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unless you adopted a more closely integrated recycling system."
"Closely integrated recycling," Flattery said. "He means cannibalism. It was
discussed."
Bickel turned to stare at Flattery. The idea of cannibalism was repellent,
but that was not what had caught Bickel's attention. "It was discussed."
That simple statement contained volumes of unanswered questions and hidden
implications.
"Third possibility," Hempstead was saying, "would be to build the necessary
consciousness into your robo-pilot, using the ship computer as a basis. Our
computations indicate you have sufficient materials, including neuron packages
intended for colony robots in your stores. This is theoretically feasible."
"Theoretically feasible!" Timberlake sneered. "Does he think we've never
heard about all the failures in --"
"Shhhh," Flattery hissed.
"Project Council suggests you continue present course and speed," Hempstead
said, "as long as you are within the solar system. If a solution has not been
reached by then, present opinion is that you will be ordered to turn back."
There followed a long silence, then: ". . . unless you have alternative
suggestions."
"You will be ordered to turn back," Flattery thought. He turned to see how
those key words sat with Bickel. They were aimed at Bickel, contrived for
him, fitted specially to trigger his deepest motives.
Bickel lay in thoughtful silence staring up at the speech microscope display
above the vocoder, checking the accuracy of message reception.
"At this time," Hempstead said, "Project Control requires a detailed report on
condition of all ship systems with special reference to hybernating colonists.
It is recognized that prolonging the voyage increases probability of
hybernation failure. We recognize that you must replace crew losses from the
tanks. Suggestions on replacements will be made upon request. We share your
grief at the unfortunate accidents among you, but the Project must continue."
"Detailed report on all ship systems," Timberlake said. "He's out of his
mind."
How cold was Hempstead's commiseration, Flattery thought. The phrasing
betrayed the care with which it had been composed. Just enough grief, not too
much.
The vocoder emitted a filter-dulled crackling, then: "This is Morgan
Hempstead closing transmission. Acknowledge and answer our questions
immediately. UMB out."
"They left too much unsaid," Bickel said. He sensed the "deletions for
reasons of policy" all through the message. The thin political line they
walked had been betrayed most in what was not said.
"Build consciousness into our computer," Timberlake growled. "How stupid can
they get?" He glanced at Bickel. "You were on one of the original attempts
at UMB, John. You get the honor of telling 'Big Daddy' where he can shove
that idea."
"That attempt flopped and badly," Bickel agreed. "But it's still the only
real course open to us."
Timberlake raged on as though he hadn't heard: "There were people on the UMB
fiasco who make us look like a pack of amateurs."
Flattery had heart, though, and he hid a knowing smile by turning away and
speaking mildly: "We all read the report, Tim."
"The only part worth reading was their summation." Timberlake pitched his
voice in a sneering falsetto: "'Impossible of achievement at present level of
technology.'"
"That was an excuse, not a summation," Bickel said. And he thought back to
UMB's fruitless search for the Artificial Consciousness Factor. There had
always been that sterile wall between his part of the group and the station
personnel, but the triple-glass walls had never hidden the smell of failure.
It had been all around the project from the beginning. They had been lost in
tangles of pseudoneuron fiber, in winking lights and the snap of relays, the
hiss of tape reels and the bitter ozone smell of burnt insulation from
overloaded circuits. They had looked for a mechanical way to do what the
least among them could do within his own flesh -- be conscious. And they had
failed.
Over them all had hung the unspoken fear, the knowledge of what had happened
to the one project that reportedly had achieved success -- and its own doom --
back on the surface of Earth.
Timberlake cleared his throat, lifted a hand out of his couch cocoon, studied
his fingernails. "Well, how're we going to answer their damn questions? They
must be living in a dream world back there, expecting us to produce a detailed
report on ship systems without the help of an OMC."
"But they had to ask for it," Bickel said. "And we'll have to doctor up some
kind of report."
Bickel looked at Flattery. "You can cook up a report for Hempstead, Raj.
Psychiatrists are experts at deception."
At times, this Bickel is uncommonly aware of subtleties, Flattery thought. I
must warn Prudence. "All of us renounced deception, John."
"Just like we renounced birth and parents," Bickel said. "It was easy.
Somebody did it for us."
Flattery knew he had to speak quickly, before this conversation devolved into
self-pity. He kept his attention on a tiny paint flaw in the hard-baked
surface of the master board, chose his words carefully: "The ship has to have
conscious direction for the long haul, John. It has to. The trip involves
too many unknowns that have to be dealt with on conditions of immediacy. So
what do we do?"
"You're asking me?" Bickel asked. "You're the psychiatrist."
But I'm not the motivator here, Flattery thought. Pin not the one who can
inject purpose into our efforts.
"This is going to require more direct methods," he said.
Bickel stared at him.
"Well, what're you going to tell them?" Timberlake asked. "They want to know
why we didn't alert them when the first brain conked out. Of all the --"
"There's another thing," Bickel said, shifting his attention to Timberlake.
"They gave us no code for that particular emergency. Are we to assume they
thought it impossible for the OMCs to fail? We are not! We have to assume
they had some other motive. They put the threshold high on that one for a
specific purpose."
"Ali, for hell sakes," Timberlake protested, "you're finding bogeymen where
they don't exist, Bick."
Bickel shook his head from side to side. "No . . . they were telling us in no
uncertain terms that once we blew the whistle we were on our own. We have to
find our own long-haul driver for the Tin Egg."
He's circling all around it, Flattery thought. When will he zero in?
Bickel wet his lips with his tongue. This borderline conversation, skirting
the need for a consciousness to command the ship, disturbed him deeply. He [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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