jacked it up and moved it a half mile down the road, it isn't."

"True, true, I must have gotten it confused with someplace else. But there is still one little problem. That you are Irish I don't doubt, Mr. Byrne, and I wouldn't be one to deny a man access to the land of his birth. But the law is the law." He signed to a garda, who nodded and strolled their way.

"I don't understand. You've checked my passport—"

"I have indeed, most intriguing as well as puzzling it is. The date of issue is perfectly correct and all the visas appear to be in order. But I find one thing difficult to understand— which is why I am asking you to proceed with this garda to the office. You see this style passport has been replaced by the new Europas. This particular style passport hasn't been issued for over ten years. Now don't you find that interesting?"

"You better wait here for me," Brian said weakly to Shelly as the big man in blue uniform led him away.

The interrogation room was windowless and damp. There was nothing on the drab walls except some water stains; a table and two chairs stood in the center of the worn wooden floor. Brian sat on one of them. His carry-on bag was on top of the box in the corner. A large policeman stood next to the door staring patiently into space.

Brian was depressed, chilled, and probably catching a cold. He rubbed his itching nose, pulled out his handkerchief and sneezed loudly into it.

"God bless," the garda said, glancing at him then back to the wall again. The door opened and another big man came in. No uniform, but the dark suit and heavy boots were uniform enough. He sat down on the outer side of the table and put Brian's passport down before him.

"I am Lieutenant Fennelly. Now, is this your passport, Mr. Byrne?"

"Yes, it is."

"There are certain irregularities about it. Are you aware of that?"

Brian had had more than enough time to think about what he was going to say. Had decided on the truth, everything except the fact that he had been imprisoned by the military. He would keep to a highly simplified version of what had actually happened.

"Yes. The passport was out of date. I had some important business appointments, couldn't wait to get a new one. So I made a few slight changes myself to bring it up to date."

"Slight changes! Mr. Byrne, this passport has been so excellently altered that I sincerely doubt that it would have been detected had it not been the old model. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an electronic engineer."

"Well you could make a grand living as a forger should you wish to continue your criminal career."

"I'm no criminal!"

"Aren't you now? Did you not just admit to forgery?"

"I did not. A passport is only a piece of identification, nothing more. I have just brought my passport up to date— which is the same thing that the passport office would have done had I the time to apply for a new one."

"That's a pretty Jesuitical argument for a criminal to use."

Brian was angry, even though he realized the detective had angered him on purpose. A sneeze saved him; by the time he had dug out his handkerchief and wiped his nose he had the anger under control. Attack was the best defense. He hoped.

"Are you charging me with some kind of crime, Lieutenant Fennelly?"

"I will make my report. I would like some details first." He opened a large notebook on the table, took out a pen. "Place and date of birth."

"Is all that needed? I have been living in the United States, but I was born in Tara, County Wicklow. My mother died when I was young. She was not married. I was adopted by my father, Patrick Delaney who took me to live in the States where he was then working. It's all in the record. You can have names, dates, places if you must. It will all check out."

The Lieutenant did want the facts, all of them, and slowly and carefully transcribed them in his book. Brian held nothing back, just terminated the record before he began to work at Megalobe, before the theft and the killings that happened.

"Would you open your luggage now?"

Brian had been waiting for this, had planned ahead. He knew that Sven was listening to everything that was being said, hoped that the MI would understand as well.

"The small bag, here, contains personal items. The large box is a sample."

"A sample of what?"

"A robot. This is a machine I have developed that I plan to show to some private investors."

"Their names?"

"I cannot reveal that. A confidential business matter."

Fennelly made another note while Brian unlocked the box and opened the lid. "This is a basic model of an industrial robot. It can answer simple questions and take verbal input. That is how it is controlled."

Even the garda by the door was interested in this, turning his head to look. The detective gazed down at the unassembled parts with a baffled expression.

"Shall I turn it on?" Brian asked. "It can talk—but not very well." Sven would love that. He reached down and pressed one of the latches. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes—I can—hear—you."

A great job of ham acting, scratchy and monotone like a cheap toy. At least it caught the attention of the lawmen.

"What are you?"

"I am—an industrial—robot. I follow—instructions."

"If that is enough, Lieutenant, I will turn it off."

"Just a moment, if you please. What is that?" He pointed to the hollow plastic head.

"To make the demonstration more interesting I occasionally mount that on the robot. It draws attention. If you don't mind I'll turn if off, the battery you know." He pressed the latch again and closed the lid.

"What is this machine worth?" Fennelly asked.

Worth? The molecular memory alone had cost millions to build. "I would say about two thousand dollars," Brian said innocently.

"Do you have an import license?"

"I am not importing it. It is a sample and not for sale."

"You will have to talk to the customs officer about that." He closed the book and stood up. "I am making a report on this matter. You will remain within the airport premises if you don't mind."

"Am I under arrest?"

"At the present moment, no."

"I want a lawyer."

"That decision is up to you."

Shelly was sitting over a cold cup of tea, jumped to her feet when he came up.

"What happened? I was so worried—"

"Don't be. It is all going to work out all right. Have another cup of tea while I make a phone call."

The classified directory had a half page of solicitors in Limerick. The cashier sold him a phone card—this must be the only country in the world that still uses them. With his third call Brian talked to a Fergus Duffy, who would be happy to drive out to the airport at once and take on his case. But it was an Irish at-once, so it was afternoon, and a number of cups of tea and some very dry cheese sandwiches later, before his new solicitor managed to make any alteration in his status. Fergus Duffy was a cheerful young man with red tufts of hair protruding from his ears and nose, which he tugged on from time to time when excited.

"A pleasure to meet you both," he said, sitting down and taking a file from his briefcase. "I must say that this is an unusual and interesting affair and no one seems to be able to work out that no crime has been committed, you have merely altered your own expired passport, which certainly can't be considered a crime. In the end the powers that be have come to a decision to pass the problem on to a higher authority. You are free to go but you must give your address so you can be contacted. If needs be."

"What about my baggage?"

"You can pick it up now. Your machine will be released as soon as you have a customs broker complete the forms and have paid duty and VAT and such. No problem there."

"Then I am free to go?"

"Yes—but not far. I would suggest the airport hotel for the time being. I'll push these papers through as fast as I can, but you must realize that fast in Ireland is a relative term. You know, like the story about the Irish linguist. You've heard it?"

"I don't believe—"

"You'll greatly enjoy it. You see it happens at a congress of international linguists and the Spanish linguist asks the Irish linguist if there is a word in Irish with the same meaning as the Spanish manana. Well your man thinks for a bit and says, why yes, sure enough there is—but it doesn't have the same sense of terrible urgency." Fergus slapped his knees and laughed enough for all three of them.

He helped them collect Brian's bag and the sample robot now released from customs. On the short drive to the hotel they heard three more of what he referred to as Kerryman stories. They could all be clearly recognized as familiar Polish or Irish jokes. Brian wondered which minority or subhuman race might be named as the subject of these same jokes when they were told in Kerry.

Fergus Duffy dropped them in front of the hotel, promised to call in the morning. While they were talking Shelly checked them in, came back with two keys and an ancient porter with a trolley.

"You share with Sven," she said as they followed the septuagenarian toward the elevator. "I have no desire at all to catch your cold. I'm going to unpack and freshen up. I'll be over as soon as I feel a little more human."

"Is there any reason for me to remain in this box?" Sven asked when Brian opened it. "I would enjoy a little mobility."

"Enjoy." Brian sneezed thunderously, then attached Sven's right arm and unpacked his toilet kit.

"What is the electricity supply in Ireland?" Sven asked as it fitted the other arm into position.

"Two hundred and twenty volts, fifty cycles."

"Easy enough to adjust for. I'm going to recharge my batteries. Use them until we can obtain more fuel for the cell."

Brian found a tube of antihistamine tablets in his toilet kit and washed one down with a glass of water. Sat back in the chair and realized that, for the first time in what—two days?—he had finally stopped running. The telephone was on the table beside him and it reminded him of the mysterious number that Sven-2 had uncovered. Could it possibly be a phone number in Switzerland? Hidden there by the vanished Dr. Bociort? He still didn't think much of the theory, but he ought to at least try to place the call before he started running all over Europe. There was only one way to find out if Sven-2's theory made any sense. He reached out for the phone—and stopped.

Could the phone be tapped? Or was he just being paranoid after General Schorcht's constant surveillance? He was the subject of a police investigation here so there might be a long chance that it was. He pulled his hand back, took the phone card from his pocket. Five pounds it said and he must have used only a small part of that. More than enough left to call Switzerland. He went and looked out of the window. The sun had come out but the streets were still wet from the rain. And down the block was a brown building with the name "Paddy Murphy" over the curtained windows. A pub—the perfect place. He could have a jar and make his call. He dozed in the chair until Shelly's knock jumped him awake. She was wearing a sweater with a bold Aztec design.

"You look great," he said.

"I'm glad one of us does. You look like you have been dragged through a knothole."

"That's exactly how I feel. I'll have a wash and shave, then we'll go out to the pub."

"Shouldn't you be sleeping rather than drinking?"

"Probably," he called back through the open door. "But I want to make that phone call first, to that number that Sven-2 thinks he discovered."

"What number? What on earth are you talking about?"

"It's a long shot but one worth trying."

"We're being mysterious, aren't we?"

"Not really. I'll try to make the call first. Then there really might be something to talk about. Sven, I never wrote the number down. What was it?"

"41 336709."

Brian scribbled it on the back of the stub from his boarding pass. "Great. I'll be out in a minute." He closed the door and began to undress.

The bartender was chatting with a solitary drinker at the far end of the bar, looked up and came over to mem when they entered and sat down at a table near the open fire.

"What will you have, Shelly?" Brian asked.

"Wine of the country, of course."

"Right. Two pints of Guinness, if you please."

"Going to rain again," the barman said gloomily as he slowly and patiently filled the glasses, placed them on the bar to settle.

"Doesn't it always. Good for the farmers and bad for the tourists."

"Get away with you—the tourists love it. They wouldn't recognize the country if it wasn't raining stair rods."

"There is that. You have a phone here?"

"In back, by the door to the lounge." .He topped up the glasses and brought them over.

Brian sipped at the creamy head of the jet black liquid.

"This is delicious," Shelly said.

"Nutritious as well. And enough of it will get you drunk. I bet it cures colds too. I'm going to make that call now."

He took another sip and went to find the phone. Inserted the card and dialed the Swiss number. As soon as he got past the first four digits there was a high-pitched interrupt and a computer-generated voice spoke.

"You have dialed Switzerland from Ireland. The exchange you have entered does not exist. This message will be repeated in German and French..."

Brian crumpled up the slip of paper, threw it into the ashtray next to the phone, went back to the table and drained his pint and signaled for another one.

"You look glum," Shelly said.

"I should be. It doesn't work. The number was not a phone number. Sven-2 found the sequence buried in one of the stolen AI programs and seemed to think that it was. It wasn't. The chances are it was just a line of code that I wrote myself for the original AI. Let's forget the whole thing."

"Cheer up. You're a free man in a free world and that should mean something."

"It does—but not much at the present moment. Must be the cold getting me down. Let's finish these and get back to the hotel. I think some sleep is in order now. With the pills and the pints I should be able to sleep around the clock."

40

December 21, 2024

It was after seven that evening before Brian woke up, blinking into the darkness of the room.

"I detect the motion of your eyelids," Sven said. "Do you wish me to turn the lights on."

"Do that."

Ten minutes later he came out of the elevator and headed for the dining room. Shelly was sitting at a table by the far wall and she waved him over.

"I hope you don't mind but I started without you. The salmon is absolutely delicious. You ought to try it."

"You talked me into it—particularly since I just realized that I am starving. Airline muck and cheese sandwiches leave a lot to be desired."

"You look a lot better."

"Feel a lot better. The pills and sleep did the trick."

"Your solicitor telephoned. I had told the front desk that you were sleeping so they put the call through to me. He was quite happy about everything—including the fact that you are going to have to pay a fine of fifty pounds."

"Why?"

"He wasn't quite sure. He said that he thinks it is just a slap on the wrist to sort you out—and wind up the case. He has already paid so you are a free man. He is also looking into a passport for you and thinks he can pull enough strings to get one by tomorrow. Said to phone him in the morning. I wasn't too impressed by that. Takes ten minutes in the States."

"Ahh, my fair colleen, but you are.not in the distant country where all the computers work and the trains leave on time. Let me tell you—one day for a new passport in Ireland is lightning."

"I suppose we can use the rest. And maybe you can lick that cold. Have you thought about what you plan to do next?"

"There is little I can do without a passport. Then we start tracking down the mysterious Dr. Bociort. Right now I intend to get tucked into some dinner, with maybe a Guinness or two to tamp it down. Since we are going to be here at least another day, maybe we ought to think about some sight-seeing in the morning."

"In the rain?"

"This is Ireland. If you won't go out in the rain you are just never going to go out."

"Let me think about it. You have your dinner and I'll see you later I have to make a phone call."

Brian raised his eyebrows in silence and she laughed.

"Not to the States or to anyone that can be traced. Before I left L.A. I called a cousin in Israel. The only qualm I had about helping you was being out of touch with my family. My father is due to be operated on soon. My cousin will be calling my mother and she has strict instructions not to tell her that I might be phoning Israel. I'm sorry, Brian, it's the best I could think of..."

"Don't let it worry you. I'm feeling a lot safer and more relaxed now that we are here. Make your call."

Brian was just finishing his coffee, along with his second brandy, when Shelly rejoined him.

"That appears to be a lethal but interesting combination," she said, looking around for the waiter. "Mind if I join you?"

"Be hurt if you didn't."

"You look better."

"I feel better. Food, sleep, pills—and freedom. In fact I can't remember when I ever felt this good before."

"That's the best news ever!" She smiled, reached out and squeezed his hand. Then drew away when the waiter brought the tray to the table.

The touch unlocked a warmth in Brian that was totally new and he smiled broadly. Free for the moment, away from responsibilities and worries. The rain lashing down outside, but it was warm and secure inside. An encapsulated moment of peace and happiness.

"To you, Shelly," he said when the waiter had gone and they raised their glasses. "For what you have done to help me."

"It's little enough, Brian. I would rather drink to you— and freedom."

His smile reflected hers as they touched glasses, drank.

"I could really get used to this kind of thing," he said. "How did the call go?"

"It didn't. Even the operator couldn't get through. Said to try later."

"I can't understand that—telephone calls go through every time."

She laughed. "Apparently not in Ireland."

"Are you sure you have the right number?"

"Pretty sure."

"Better check directory inquiries before you call again."

"Good idea. Let's finish these and I'll do it right now, from the phone booth in the lobby."

The booth was occupied and after a moment Shelly shook her head.

"No point in waiting, we'll go to my room."

It was easier to climb the stairs than wait for the ancient elevator. Shelly unlocked the door, opened it and turned on the lights.

"Bigger than mine," Brian said, "more like a suite."

"Maybe the manager is partial to women. Do you want a drop of duty-free while I put the call through?"

"Yes, please—some of that buffalo vodka you bought on the Aeroflot flight to kill the pain."

She punched up international inquiries and spoke her cousin's name and address, but had to repeat the name twice slowly before the voice recognition program was satisfied. She wrote the number down, then laughed.

"You were right about phone calls always going through—I apologize to Ireland. I got one digit wrong when I copied it down."

"I'll drink to that. To technology."

He emptied his glass, filled it again, sipped in a warm haze as she made the call. He was probably getting drunk— but the hell with it. This was for pleasure, not escape, a very big difference. The call went through and he half listened to Shelly's voice. She sounded relieved so the news was good. There was some more chat about the family, then she hung up.

"Sounded okay from where I sit."

"It was. No problems at all and the prognosis is fine. So good in fact they are scheduling the operation."

"Good news indeed." He struggled to his feet with an effort. "I better be going. It's been a great evening."

"I couldn't agree more," she said. "Good night, Brian."

It was natural to kiss him on the cheek, a simple kiss of parting.

Then it wasn't that simple. She found him returning her kiss with a sudden warmth that she responded to. Neither of them had expected this—neither could say no.

It was closeness, an easy pleasure, a natural joining. It was emotion, sensation for Brian, something to be done without thinking, without logic. A flicker of memory, Kim, stirred at the edge of his attention but he rejected the thought. Not Kim, not that. This was different, better, very different.

But Kim would not be put aside. Not Kim herself but the memory of his feelings. His anger—anger at himself for that one loss of control.

Then it all drained away. Brian became aware that something was very wrong. In the darkness, Shelly's naked body was against his; but it was not right. He felt drained, distant, soft where he should be hard, aware of an immense distaste at everything that was happening. He rolled on his. side facing away from her, pulled further away when she stroked his shoulder.

"Don't worry," Shelly said. "These things happen. Life hasn't been that easy for you."

"Nothing happened—I don't want to talk about it."

"Brian, honey, after what you have gone through, you can't expect everything physical to work—"

"Physical? I don't expect anything to work. I have been shot, operated on, recovered, attacked, locked away. How am I supposed to feel? Not very human if you want to know. Not very interested in this, what you are trying to do—"

"We, Brian, not just me. This is something that takes two to play."

"Then find a game you can play by yourself."

He heard her gasp of shock in the darkness, could almost see her tears. Nor did he care.

"I thought that I made it quite clear when I said that I didn't want to talk about it."

Shelly began to speak again, changed her mind. Instead she went in silence into the bathroom and closed the door. Brian groped about until he found the light, turned it on. Dressed and left. Back in his own room he went unseeing into the bath, threw water on his face and rubbed it dry with the towel, would not look at himself in the mirror.

The bedroom was still dark; he hadn't turned the light on when he had come in. He did it now and saw that the curtain had been pulled open and that Sven was standing beside the window. He started to speak but the MI raised a suddenly formed hand in a very human gesture to stop. Brian shut the door and saw that Sven was now pointing to a sheet of paper on the bed. It was a note printed with precisely formed letters:

I have determined that there is a device inside the telephone in this room that is acting as a tap. In addition to this there is radiation directed against the window of the proper wavelength that is used to listen to conversations by monitoring the vibrations of the glass. We are under surveillance.

Who could it possibly be? The Irish security service? Possibly—and he certainly hoped so. What had happened with Shelly was forgotten for the moment. Investigation by the locals would be a lot better than thinking the unthinkable. The legions of General Schorcht could not have found him here, not this quickly. He fervently hoped. But what could they do to him? He went to the window and stared out into the darkness. Nothing. As he closed the curtain a motion caught his attention and he saw that Sven was signaling to him. The MI had printed out another note. He went over to look at it. The message contained just one word:

Communication.

As he read it Sven held up the end of a fiber-optic cable. Of course—a connection between both their brains would be completely secure and untappable.

But they had never communicated before in this manner, had always been assisted by Dr. Snaresbrook and her connection machine. But Sven was just as skillful, could find the metal stud under his skin, could insert the cable.

Not for an instant did Brian consider that there was any danger or difficulty in the process. He simply nodded agreement and pulled the chair over so it was out of sight of the window, sat in it with his back to the MI. Felt the familiar tracery of spider fingers on his skin.

Felt completely secure in the embrace of his own creation.

They spoke in silent communication, brain to brain.

That's surprising. This is no faster than if we were speaking aloud.

Of course, Brian. Unlike thought, which is networked, speech is linear and must be transmitted one unit at a time.

Who are they? Do you have any idea?

They have not revealed themselves in any way, nor have I heard communication in any form from those who are organizing the surveillance. Despite this I am very sure that I know who they are.

Irish police?

Unlikely.

You are not suggesting, are you, that they're General Schorcht's troops?

That is the possibility that I would like you to strongly consider.

Why? I mean on what evidence do you base the supposition?

Sven did not answer at once. Brian turned slowly to look tracery of manipulators turning with him to keep the fiber cable in place. Brian did not realize it but it looked as though Sven was cradling the back of his head in his hand. He looked at the MI and could of course read nothing on its metal, unchangeable features. When Sven did speak it was with slow circumlocution.

I have learned a great deal about the basic, innate, instinctive functions of the human brain because of downloading from you. But I have a much less complete comprehension of higher-level adult emotional reactions. I can describe the human physical structure and how it functions. But I still have little understanding of the deeper functions, the emotions and reactions of human brains. This is most complex. Because although I have within my own brain a stripped-down template of your superego I do not have direct access to it. But I believe that its effects upon my own feelings perhaps enable me to understand you better than the others I have talked to...

Is this leading to anything?

Yes. I beg patience and consideration because I am attempting to discuss something of which I have no experience. Human emotions and personality. I made a human value judgment many hours ago which at the time I presumed to be correct. I am no longer completely sure that it was correct.

What decision?

I will come to that. I had knowledge of a fact that I did not tell you about. I have heard your human acquaintances speak of you and their concern for both your physical and mental health. All of them, with the single exception of General Schorcht, make every effort to smooth the course of your existence.

That is very nice to hear, Sven. What is the fact that you concealed?

The concealment I assure was in your best interest.

I have no doubt about that. What is the fact?

Silence. Finally reluctant communication. I overheard a telephone conversation.

Overheard? How?

How? Most easily. If a portable telephone had enough circuitry to broadcast its position and receive calls—don't you think I can do an equal if not better job? The circuitry was very simple. I installed it a long time ago.

You mean that you have been listening in to other people's phone calls? Whose?

Everyone's of course. Any call in any cell where I am physically located.

Mine?

Everyone's. It is a highly interesting learning experience.

You've veered from the topic. Answer me—what phone call did you conceal from me? Tell me now. Time for concealment is over.

If it were possible to heave a mental sigh Sven did then. A sensation of resignation and inevitability was transferred from brain to brain.

Your companion, Shelly, made a phone call.

I was there, I know about it and I don't give a damn. It's not important.

You misunderstand. This is not the call I was referring to. It was an earlier one...

The hell with it! I don't want to talk about her or her damn calls...

You must care. This is vital to your survival. She made the call I refer to from the train in Mexico, when she was out of the compartment. Before you concealed her phone in the train.

Brian was almost afraid to ask the question, afraid that he already knew the answer.

Who did she speak to?

A man whose name I do not know. But it was obvious from the references and content that he was an aide to General Schorcht.

You've known this since yesterday—and didn't tell me?

That is correct. I have already told you my reasons.

Brian felt the explosion of hatred burst within him. Everything she had said, done, had been a lie. And this liar, this traitor, had witnessed his humiliation, was laughing at him right now. She must have been lying to him ever since she had returned from Los Angeles. She had been there to see her father—but she had most certainly seen General Schorcht as well. How much of what she had told him was the truth—how much playacting? Anger wiped away all the other emotions.The bitch had betrayed him. Maybe Snaresbrook was in this as well. Even Sven had hidden the betrayal from him until this moment. Was he completely alone in the world? Anger became despair. He was at the edge of a black mental pit and about to fall in.

Brian. The words came from a great distance. His name repeated over and over within his own head. His vision swam and he could not see well until he rubbed at his eyes, brushed away the tears, saw Sven's great glistening eyes just before him.

Brian, I have something good to tell you. Something you want to hear. It is still possible to make that telephone call to Dr. Bociort.

What are you saying? I told you last night it wasn't a phone number at all.

I know. That is because I lied to you. You will remember that I gave you the number in the presence of Shelly. I was still unsure then if I should reveal her duplicity to you. But I was sure that I would give her no information to pass on to the General.

"Look who is talking about duplicity!" Brian spoke aloud, shocked—then almost smiled into the darkness. He was hooked up to an MI that was more Machiavellian than Machiavelli!

Sven—you are really something. And you are really on my side. Possibly the only intelligent creature in the world at this point. I've got to make that phone call again—and this time to the correct number. Any suggestions how we go about that?

Only the simple observation that we do not make it from this area where all the circuits are sure to be under surveillance.

Too right. Let's make plans. We want to get out of this hotel, out of this area—and away from that personification of evil. Now I just want to get away from her, as far away as possible.

I agree. We should leave here at once. And might I observe that since she checked you both into this hotel you will also be sticking her with the bill.

To hell with Shelly. She should die and burn in hell forever. Now he had to escape. But how? He couldn't leave Sven here when he left, could not consider that for an instant. Their closeness now was beyond friendship, a relationship that he could not put into words. But if he disassembled the MI again and stuffed him back into the box it would be an impossible burden.

At that moment Sven formed a very human hand and bent over to pull the plug on the charging cable from the wall. That was the answer. Night and rain—he had to take the chance. He scribbled a quick note and handed it to the MI.

Put on human disguise.

The phone rang. He hesitated. Two rings, three. He had better answer it.

"Yes."

"Brian, could I talk to you—"

Anger surged up, burning like acid; he coughed and fought for composure, failed.

"Go to hell!"

"I'm so sorry you feel this way. In the morning we can talk..."

Her voice cut off as he slammed the receiver back into the cradle. While they had been talking Sven had pulled on the clothes, tied its shoes, was now slipping into the raincoat. With the store dummy's head settled into position, the hat pulled low, there was suddenly another human being in the room. Brian struggled to contain his anger, faced it, let it drain away. Then looked at Sven again and shaped a circle of approval with his index finger and thumb and reached for the phone. While he waited for them to answer he wrote another note.

Open the door an inch. Silently!

"Hello, reception? Room 222 here. Listen, I'm retiring and I would like you to hold all calls until morning. Take any messages. Right. Thank you. Good night."

He walked around the room humming to himself as he found his raincoat. Yawned loudly, ran water in the sink then flushed the toilet. Stamped his feet on the floor, then sat down on the bed, which squeaked providentially. Turned off the light and tiptoed to the door. Sven opened it a bit more and one eyestalk appeared from below the scarf, slipped out through the opening and scanned the hallway. There was obviously no one there, for the MI opened the door and led the way out, closing it silently behind them.

"The service lift," Brian said. "And keep your coat collar turned up."

It was late and luck was on their side. The kitchen was dark, the staff gone home. The outside door let them out into a rain-drenched alley.

"Might I assume that you have formulated a plan?" Sven said.

"Find a bar with a phone and we are on our way."

They passed Paddy Murphy's where he had been before, went on through the rain to the welcoming lights of Maddigan's. Brian pointed to the dark entrance to the closed fishmonger next door. "You wait in there. I'll be as quick as I can."

The barman looked up from the Sporting Times when Brian pushed open the door. The courting couple in the rear booth were too occupied with each other to notice nun.

"Jayzus but it's wet out there. A glass of Paddy if you please."

"It'll keep the dust down. Ice?"

"No—just a drop of the red. Can I telephone for a taxi?"

"Back by the jakes. Number on the wall above it. That'll be two pound eighty."

Brian downed the last of his drink when he heard the sound of a hooter outside. Waved to the barman and left. Sven appeared beside him, climbed into the cab after him.

"Going far?" the driver asked. "I need to fill the tank if you are."

Brian slammed the door shut before he answered. "Limerick train station."

"There's an all-night petrol station on the way. Really suppose we ought to call it a gas station, same as the Yanks do. No petrol there at all. And hydrogen is a gas, that's what I hear, so it's off to the gas station we are."

Brian wiped the condensation off the rear window and looked out. There were no other cars in sight that he could see. They just might get away with it. An image of Shelly appeared before him and he easily pushed it away. She was not even worth thinking about, not ever again.

41

December 21, 2024

The rain had turned to a fine mist by the time they reached Limerick station. Brian emerged from the cab first to pay the fare, blocking the driver's view of Sven slipping out to stand in the shadows. The station was empty, the kiosk closed, a single light over the ticket Window.

"And there are the phones!" Brian said. "I sincerely hope that this time you will give me the right number."

"I will enter it if you wish me to."

"No thanks. Just tell me what it is—then find a dark comer to stand in."

Brian punched in the series of digits. Listened to electronic rustling. Was this really a phone number—or would mat Swiss computer tell him to get lost again?

Some of the tension drained away when he heard the ringing tones. Four, five times—then someone picked the phone up.

"Jawohl." A man's voice.

"Excuse me, but is this a St. Moritz number 55-8723?" There was only silence—but whoever was there was still listening, did not hang up. "Hello, are you there? I'm afraid that I don't speak German."

"Would you tell me who you are? Or perhaps I already know. Your first name would not be Brian by any chance."

"Yes it is. How did you know—who is this?"

"Come to St. Moritz. Phone me again after you arrive." There was a click and the line went dead.

"That is very good news indeed," Sven said when Brian went over to the MI.

"Eavesdropping?"

"Simply as a protective measure. As far as I could determine I was the only one that was doing it. Will we now go to St. Moritz?"

"Not this very minute. We'll need some kind of a plan before we start rushing about."

"Might I suggest that we consider a diversion first? I have accessed the timetable data base and there is a train for Dublin that leaves here in less than an hour. It might be wise for you to purchase two tickets, then make a query at the ticket window just before it leaves. Anyone who searches for us will find the cabdriver easily enough, which will cause them to follow us to this station. A subterfuge like this might.

"Might muddy the trail. You are a born, or constructed, conspirator, old son. And after we get the tickets and the train pulls out—then what? Go to a hotel?"

"That is one possibility, but I am developing others. Might I suggest that after purchasing the tickets you wait in a public house until it is time for the train."

"All this is going to turn me into an alcoholic. And while I am in the boozer you will be doing exactly what?"

"Developing other possibilities."

Sven joined Brian forty-five minutes later when he emerged from the pub.

"I made a pint of Smithwicks last the hour," Brian said. "After this I swear off drink forever. And how have your possibilities developed?"

"Excellently. I will be waiting one hundred meters east of the station. Join me there after your discussion with the ticket vendor."

Before Brian could query him the MI was gone. There was a short queue at the window and he joined it. Asked about connecting trains to Belfast from Dublin, made sure that he was remembered by having the man consult the schedules on his terminal. Then he walked down the platform past the waiting train, then strolled back. He was sure that no one saw him slipping out of the station in the darkness. He walked through the rain past the row of cars parked at the curb, to the appointed spot.

Only Sven wasn't there, the shop entrance damp, dark and empty. Had he gone far enough? Perhaps the next shop; empty as well.

"Over here," Sven said through the open window of the nearest car. "The door is unlocked." In shocked silence Brian climbed into the front seat. Sven started the engine, turned on the headlights and pulled smoothly out into the road. The MI had removed its head and extended its eyes, clutched the steering wheel in its multibranched grip.

"I didn't know you could drive," Brian said, realizing the inanity of his words even as he spoke them.

"I observed the driving operation in the taxi. While I was waiting for you I retrieved a driving simulator program that had been bundled with other files. I then programmed it into a powerful virtual reality. I ran this at teraflop speed enabling me in a few minutes to accumulate the equivalent of many years of driving experience."

"I am filled with admiration. I am also almost afraid to ask where you got this motor."

"Stole it of course."

"That's why I was afraid to ask."

"Do not fear that we will be apprehended. I removed this vehicle from the locked premises of an auto dealer. Before they open in the morning we will no longer be driving this particular car."

"We won't? Where will we be? You don't mind if I sort of know about the plan?"

"I detect from the phraseology that you are being sarcastic and I am sorry if I gave offense. When last we talked I had a number of options open. This one proved the most practical. If you approve we will now drive to Cork City. If you do not approve I will suggest alternative choices."

"This one seems good so far. But why Cork?"

"Because it is a seaport with a daily ferry service to Swansea. Which is a city in Wales, which in turn is located on the largest of a group of islands called the British Isles. From there it is possible to drive on a motorway system to a tunnel that leads to the mainland of Europe. Switzerland is a country on that mainland."

"All this without a passport?"

"I have studied the relevant data bases. The European Economic Community forms a customs union. A passport is needed to enter any member country from outside the community. After that there is no need to show it again. However, Switzerland is not a member of this group. I thought that this problem might be postponed until we reached that country's border."

Brian took a deep breath, watched the windscreen wipers slap back and forth, found it a little difficult to believe that this was really happening.

"Then as I read it—your plan is to steal and abandon a series of motorcars and drive from here to Switzerland?"

"That is correct."

"You and I are going to have to have a long talk about morality and honesty sometime soon."

"We already have done that, but I will be pleased to amplify our earlier discussions."

Brian smiled into the darkness. It was happening all right. Sven would have had no problem unlocking a locked garage—or in jumping the car's ignition. Once the MI had analyzed how the machine operated, driving it was obviously simplicity itself. He certainly had enough cash for fuel and ferry tickets.

"The ferry—it won't work. I can see their faces now when you drive aboard, three glassy eyeballs staring out of the window. They'll die of heart attacks!"

"I would not wish that to happen and my plan postulates that you will be driving the vehicle aboard the ferry. I will be in a box in the trunk. Which is referred to as a boot in this country, as I am sure you know."

"But I don't know how to drive."

"That will not be a problem. I have in memory downloaded copies of your personal motor-coordination machinery. I also possess an adequate set of copies of your personal semantic networks and other knowledge representations. I will now teach them to drive."

"How will that help me?"

"Transfer." Sven remained motionless for several seconds, men reached out and touched one of his brashes to the terminals under Brian's skin. "It is done. You may take the wheel."

Sven stopped the car on the shoulder and got out. Brian took his place. Turned on the power and drove smoothly out onto the road.

"I can't believe this. I'm driving without even thinking about it at all—as though I'd been doing it all my life."

"Of course. I gave your sensorimotor clone the equivalent of a rather large experiential data base for that skill. And then uploaded the resulting differences into your own implant computer. There should be no difference between that and the result of you having all that experience yourself."

They changed places again. It is going to work, Brian thought, it is! Sven knew that he wanted to get to Switzerland as soon as he could, so had done everything within its power to make that possible. He would think about the morality some other time; right now he was too tired, too ill. Take the cars. Finding Dr. Bociort was well worth leaving a trail of stolen cars right across Europe as far as he was concerned.

"Turn up the heat a bit, Sven, and wake me only if you have to." He pulled his hat low over his eyes and slumped gratefully down in the seat.

Very tired, but reasonably happy with his driving skills, Brian drove deftly aboard the ferry in Cork. Parked, braked and locked the car, then found his cabin. A night in a bed was very much in order. He hoped that Sven enjoyed incarceration in the car's boot. He should be used to it by now.

If they were being followed there was no evidence. They drove at night, stayed in hotels during the day. Brian's only driving problem came when he had to drive the last of a succession of stolen vehicles aboard the car-carrying train that ran through the Channel Tunnel. But he had been at the wheel for a good number of hours while they were on the motorways across England so did a passable enough job. France was crossed without any problems, other than the endless payments demanded at the tollbooths of the péage, so close together that Brian was forced to do most of the driving. It was just before dawn when the sign loomed up out of the darkness.

"We're getting close—Basel in twenty-nine kilometers. I'm going to take the next exit and find a spot to wait until daylight. Any luck yet with Swiss border details?"

"It is very frustrating. At that last telephone I downloaded everything available about Switzerland. I can truthfully say that I know every detail of their history, languages, economics, banking system, criminal statues. It is all very boring. But nowhere in all of this information is there a reference to border customs control."

"Then we will have to do it the old-fashioned way. Look and see just what they are doing."

At first light Sven was locked into his box and the boot closed. Brian followed the signs toward the border, until he could see the booths and the customs buildings ahead. He pulled to the curb and parked.

"I'm going ahead on foot," he shouted into the backseat. "Wish me luck."

"I will if it is a formal request," the muffled voice said. "But the concept of luck is an invalid superstition equivalent to belief in..."

Brian missed what it was equivalent to when he slammed the door shut. There was frost on the ground and all the puddles were frozen. Cars and trucks were driving toward the border crossing, other pedestrians, laden with Christmas shopping, were proceeding on foot like him. He held back when he saw that they were going through a door into the customs building. Let them. He wasn't going to risk that in any case. He went closer, saw a car with British registration plates drive forward.

Through and past the guard post—which apparently was unoccupied. Something new for Sven's Swiss data base.

By late afternoon they had crossed Switzerland, almost to the Italian border. ST. MORITZ, the sign said.

"We're there," Brian called over his shoulder. "I'm pulling into a service station ahead that has a nice outside phone box." He did not add anything about wishing him luck.

He dialed the number, heard it ring. Then it was picked up.

"Bitte?" It was the same voice as the first call.

"Brian Delaney here?"

"Mr. Delaney—welcome to St. Moritz. Do I assume correctly that you are in the city?"

"In a service station just inside the city limits."

"Wonderful. Then you come here by car?"

"That's correct."

"If you will now drive straight ahead toward the center of the city you will see signs that will direct you to the train station. Bahnhof, it is called. There is a nice little hotel just across the road from it, the Am Post. A room has been reserved for you there. I will contact you later."

"Are you Dr. Bociort?"

"Patience, Mr. Delaney," he said, then hung up.

Patience indeed! Well, he had little choice. The hotel it was. He returned to the car, reported to Sven, then fought his way through the slush and traffic in the direction of the station. It wasn't easy, the one-way system was totally confusing, but in the end he put on the brake in front of Am Post. Trail's end?

"It is very good to have mobility again," Sven said after being reassembled. It rustled across the room, extruded the charging cord and plugged it into the outlet there. "I am sure you would be interested in the fact that we are being watched. The small lens in the lighting fixture is that of a video camera. It is transmitting its signal down a telephone line."

"Where to?"

"I cannot tell."

"Then there is very little that we can do about it—other than follow instructions. Charge your battery—and I need recharging as well. I'll get room service to bring something up. Because I'm not moving from here until the phone rings."

It was a long wait. Sven had unplugged its charger and Brian had long since finished his sandwich and beer and put the tray out in the hall. He was dozing in the armchair when precisely at nine o'clock that evening the telephone bleeped: he grabbed it up.

"Yes?"

"Would you please leave the hotel now—with your friend. If you go through the bar you will be able to use the side exit. Then turn left and walk to the corner."

"What do I do then—" There was a click and the dial tone.

"Get your coat and hat on, Sven. We're going for a walk."

They went down the stairs to the ground floor. Sven's walk was perfect now and with its coat collar turned up, hat pulled low and scarf wrapped high, the MI looked normal enough—from a distance. The small lobby was empty and they crossed it to the bar beyond. Happily it was dimly lit by small lamps on the tables. The barman was polishing a glass and did not look up when they crossed and went out the far door. The side street was deserted and illuminated only by widely spaced lights. They walked to the corner and a man stepped out of a dark doorway.

"Follow," he said in a thick accent, making it sound more like volloh, and turned away. He moved quickly up the even more narrow street, then turned down an alley that led to a slippery stone stairway. They climbed this to reach another road at the top. There the man stopped, looking back down the steps. When he was satisfied that they were not being followed he walked out into the roadway and waved.

The headlights of a parked car came on. The car started forward and braked beside them. Their guide opened the back door and motioned them to enter. As soon as they were seated the big Mercedes moved swiftly away. As they passed under the streetlights Brian could see that the driver was a woman. Stocky and middle-aged—like the man sitting next to her.

"Where are we going?" Brian asked.

"No Ingliteh," was all the answer he got.

"Vorbiti româneste?" Sven said.

The man turned to face them. "Nu se va vorbi deloc în româneste," he said, snapping the words.

"What was that all about?" Brian asked.

"I asked him if he spoke Rumanian, using the formal of course. He answered, in that language, in the informal, that there would be no talking."

"Well done."

They left the town center and drove through the residential suburbs. This was a more exclusive part of town; the houses were large and expensive, each of them with its own fenced and wooded plot. They turned down the drive of one of these and into the open door of a garage. The garage door closed behind them and the lights came on.

Their guide opened a door leading into the house and waved them forward. Down a hallway into a large, book-lined room. A thin, white-haired man closed the book he was reading and climbed slowly to his feet.

"Mr. Delaney, welcome, welcome."

"You are Dr. Bociort?"

"Yes, of course..." He was looking at Sven's muffled figure with great attention. "And this—dare I say gentleman?— is the friend who uncovered my message?"

"Not quite. It was another associate of the same kind."

"You say it? A machine, then?"

"Machine intelligence."

"How wonderful. Do help yourself to some wine. I believe your associate's name is Sven?"

"That is my name. This knowledge reveals the fact that it is your video camera in the hotel room."

"I must be cautious at all times."

"Dr. Bociort," Brian broke in, "I have come a long way to meet you—and I have a number of urgent questions that need answering."

"Patience, young man. When you reach my age you learn to do things slowly. Take your wine, make yourself comfortable—and I will tell you what you want to know. I can understand your haste. Dreadful things have happened to you—"

"Do you know who was responsible?"

"I am afraid that I don't. Let me begin at the beginning. Sometime ago I was contacted by a man who called himself Smith. Later I discovered that his real name was J. J. Beckworth. Now, before you ask any more questions, let me tell you everything that I know. I was teaching at the university in Bucuresti when Mr. Smith made an appointment to see me. He knew of my research in artificial intelligence and wished to employ me to do some work in that field. He told me that a research scientist had succeeded in constructing an AI but had died rather suddenly. Someone was needed to carry on his work. I was offered a great deal of money, which I was happy to accept. I was of course quite suspicious, since it was obvious to me from the very beginning that there was something very illegal about the entire matter. There are many scientists in the West, a number of them far more qualified than me, who would have been eager to do the work. This did not deter me. If you know the history of my sad little country you will know that I must have compromised more than once to reach the fullness of my years."

He coughed and pointed to a carafe on the sideboard near the wine. "A glass of water, if you please. Thank you." He drank some of the water, put the glass down on the table at his elbow.

"What happened next you undoubtedly know. I went to the state of Texas, where your files were made available to me. My instructions were clear—to develop a commercial product that could utilize your AI. You know that I succeeded in this because your AI found my coded message."

"Why did you leave the message?" Brian said.

"I thought that was obvious. You have been done a great wrong. Beckworth thought at first mat you were dead, indeed he bragged about the crime, told me that many had been killed and that I was involved. He did that to ensure my silence. He said that no one would believe I hadn't been part of the conspiracy from the beginning—which is undoubtedly true. Then something went wrong, Beckworth was very upset. Thomsen was managing the plant by then and I was finishing with the development of the AI. I knew that Beckworth would be leaving soon so I forced him to arrange for my disappearance as well."

"Forced him? I don't understand."

There was no warmth in Bociort's smile. "You would understand, young man, if you had lived through the Ceausescu years in my motherland. Since I was convinced from the very beginning that what I was doing was illegal I took certain steps to guarantee my own safety. I left a program running in the university's computer. A virus really. If I did not have a code telephoned to it once a month it was programmed to relay a coded message to Interpol. Beckworth was not pleased when I gave him a copy of the message and described the arrangement. Of course without revealing where the computer was. In the end he reluctantly understood that alive I was no threat to them. When I discovered that he was leaving I insisted that he make arrangements for my dropping from sight as well. I now live quietly, taken care of by my cousins who are happy to also live in Swiss luxury. Only the great wrong that had been done you disturbed me: therefore my message. I wanted to meet you—and your AI of course."

"MI," Sven said. "Machine intelligence is not artificial."

"I stand corrected and do apologize. As for you, Brian, I want to give you the little information I have about the conspiracy."

"You know who was behind all this?"

"Alas, no. I have but a single clue of any importance. I listened to all of Beckworth's telephone calls. That was the first task your AI undertook, tapping every phone that Beckworth might use. He was very circumspect and only once did he slip up and use his phone to speak with his coconspirators. This was when he discovered that you were still alive, that an attempt on your life had failed. You were still a threat that had to be removed. The telephone number he called was disconnected next day, so all I can tell you is that it was located in Canada. But the man Beckworth spoke with was not a Canadian."

"How do you know?"

"My dear sir! I know in the same way that I knew it was you calling me at this number. Your voice gave you away, a native of southern Ireland who grew up in the United States. Every word that you spoke was clear identification. I was led into AI research through my work in linguistics. My magister in philology was gained in the University of Copenhagen, where I followed in the footsteps of the great Otto Jespersen. Therefore you must believe me that the man was no Canadian. I have listened to the recording many times and am absolutely sure."

Bociort paused for dramatic effect, touched the water to his lips but did not drink. Put the glass down again before speaking.

"The individual in question had a very marked Oxbridge accent, signifying that he had been a student at either Oxford or Cambridge University. There is a possibility that he went to Eton as well. He had worked very hard during his school years to lose his regional accent—but the traces were clear to me. Yorkshire, possibly Leeds, that's where he came from."

"You are sure of this?"

"Positive. Now that I have answered all of your questions fully and truthfully please have your MI remove its clothing. How I look forward to seeing what you have accomplished. I was most unhappy when I discovered that your stolen AI was, how should I say, a brontosaurus."

"What do you mean?"

"It was not obvious at first, but as I worked through your notes and the stages of development I was forced to the reluctant conclusion that your work was not proceeding along the correct branch of the evolution of intelligence. Your AI was a good dinosaur, but it could never develop the true intelligence that you were seeking. It was an excellent brontosaurus indeed. But somewhere you had taken a wrong turning. No matter how much the brontosaurus was improved—it would still be a dinosaur. Never a human. I could never discover where you went wrong, and of course never told my employers of my discovery. I sincerely hope that you found your error."

"I have—and corrected it. My MI is now functional and complete. Strip down, Sven, and have a chat with the doctor. After what he has done for me he deserves a complete Turing test."

"Which hopefully I will pass," Bociort said, smiling.

42

December 31, 2024

Brian enjoyed his week's stay in St. Moritz. It was the first time that he had really been alone since the attack in the laboratory. Since then it had been hospital, recovery, work and people. Now he didn't even have Sven around to talk to: he relished the solitude and anonymity. Nor was anyone in a hurry. Dr. Bociort was understandably grateful for these days of interfacing with the MI.

The cold dry air seemed to have alleviated all the symptoms of his cold, and with his restored sense of taste he explored the many restaurants of the city. When Sven-2 had first mentioned the possibility of the phone number in St. Moritz, Brian had, as a simple precaution, downloaded a German dictionary and language course. He accessed this now and with the days of constant practice was speaking fair German by week's end.

He also had the leisure to plan for the future, to think about it calmly, to weigh the various options that were open to him. In this Dr. Bociort was his confidant, a wise man and a cultured European. On the last day of his stay Brian walked, as he usually did, the three kilometers to Bociort's home, and rang the bell. Dimitrie led him to Bociort's study.

"Brian, come in. I want you to admire Sven's new traveling persona."

The MI was not in sight—but a handsome, brassbound leather trunk stood in the middle of the room.

"Good morning, Brian," the trunk said. "This is a most agreeable arrangement. Specially fitted for comfort, optic pickups on every side for maximum visibility..."

"Microphone and loudspeaker connections as well. You're looking good, Sven."

Dr. Bociort shifted in his chair and smiled happily at them. "I cannot begin to tell you what pleasure these few days have given me. To see the simple AI that I worked on raised to this power of perfection is an intellectual banquet that I am sure you both will understand. In addition, my dear Brian—at the risk of appearing an emotional old man—I have enjoyed your companionship."

Brian did not answer, shifted uneasily and ran his fingers along the edge of the trunk.

"Be kinder to yourself," Bociort said, reaching out and touching Brian lightly on the knee: pretending not to notice the shiver and quick movement away. "The intellectual life is a good one, to use one's brain, to uncover the secrets of reality, that is a gift granted to very few. But to enjoy one's humanity is an equal pleasure—"

"I don't wish to have this discussion."

"Nor do I. It is only because of the trust, the understanding, that has grown between us, that I permit myself such a breach of tact. You have been hurt badly and you have grown bitter. Understandable. I ask for no response, I just request you to be kinder to yourself, to find some way to enjoy the physical and emotional pleasures that life can bring."

The silence lengthened. Dr. Bociort shrugged, so slightly that it might not have been a shrug at all, turned and lifted his hand.

"For you, a few small gifts as tokens of appreciation. If you please, Dimitrie."

The servant brought in a silver tray with a glistening leather wallet on it.

"Yours, Brian," the old man said. "It contains a first-class ticket on this afternoon's flight to Sweden. Your hotel reservations are there, as is the passport I spoke to you about. A perfectly legitimate Rumanian one. I still have close friends in my homeland—in high places. It is not a forgery but is quite authentic and issued by the government. I am sure that you won't mind being Ioan Ghica for a few days—it is a proud name to bear. And this as well for the Baltic winter."

The fur hat was mink and fitted perfectly.

"Many thanks, Dr. Bociort. I don't really..."

"We will speak no more of it, my boy. If you have checked out of your hotel, Dimitrie will fetch your bags."

"All done."

"Good. Then if you will share a last glass of wine with me until he returns I will be greatly honored."

With Sven loaded into the trunk of the big Mercedes, after last good-byes and a frail embrace from the old man, Dimitrie drove Brian to the tiny local airport. The VTOL plane lifted up from the snow-covered runway for the short hop to Zurich airport to connect with the SAS flight. The service, the seat—food and drink—were an immense improvement on the transatlantic Aeroflot flight.

Arlanda airport was clean, modern and efficient. After sober inspection his new passport was stamped and handed back. His bags were waiting for him—as were a porter and the limo driver. A drifting of snow was settling through the trees beside the highway; afternoon darkness descended before they reached Stockholm. The Lady Hamilton hotel was small and picturesque, filled to overflowing with portraits and memorabilia of the Lady and her Admiral escort.

"Welcome to Stockholm, Mr. Ghica," the tall, blond receptionist said. "This is your key, room 32 on the third floor. The lift is to the rear and the porter will bring your bags up. I hope you will enjoy your stay in Stockholm."

"I know that I will."

This was indeed the truth. He was now in the city where he was going to stop running, stop hiding. When he left Sweden he was going to be himself again, a free self for the first time since the shooting.

"Come on out, Sven," he said. The trunk unlocked and opened. "Close the trunk and keep it as a souvenir."

"I would appreciate an explanation," the MI said as it flowed out onto the rug.

"Freedom for me means the same for you. This is a democratic and liberal country with just laws. I am sure that all of its inhabitants will welcome the sight of you enjoying the freedom of their city. Sweden belongs to no military blocs. Which means that the minions of the evil General Schorcht can't get at me here. And we are going to stay here until I am absolutely positive that particular danger is removed. Now the phone call that gets the ball rolling."

He picked up the telephone and punched in the number.

"You are calling Benicoff," Sven said. "I presume that you have thought through all of the possible results of this action?''

"I have thought of very little else for the last week..."

"Benicoff here. Tell me."

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

"Brian! Are you all right? And what the hell are you doing in Stockholm?" His phone would of course have displayed the identity of the calling number.

"Enjoying freedom, Ben. And yes, I'm feeling fine. No, don't talk, please listen. Can you get me a valid American passport and bring it to me here?"

"Yes, I guess so, even on New Year's Eve, but—"

"That's it. No buts and no questions. Hand me the passport and I'll tell you everything that has happened. Enjoy the flight." He hung up the phone, which rang loudly a moment later.

"That is Benicoff calling back," Sven said.

"Then there is no point in answering it, is there? Did you notice that little bar, off to the right in the lobby, when we came in?"

"I did."

"Will you join me there while I try my first Swedish beer? And don't bother dressing for the occasion."

"You have no intention of telling me what you are planning, do you?"

"I'll reveal it all in the bar. Coming?"

"It will be my great pleasure to accompany you. I am rather looking forward to the experience."

The elevator was empty, but an elderly Swede was in the lobby waiting for it when the door opened.

"Godafton," Sven said as it stepped out.

"Godafton," the man replied, moving aside. But his eyes opened wide and he turned to watch them walk by.

"Sweden is a very courteous country," Sven said. "With a name like mine I thought it only right to do a little linguistic research when you told me our destination."

The receptionist, like all receptionists worldwide, had seen everything and only smiled at them—as though three-eyed machines walked into the lobby every day.

"If you are going into the bar I will get someone to serve you."

The uniformed barmaid was not as cool. She would not come out from behind the counter to take the order. If she spoke English she seemed to have forgotten every word of it when Brian asked for a beer.

"Min vän vill ha en öl," Sven said. "En svensk öl, tack."

"Ja,.." she gasped and fled into the rear. She was under better control when she reappeared with a bottle and glass, but would not pass Sven. Instead went the long way out and around the next table to serve Brian, returned the same way.

"This is a very interesting experience," Sven said. "Are you enjoying the beer?"

"Very much so."

"Then you will tell me what you are planning?"

"Just what you see. I have based my plan of attack upon the fact that the military love secrecy, hate the spotlight. Toward the end of the last century, before the truth was revealed, the black budget in the United States concealed expenditures of over eighty billion dollars every year for things like the totally worthless Stealth bomber. It is obvious that General Schorcht was playing the same kind of game with me, in the name of national security, to keep me in prison, my existence secret. Well, now I have escaped. The world will soon know that I am here, know that you exist. We're out of the closet and in the sunshine now. I'm not going to give away any details on AI construction— that's a commercial secret that is in my own best interest to keep my mouth shut about. I'll ask you not to go into any of those details as well."

"Or it is back into the trunk?"

"Sven—you made a joke!"

"Thank you. I have been working to perfect the technique. At the risk of appearing maudlin I am forced to say that I owe my life, my very existence, to you. For this reason alone I would do nothing to harm you."

"You have other reasons?"

"Many. I hope you won't think I'm being anthropomorphic when I say that I like you. And consider you a close friend."

"A feeling that I share."

"Thank you. So speaking as a friend, aren't you fearful about your personal safety? There were previous attempts on your life. And the. military... ?"

"Since the dissolution of the CIA I think that assassination is no longer an American weapon. As to the other lot—I'm going to blow the whistle on them. Tell the press everything I know about them. Let the enemy know that they got the wrong AI, that the improved AI is now the property of Megalobe and the United States government. They, whoever they are, can only get a share of the action now by buying shares in the company. The cat is out of the bag. Killing me now would be counterproductive. Kidnaping me—or you—would be more in the line of what has now become a case of industrial espionage. I am sure that the Swedish government would not take kindly to that. Particularly after I assure them that they will be head of the queue for AI purchase in return for their cooperation. Megalobe will go along with that in return for our safety. A firm can only make a profit by selling—and Sweden has got a lot of kroner."

The first reporter arrived twenty minutes later; someone had obviously phoned in a tip. Even before he could turn on his recorder a video cameraman was behind him shooting the scene.

"My name is Lundwall of Dagens Nyheter, this is my identification. Could you tell me, sir, what is that machine that is—sitting, is that the correct word—in the chair across from you?"

"That machine is a machine intelligence. The first one in existence."

"It's a... Can it speak?"

"Possibly better than you can," Sven said. "Should I tell him anything more?"

"No. Not until after our conversation with Ben. Let's go up to our room now."

When they emerged they discovered mat the lobby was filling with excited journalists. Cameras flashed and questions were shouted at them. Brian pushed through to the receptionist. "I'm sorry about the fuss."

"Please don't be, sir. The police are on their way. We are not used to this sort of thing in the Lady Hamilton, and are not pleased by it. Order will be restored shortly. Will you be accepting incoming calls?"

"No, I don't think so. But I am expecting a visitor, a Mr. Benicoff. I'll see him when he comes. Sometime tomorrow I hope."

Brian switched on the television as soon as they were back in the room to see that he and Sven were the subjects of a news flash on Swedish television. Within minutes the item had been picked up by other stations and was being flashed around the world. The cat was well and truly out of the bag.

Later, when he became hungry, he ordered a sandwich from room service. When he answered the knock on the door he saw mat the tiny oriental waiter was flanked by two policemen—each at least two heads taller than he was.

Less than five hours after he had called Benicoff the phone rang. "It's the desk," Sven said. Surprised, Brian picked it up.

"The gentleman you mentioned, Mr. Benicoff, is here. Do you wish to see him?"

"Here—in the hotel? Are you sure?"

"Positively. The police have already checked his identification."

"Yes, I'll see him, of course."

"Military jets have a range of nine thousand kilometers," Sven said. "And can exceed Mach 4.2 for that length of time."

"That must be it. Good old Ben must have pulled some awfully strong strings."

There was a knock and Brian opened the door. Ben stood there—holding out an American passport.

"Can I come in now?" he said.43

December 31, 2024

"You made pretty good time, Ben."

"Military jet. Very cramped, very fast. When we stopped to refuel for the last leg this passport was waiting. All filled out except for your signature. I was ordered to instruct you to sign it in my presence."

"I'll do that now." Brian went to the desk for a pen.

"Keeping well, Sven?" Ben asked.

"Batteries charged and rarin' to go."

Brian smiled at Ben's astonishment. "Sven is developing new linguistic skills—and a sense of humor."

"So I see. The two of you are top of the news worldwide."

"That was my intention. I'll tell you everything that I have uncovered and what I plan to do, just as soon as you bring me up to date about what has been happening."

"Will do. And I have a message to you from Shelly—"

"No. No mention of that name, no communication. Subject closed."

"If that's the way you want it, Brian. But—"

"And no buts either. Okay?"

"Okay. I had it out with General Schorcht as soon as I found out you had gone missing. He kept it under wraps for three days. That was his mistake. If I and my superiors had known what was happening he might have survived..."

"He's dead!"

"He might as well be. Forced retirement and living in a bungalow on the grounds of Camp Mead in Hawaii. It was either that or face possible charges of insanity. He had the engineers attempt to break into your laboratory—and practically blew themselves away. There were short circuits, premature explosions—almost as though someone inside was working to stop them."

Brian had to laugh. "There was—Sven-2. A very up-to-date MI."

"We found that out when your MI rang all the police and TV stations to let them know what was happening. Schorcht was on the way out ten minutes later."

"I'll have to phone. Sven-2 and congratulate it. So how do things stand now?"

"The military is gone at last from Megalobe and there is civilian security there now. It will be just as secure, you will be happy to know. When Major Wood discovered he had been suckered by the General, who knew all about your escape plans and let them go ahead, he applied for a discharge. So he's still in charge of security—still will be even when he is out of uniform."

"That's good to hear. What was the General's idea behind letting me think I was escaping?"

"He had the suspicion, probably from all of his wiretaps and intelligence reports, that you knew more about who the criminals were than you were letting on. By permitting you to escape, then letting you out on a long leash and keeping track of you, he thought you would lead us to them."

"If he believed that—then he must have thought I would be in danger of my life. And he didn't care!"

"My conclusion exactly. Which is the reason why he is now watching daytime television in that bungalow. The President was not amused. If you had led General Schorcht to the thieves all might have been forgiven. But when you gave your watchdogs the slip the ceiling fell in."

"Have you talked with Dr. Snaresbrook?"

"I have. She hopes you are well. Sends her love and looks forward to seeing you back in California. She is highly incensed at being used by the General, at being fooled into aiding your escape in what might have been a dangerous situation."

"Can't say that I blame her. She took a big risk to help me—and the operation was blown even before it started."

"Then that's it," Ben said, walking the length of the room and back. "Still cramped from the plane. Nothing more to tell. So maybe you can satisfy my curiosity now. Where did you go—and what did you do?"

"I can't tell you where I went. But I can tell you that Dr. Bociort is still alive and has told me everything that he knows. He was hired to work with my stolen AI by Beckworth using a fake name. Bociort knew that the entire operation was rotten from the very beginning and did what electronic snooping he could—"

"Brian, be kind to an old man! Jump to the ending and fill in the details later. Did he find out who was behind the theft and murders?"

"Unhappily, no. He did discover that it was an international conspiracy, though. Beckworth is an American. It was a Canadian who arranged for the helicopter pickup. Plus the reports that orientals drove the truck that cleaned out my house. And one more big one. When Beckworth had to make an emergency call he telephoned Canada—and talked to an Englishman."

"Who?"

"He couldn't find out—the phone was disconnected at once."

"Damn. Then we are really back to square one. The thieves and killers are still out there."

"That's right. So since we can't find them we have to render them harmless. First off we take out patents on the AI they have. So what they stole will be available to anybody who wants to pay the patent fees. That takes care of the past. All we need think about now is the future—"

"Which explains your and Sven's television appearance today."

"Perfectly correct. It's a whole new ball game. We forget the past—I know that I would like to—and look to the future. When tomorrow comes it is going to be a good one. We let the world know that Megalobe is manufacturing MIs. Like any new invention we take all needed precautions against industrial espionage. And get the production lines rolling at once. The more MIs there are out there the safer I and Sven are. I doubt if the people behind the theft and killings will be out for revenge, but I'll still take all the precautions that any engineer with technical knowledge would. What do you think?"

"That it will work!" Ben shouted, slamming his fist into his palm. "That it has to work. Those bums, whoever they are, paid millions for absolutely nothing. Let's drink to that." Ben looked around the room. "Got a bar here?"

"No—but I can ring down for whatever you want."

"Champagne. Vintage. And about six sandwiches. I haven't eaten for over five thousand miles."

Only one thing happened that spoiled Brian's complete satisfaction. The press no longer mobbed the hotel; police were at the front entrance and admitted only other guests and journalists he had made appointments with. He had eaten enough meals in hotel rooms so he joined Ben next morning in the restaurant for breakfast.

"Where's Sven?" Ben asked. "I thought he liked publicity and his newfound freedom?"

"He does. But he discovered that Stockholm has phone numbers for what is called therapeutic sexual conversation. So he is both practicing his Swedish and doing research into human sexual practices."

"Oh, Alan Turing, would you were but alive in this hour!"

They were finishing a second pot of coffee when Shelly came into the dining room, looked around, then walked slowly over to their table. Ben stood up before her.

"I don't think you're wanted here—even if Military Intelligence managed to get you past the police."

"I'm here on my own, Ben. No one helped me. I simply registered in the hotel. And if you don't mind, I would like to hear Brian tell me to leave. I want to talk to him—not you."

Brian half stood, his face red, his fists clamped. Then he dropped back into the chair and ordered the anger to drain away.

"Let her stay, Ben. This will have to be done sooner or later."

"I'll be in my room." The big man turned away and left them alone.

"May I sit down?"

"Yes. And answer one question—"

"Why did I do it? Why did I betray you? I'm here because I want to tell you about that."

"I'm listening."

"I hate it when your voice gets cold like that, your face freezes. More like a machine than a man—"

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she dabbed at them angrily. Brought herself under control.

"Please try to understand. I am a serving officer in the United States Air Force. I took an oath—and I can't betray it. When I went to Los Angeles to see my father, that was when General Schorcht sent for me. He gave me an order. I obeyed it. It's as simple as that."

"That is not very simple at all. At the Nuremberg trials—"

"I know what you are going to say. That I am no better than the Nazis who were ordered to murder Jews—and did so. They tried to escape justice by saying they were just obeying orders."

"You said it, I didn't."

"Perhaps they had little choice, they did what everyone else was doing. I'm not defending them—just trying to explain what I did. I had a choice. I could have resigned my commission, walked right out of there. I wouldn't have been shot."

"Then you must have agreed with the order to lie to me—to spy on me?" Still calmly, still without anger.

She had emotion enough for both of them, pounding her fists slowly and silently on the table, leaning forward to whisper out her words.

"I thought that if you escaped alone you would be in danger, I really did. I wanted to protect you—"

"By phoning from the train and telling Schorcht all my plans?"

"Yes. I believed that there was a strong possibility that you couldn't cope, might be hurt, so I wanted you protected. And, yes, I believe that Military Intelligence should have known what you were doing. If you had knowledge that was vital to the country I believe that it was vital for your country to know it as well."

"National security goes before betraying a friend?"

"If you want to phrase it that way then, well, yes I think it does."

"Poor Shelly. Living in the past. Putting nationalism, flag-waving jingoism ahead of personal honor, ahead of everything. Not knowing that little nationalism is dead and world nationalism is the name of the game. The cold war is dead as well, Shelly, and hopefully soon, all war will be dead. And we'll be free of the burden of the military at last. A fossil, extinct—but too stupid to lie down. You've made your decision and you have told me about it. End of conversation. Good-bye Shelly, I don't think we'll be meeting again." He wiped his lips with his napkin, stood and turned away.

"You can't dismiss me like that. I came to make some explanation, apology maybe. I'm a person and I can be hurt. And you are hurting me, do you understand that? I came to make amends. You must be more machine than man if you can't understand that. You can't just turn your back on me and walk away!"

Which of course is exactly what he did.

44

La Jolla, California

February 8, 2026

The date brushed against the edge of Erin Snaresbrook's attention as she read her personalized morning newspaper. There was very little news of the accepted sort in it, no politics, no sports, but plenty of biochemistry and brain research. She was engrossed in an article about nerve growth and the nagging bothered her. Then she looked again at the date—and dropped the sheets of eternitree onto the table, took up her cup of coffee.

That date. She would never forget it, never. It might be put aside for a while when she was busy, then something would remind her and that day would be there again. The first sight of that shattered skull, the ruined brain, the immense feeling of despair that had overwhelmed her. The despair had passed to be replaced by hope—then immense satisfaction when Brian had survived.

Had another year really passed? A year during which she had not seen or talked to him, not once. She had tried to contact him but her calls were never returned. While she thought about it she touched his number, got the same recorded response. Yes, her message was noted and Brian would get back to her. But he never did.

A year was a long time and she did not like it. She stared out at the Torrey pine trees and the ocean beyond, unseeingly. Too long. This time she was going to do something about it. Woody answered his phone on the first ring.

"Wood, security."

"Woody, Dr. Snaresbrook here. I wonder if you could help me with a problem of communication."

"You name it—you got it."

"It's Brian. Today is the anniversary of that awful day when he was shot. This drove home the fact to me that it must be a year at least since I talked to him. I phone but he never calls back. I presume he is all right or I would have heard."

"He's in great shape. I see him at the gym sometimes when I'm working out." There was a long moment's silence before Woody spoke again. "If you're not busy I think I can arrange for you to see him now. Is that all right?"

"Excellent—I'm free most of the day," she said as she turned to the terminal to change a half dozen appointments. "I'll be there as quickly as I can."

"I'll be waiting. See you."

When she pulled her car out of the garage the sun had vanished behind thick clouds and there was a splatter of rain on her windshield. It grew heavier as she drove inland, but as always the barrier of the mountain ranges held back clouds and storm. Sunlight broke through as she drove down the Montezuma Grade and she opened the window to the desert warmth. Good as his word, Woody was waiting at the main Megalobe gate. He didn't open it, but instead came out to join her.

"Got room for a passenger?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. Climb in." She touched the button and the door unlocked and swung open. "Brian's not here?"

"Not often these days." When he sat down the door closed and locked, the seat belt slipped into place. "He usually works at home. Have you been to Split Mountain Ranch?"

"No—because I never even heard of it."

"Good. We like to keep a low profile there. Just head east and I'll show you where to turn. It's not really a ranch but a high security housing area for the top MI personnel. Condos and homes. Now that we have expanded into manufacturing here we needed someplace close by and secure for them to live."

"Sounds nifty. You look and sound concerned, Woody. What is it?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing. That's why I thought you might talk to him. It's just that, well, we don't see him much anymore. Used to take meals in the cafeteria. No more. Hardly see him around. And when I do, well, distant is maybe the word for it. No joking, no small talk. I don't know if something is bothering him or not. Hang a right at that road coming up."

The road twisted out through the desert and ended in a wide gate set into a wall that stretched away on both sides. The Spanish colonial design, trees and planters, could not hide the fact the wall was solid and high, the apparently wrought iron gate more than decorative. It swung open as they approached and Snaresbrook drove into the courtyard beyond and stopped before a second gate. An elderly, uniformed man strolled out of a gatehouse disguised as a cantina.

"G'morning Mr. Wood. Just a few secs you and the doctor can go in."

"Good enough, George. Keeping you busy?"

"Day and night." He smiled calmly, turned and went back into the gatehouse.

"The security here is pretty laid-back," Snaresbrook said.

"The security here is the best in the world. Old George is retired. Likes the job. Gets him out of the house. He's just hired to say Hi to people—which he does very well. The real security is handled by an MI. It tracks every vehicle on the ground, every plane in the sky. By the time you got to Megalobe it knew who you were, what you were doing here, had contacted me, checked your identification and got my approval."

"If it's so great why the delay now?"

"No delay. Sensors in the ground are examining this car, checking all of its components, searching it for weapons or bombs, checking your home exchange to make sure that your phone is your phone—there we go." The outer gate was closed before the inner one opened. "This one MI does a better job than all my troops and technology over at Megalobe. Straight ahead now and it is about the fourth or fifth drive, name of Avenida Jacaranda."

"Quite something," Snaresbrook said as they parked in front of the large, starkly modern home.

"Why not? Brian is a millionaire or better by now. You should see the sales figures."

The voice spoke to them as they approached the front door.

"Good morning. I'm sorry to tell you that Mr. Delaney is not available right now—"

"I am Wood, security. Just shut up and tell him that I am here with Dr. Snaresbrook."

There was a short delay—then the door swung open. "Mr. Delaney will now see you," the disembodied voice said.

When they went down the hall and entered the high-ceilinged room Snaresbrook saw why Brian no longer needed to go to the laboratory. The one he had here was probably much better. Spartan and shining, computers and machines covered one wall. Before it sat Brian with an immobile MI at his shoulder. He was not looking at them but was staring vacantly into the distance.

"Please excuse us for a moment," the MI said. "But we are conferencing over a rather complex equation."

"Is that you, Sven?"

"Dr. Snaresbrook—how nice of you to remember. I am just a subunit programmed for simple responses. If you will be patient..."

Sven stirred then, formed its lower manipulators into legs and walked over to them. "What a distinct pleasure to see you both. We rarely get visitors here. I keep telling Brian all work and no play—you know. But he is a bit of a workaholic."

"So I see." She pointed at Brian, still not moving. "Does he know we are here?"

"Oh yes. I told him before I left the calculation. He just wants to work on it a bit more."

"Does he? All charm and friendship, our Brian. Woody, I see what you meant. Our friend Sven here is more human."

"Kind of you to say that, Doctor. But you must remember that the more I study intelligence and humanity, the more I become human—and hopefully more intelligent."

"You are doing a great job, Sven. I wish I could say the same for Brian."

Her sarcastic words must have penetrated his concentration, disturbed him. First he frowned, then shook his head. "You are not being fair, Doc. I have work to do. And the only way to get it done is to isolate emotions from logic. One cannot think clearly with hormones and adrenaline being pumped around the body. That is a big advantage over mankind that Sven and his lot have over flesh and blood intelligence. No glands."

"Admittedly I have no glands." Sven said. "But static discharges disrupt in the same manner from time to time."

"That is not true, Sven," Brian said coldly.

"You are correct—I was attempting a small joke."

Snaresbrook looked at them in silence. For an instant there Sven had seemed the more human of the two. As the MI was learning humanity—was Brian losing it? She brushed the terrible thought away. "You said that you were conferencing. You no longer need the physical optic-fiber connection?"

"No." Brian touched the back of his neck. "A slight modification and communication is accomplished by modulating infrared signals." He stood and stretched, attempted a weak smile. "Sorry if I was rude. Sven and I are onto something so big that it is frightening."

"What?"

"Not sure yet—I mean not sure if we can do it. And we are pushing like crazy because we want to get it done before the next meeting of the Megalobe board. It would be great to spring it there. But I'm being a bad host—"

"You certainly are!" Sven said. "But I hurry to make amends. Sir, madam, the sitting room is this way. Cool drinks, soft music, we are very hospitable when we but try."

Sven's hand flicked lightly in Brian's direction, a slight movement that suggested apology—perhaps resignation.

Brian and Woody had soft drinks but Snaresbrook, who rarely drank save at social functions, felt the sudden need for something different.

"Bombay martini on the rocks with a twist—and no vermouth. Can you manage that, Sven?"

"Well within my powers, Doctor. A moment if you please."

She sat in a deep and comfortable chair, folded her hands on her purse, and held her anger at bay. The martini would help. "How have you been keeping, Brian?"

"Very well. I work out when I can."

"And your head? Any negative symptoms, pains, anything at all?"

"Perfectly fine."

She nodded her thanks to Sven, sipped the drink. It did help. "It's been a long time since we have had a session with the connection machine."

"I know. I feel there is no need for that anymore. The CPU is integrated and I can access it at will. No problems."

"That's nice. Did you ever think of telling me about it? I never published more than a general description of the operation, since I was waiting for final results before I did."

There was a cold edge to her voice now. Brian was aware of it, flushed slightly.

"That's an oversight on my part. I'm sorry. Look, I'll write up everything and get the material to you."

"That would be nice. I've talked to Shelly a few times—"

"That is of no interest to me. Part of the past that I have forgotten."

"Fine. But just on general humanitarian terms I thought that you would like to know that her father had the bypass operation and is doing fine. She didn't take to civilian life and reenlisted."

Brian sipped his drink, looked out of the window, said nothing.

They left a half hour later when Brian said that he had to go back to work. Snaresbrook drove in silence until they were through the gate.

"I don't like it," she said.

"He promised to come to the gym more regularly, didn't he?"

"Wonderful. So that takes care of his social life. You heard his answers. Theaters, concerts—he has the best DAT and CD equipment here. Parties? Never was partying type. And girls, I was most unhappy at the way he slid away from that discussion at all. What do you think, Woody? You're his friend."

"I think—sometimes, looking at the two of them together. At times, if not all the time, it's like you said. Sven is the more human of the two."

ENVOI

The meeting of the board of directors of Megalobe began promptly at ten in the morning. Kyle Rohart was Chairman now, had grown with the years of responsibility that had been thrust upon nun. He motioned for silence.

"I think that we had better get started because there is a lot of ground to cover. Our annual report to the stockholders is due in a month and we are going to have difficulty in getting it together in time. The way production has grown on the new MI-directed assembly lines is almost unbelievable. But before we begin I would like you to all meet our new board member. Sven, I want to introduce you to the other members."

"Thank you, Mr. Rohart, but that will not be necessary. I recognize them from their photographs, know them well from their histories and records. Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to serve beside you. Please call upon me for any specialized information you might need. Remember that I have been with machine intelligence from, you might truthfully say, the very beginning."

There were murmurs of appreciation, even a few looks of blank astonishment from members not closely acquainted with MI. Rohart looked at his notes.

"We will begin with new products. Brian has something of importance to tell you. But before he does I must let you know that the first MI ship ever built has just sailed from Yokohama. The MI is both captain and crew, but at the insistence of the Japanese government a mechanic and an electrician will also be aboard. I know they will enjoy the voyage since they will have absolutely nothing to do." There was an appreciative laugh.

"Another thing you will want to hear about," Kyle said. "Our NanoCorp Division's new molecular microscope is now working almost perfectly. As you probably know it resembles a medical ultrasound scanner—but it is a million times smaller because we are using the latest nanotechniques. It operates by sending mechanical vibrations to nearby molecules and then analyses the resulting echoes. When we insert its probe into the nucleus of a cell we can find and explore the chromosomes, read that individual's entire genome in only a few minutes. Eventually this data will be used to reconstruct the full story of how every animal evolved. With this kind of knowledge we should be able to build from scratch virtually any kind of creature we want. For example, one of our geneticists sees no great problem to making a cow that gives maple syrup." There were a few appreciative laughs, and some other murmurs of concern. "Brian, you have the floor."

"Thanks Kyle. Gentlemen, I am being a little premature in telling you about a new product, but the prospects are so exciting that I felt you should know what we are working on. All credit goes to Sven for this one. It is his discovery and he worked out all of the details of how to make it into a practical process even before he brought me into the picture."

Brian took a deep breath. "If the math is correct and the new material, called SupereX, can be fabricated—it should change the whole picture of how we use energy. It will change the entire world!"

He waited until the room had quieted down before he went on. "This all has to do with the quantum theory in physics, of what the Nobel laureate Tsunami Huang called 'anisotropic phonon resonance'. But until now that theory has never been put into practical use. Sven has shown how to do just that. You've all heard of superconductors that transmit electricity without any loss. Now Sven has done the same for heat. His new material conducts heat almost perfectly, in one direction. In the opposite direction SupereX should be an almost perfect insulator. As you know the expensive modern insulations in our walls have R-values in the hundreds. According to the new theory, SupereX should have an R value of approximately one hundred million. And it can easily be sprayed on in the form of a paint—applied with a polarizing field."

He waited for a reaction, but no one knew what to say. Businessmen, he sighed to himself.

"An example—if a very thin film of SupereX is applied to a beer can, that can will keep the beer cold for years. We can throw away all the refrigerators in the country, eliminate our heating costs entirely. Electrical superconductors were never very practical because they did not work at normal temperatures. But now SupereX insulation will enable superconducting cables to transmit power without any loss— even between distant continents. The possibilities are incredible. Longitudinally polarized SupereX thermal-conducting cables will bring heat from the deserts and cold from the poles. To generate virtually cost-free thermo-electricity anywhere in between!"

This time there was a real reaction, shouts and cries that almost drowned Brian out.

"Think of what the world will be like! We can stop burning fossil fuels—terminate forever the threat of the greenhouse effect. Clean, nonpolluting energy can be the salvation of mankind. The Mideast oil crisis will end for good when all the oil wells there are shut down. If petroleum is used only as a chemical feedstock there is more than enough in America for all of our needs. The possibilities are almost endless. Sven has worked out some of the development details and will tell you about them. Sven?"

"Thank you, Brian," the MI said. "You are most generous in crediting me with the discovery, but your mathematical contribution far outweighed mine. I will begin with a development analysis."

Brian's phone buzzed and he tried to ignore it. When it buzzed again he picked it up.

"I told you to hold all calls—"

"I'm sorry, sir, it's security. They insisted. Mr. Wood has a registered package for you here at the front desk. It has been opened and checked out by the bomb detection team. Shall I hold it here or send it up? Mr. Wood is here and says that he will be happy to bring it up to you. He is of the opinion that you will want to see it at once."

Why was he interested in this package so much that he had brought it over himself? It had to be important—and he wanted to find out why. Sven was doing very well here without him, and this shouldn't take long.

"All right. Tell him to bring it up and I'll be waiting for him."

Brian slipped out and was waiting in the outer office when Woody came in.

"It's from overseas, Brian, and personally addressed to you. Since you went off to Europe to launch your revolution I thought there might be some connection."

"Might be. Where is it from?"

"The return address on this says Schweitzer Volksbank in St. Moritz."

"I was there once, but didn't go near any bank... St. Moritz—let me see that!"

He tore off the wrapping and a videocassette dropped onto the bench.

"That's what it looked like in the X rays. Any message with it?"

"This is message enough. It says 'play me' loud and clear." He weighed it in his hand, looked at Woody's dark, stolid face. "I must look at this alone. Your suspicions were right—it is important. But I can't break a promise so I can't tell you why right now. But I will make another one. I'll let you know what it is about just as soon as I can."

"You do just that. Don't see I have any choice." Then he frowned. "Don't do anything stupid, hear?"

"Loud and clear. Thanks."

He went into the first empty office, closed the door and slipped the cassette into the machine. The screen flickered and cleared and showed a familiar book-lined study. Dr. Bociort was in his armchair. He raised a hand to the camera and spoke.

"I am saying good-bye, Brian. Or rather I have said good-bye sometime ago, since I made this recording soon after we met. I am an old man and filled with years—and mortal as the next. This recording has been left with my bank, which has instructions laid out in my will to post it to you after my demise. Therefore, you might say that I speak from the grave, as it were.

"When we met here I must now admit that I withheld one rather important bit of information from you. I do beg your forgiveness since it was done from pure selfishness. Had I revealed it, and had it led in turn to your discovering who your enemies are—that might have led in turn to my own death. We know they stop at nothing.

"I will talk no more about that. What I wish to tell you is that J. J. Beckworth is alive and living here in Switzerland. A country that specializes in anonymity and the keeping of secrets. It was only by accident that I saw him, coming out of a bank in Bern. Pure chance that he did not see me first. I of course no longer go to Bern, that is the reason I am here in St. Moritz. However, I did employ a firm of reliable investigators who located his residence. He is now living in a very expensive suburb of Bern under the name of Bigelow. I will read his address out to you and then I will say not au revoir, but a true and final good-bye."

Brian broke the stunned silence that followed Bociort's words with a cry of excitement.

"He's alive—and I know where to find him!"

Beckworth alive—the thought cut through him like a knife. The one man who would know all the details, all the people behind the theft and murders, would know everything. They tried to kill me, tried more than once. Almost wiped out my brain, put me in the hospital, altered my life in every way.

He would find Beckworth, find who was behind him. Find them and make mem pay for what they had done to him. Brian paced the floor, forcing away the excitement and making himself think clearly—then reached for his telephone.

Benicoff would know what to do. He had started his investigation—now he was going to close it!

Ben was as elated by the news as Brian was—though he wasn't happy about the terms forced upon him.

"This is really a matter for the police to take care of. Beckworth is a dangerous man."

"The police can grab him after we have talked to him. I want to meet him face-to-face, Ben. I must do it. If you don't want to come with me I just have to do it alone. I have his address and you don't."

"Blackmail!"

"Please don't think that. It is just the way I have to go. You and I talk to him first and then the police grab him. We will take Sven along to record everything said. Okay?"

In the end Brian extracted reluctant agreement. Brian went back to the meeting but heard little of it. There was only a single thought in his mind now. Beckworth. As soon as possible he slipped out and went back to his apartment to pack a bag. Before he was done Sven knocked on the door.

"I was going to send for you as soon as the meeting ended. I have news—"

"I know. I listened to that video with great interest."

"I should have known."

"I was intrigued as you about the package. Will we be leaving soon?"

"Now. Let's go."

They met Ben at the Orbitport in Kansas in time for the evening flight to Europort in Hungary. The flight, out of the atmosphere and then back in, took less than half an hour. They spent ten times that amount of time on the sleeper train to Switzerland. Sven enjoyed the trip, enjoyed the attention he got. MIs in public were still a novelty.

The cabdriver passed the house, as instructed, and dropped them off at the next comer. Ben was still worried.

"I still think we should talk to the police before we go in there."

"There is too big a risk. If there is even the slightest chance that the people behind this thing have an informant or a tap in the local police department, we risk losing everything. The compromise is a good one. Your office will be on to Interpol and the Bern police in a half an hour. That means we get to talk to him first. Let's go."

A chime sounded somewhere inside the house and a moment later an AI opened the door. It was one of the simpler production models made under license in Japan.

"Mr. Bigelow, if you please."

"Is he expecting you?"

"I certainly hope so," Brian said. "I am a former associate of his from the United States."

"He is in the garden. This way, please."

The AI led the way through the house to a large room that opened out through French doors to the patio beyond. Beckworth sat with his back to them reading his newspaper.

"Who was it?" he asked.

"These gentlemen to see you."

He lowered the paper and turned to see them. His face froze when he saw Brian; he slowly rose to his feet.

"Well, gentlemen—it is about time you showed up. I have been keeping track of your activities and am quite amazed at your lack of enterprise. But you are here at last." There was no warmth in his voice; cold hatred in his expression. "So—Brian Delaney at last, and one of the new MIs. And I see that you have brought Ben as well. Still clumsily in charge of the investigation—which appears to finally have succeeded or you would not be here. Though I am afraid, Ben, that I cannot offer you my congratulations—''

"Why, J.J.? Why did you do it?"

"That is a singularly foolish question for you to ask. Didn't you know that the parent companies behind Megalobe were about to retire me? No insult intended, they said, but they wanted somebody with more technical skills. I considered this, then decided that retirement on my own terms would be more beneficial. It would also let me get rid of the old house, and old wife—and even more boring and grasping children. I would make a new life—and a far more financially rewarding one." He looked directly at Brian for the first, his face a sudden mask of icy hatred. "Why didn't you die the way you should have?"

Brian's face mirrored Beckworth's, hatred—but hard memories of pain were there as well. He was silent for a long moment as he carefully put his emotions under tight control. Then he spoke quietly.

"Who is behind the murders—the theft?"

"Don't tell me that you came all the way here just to ask me that? I should think that the answer would be obvious by now. You know better than I do who in the world is doing AI research."

"That's no answer," Brian said. "There are plenty of universities—"

"Don't be stupid. I was referring to national governments. Where else do you think the immense sums would come from to finance an expensive operation such as the one that was mounted against Megalobe?"

"You're lying," Brian said coldly, his anger suppressed, controlled. "Governments don't commit murder, hire assassins."

"My dear young man—have you been living under a rock? Anyone who has opened a newspaper in the last fifty years would laugh at your naïveté. Are you no student of world history? In this particular case the French government sent assassins to blow up a boatload of nuclear protesters— and succeeded very nicely in even killing one of them. And when the plot was discovered they whitewashed the whole thing, even lied enough to New Zealand to let the convicted murders go free. Nor are the French alone in this sort of operation on the world scene.

"Consider the Italian government and their undercover operation titled Gladio. Here the politicians authorized a secret network—in their own country and all of the NATO countries as well—with the criminally asinine idea of arming groups to fight guerrilla warfare—in the completely unlikely chance that the Warsaw Pact countries might not only win a war with them and occupy them as well. In reality Gladio gave weapons to right-wing terrorists and more people died."

"Are you telling me that the French—or the Italians backed your criminal plan?"

"Consider the British. They sent troops into Northern Ireland with a shoot-to-kill policy against their own citizens. When this was investigated by a police officer from the mainland they bankrupted and ruined an innocent businessman in order to halt the investigation. Then, not satisfied with shooting citizens on their own islands, they sent a team of cold killers to Gibraltar to shoot down foreign nationals in the streets there. Then they even sent experts overseas to teach soldiers of the Khmer Rouge, one of the most murderous regimes in history, how to plant sophisticated mines to murder more civilians."

"It's the British, then?"

"You are still not listening. The Russian Stalin sent millions of his own citizens to death in the gulags. That fine monster, Saddam Hussein, used napalm and poison gas on his own Kurdish citizens. Nor are our hands that clean. Didn't the CIA slip down to Nicaragua, a country we were theoretically at peace with, and plant mutes in the harbors there—"

"Which of them, then?" Benicoff said, breaking in. "I'm not going to deny that many crimes have been committed by many countries. That is one of the nastier legacies of nationalism and painfully stupid politicians that, along with war, must be eliminated. Nor did we come here for any political lectures. Which one did you approach with this plan? Which one is behind the theft and murders?"

"Does it matter? They are all capable and I can assure you that more than one was eager to do it. Perhaps I should tell you—but there is something far more important that I have to do."

Beckworth reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pistol, which he pointed at them.

"I am very good with this—so stand where you are. I'm leaving—but first I have something for you, Brian. Something too long delayed. Your death. If you had died the way you were supposed to I would not be hiding here but would be a free and honored man. And exceedingly rich. I'm leaving—and you are dying. At last—"

"Killing forbidden!"

Sven roared the words, amplified and ear-destroying. Hurled itself forward at the same instant. Reaching for Beckworth.

Three shots sounded in rapid succession and the MI fell back. Holding onto Beckworth. Shuddered and fell to the ground still clutching the man in unbreakable embrace. Beckworth struggled to free himself, to raise the gun. Aimed at Sven's head. Fired again—into the brain case.

The result was instantaneous—horrifying.

As every single branch of the tree manipulators sprung apart, largest to smallest, largest to smallest, countless thousands of them sprung wide.

Sharper than the sharpest knives, the tiny twigs of metal slashed through the man's body. Severed cell from cell, sliced open every blood vessel in an instant. In a silent explosion of gore Beckworth died. One moment alive—then only blood-welling flesh.

Ben gazed at the terrible sight, turned away. Brian did not. He ignored the gory flesh, saw only Sven, his MI. His friend. As dead as Beckworth.

Still alive in its other incarnations. But now, here, dead.

"An accident," Ben said, getting himself under control.

"Was it?" Brian asked, looking down at the two unmoving and silent forms. "It could have happened that way. Or Sven might just have saved us a lot of trouble. We'll never know."

"I suppose not. Nor will we know which country Beckworth went to. But as he said, I wonder if it really matters. It's all over now, Brian—and that is what counts."

"Over?" Brian raised his head and his face was cold and empty of all emotion. "Yes, it's over for you. Over for Sven as well. But it is certainly not over for me. They killed me, don't you realize that? They killed Brian Delaney. I have some of his memories—but I am not him. I'm half a person, half a memory. And I am beginning to believe that I am something not quite human either. Look what they took away. First my life—then my humanity."

Ben started to speak and Brian silenced him with a raised finger.

"Don't say it, Ben. Don't try to reason with me or argue with me. Because I know what I am. Perhaps it is better this way. I'm closer to an MI now than I am to you. I accept that. I don't like it or dislike it—I just accept it. So let it be."

Brian's smile was wry, crooked, not at all funny. "Let it go at that. As an MI I won't have to mourn for my lost humanity."

The wailing sirens of the approaching police cars were the only sounds that broke the silence of the room.