Mind, Machines and Evolution Part 16

One of me remained on Mars as a decoy; the other one of me came to Earth."

"Brozlan created an a.n.a.log of himself," Barling confirmed. "Two years ago one came here while the other stayed there. For reasons he won't go into, he's never told us which was which. Because there was still a Brozlan working on Mars, it took the Federation over a year to find out what had happened."

The a.s.sa.s.sin was still confused. He had concluded already that the a.n.a.log-generation process described by Brozlan was the explanation for the scientist's "reincarnation." But the account that he had just heard went nowhere toward answering the immediate question. One Brozlan was surely dead. The other Brozlan was just as surely still on Mars. So who was the figure sitting at the foot of the bed? He looked from Brozlan to Barling, but before he could utter any words the Englishman told him: "As insurance, whichever of the two it was that came to Earth brought with him a copy of the program that had been used to generate the a.n.a.log. Thus, once we had built the equipment at Anderscliff, we would be able to regenerate Brozlan if anything happened to him. Once a week he went through the scanning process to update the program with his latest memory patterns and so on. Hence, if we ever had to use the program, it would only be a week out of date at the most. He must have guessed that once the Federation had figured out the situation they'd stop at nothing to get rid of him . . . as you, Hadley my friend, very well know."

Brozlan lifted his chin and hooked his collar down with his finger to reveal the side of his neck. "No scar, you see," he said. "Yes-I am an a.n.a.log, generated from the stored program at Anderscliff after you got to the Brozlan who arrived from Mars."

"Don't worry about losing control of your senses or anything like that, old chap," the colonel advised rea.s.suringly. "The Brozlan that you left behind was very dead all right." He smiled wryly and added, "But it wouldn't do you any good to have a crack at this one, too. We'd simply make another one."

The a.s.sa.s.sin sank back and closed his eyes as the full meaning of it all seeped slowly into his mind.

Futile. The whole mission had been futile. The greatest piece of computer espionage in history-all for nothing.

He lay in silence for a long time. And then his mouth contorted into a faint smile. His chest began to heave with suppressed laughter. He opened his eyes and looked up at the Englishman. "But you've lost, Arthur, old chap," he mimicked in barely more than a whisper. "Don't you see-the Federation knows now that the mission has failed. They'll deduce that Brozlan is still working for Earth and that very soon Earth will catch up in technology. That means that the Federation will be forced to make its move now-while the gap is widest and in their favor-just the opposite of what you want. Earth needs time, Arthur-time to develop the ways of applying Brozlan's know-how. Once Earth has closed the gap, its traditional advantages will tilt the balance and count for something again. Given technical equality, Mars would have to stay in line and stay friendly. Earth could blow it out of the solar system if it had to, and lose nothing." The a.s.sa.s.sin laughed again, this time out loud.

"Know what you should have done? You shouldn't have told me any of this. You should have let me escape somehow, still thinking that my mission had succeeded . . . I'd have gone back to Mars and given them a wrong report. Then, afterward, you could have quietly regenerated Brozlan and carried on. That way the Federation would have believed that they had a monopoly and as much time as they liked to set things up. By the time they found out differently, it would have been too late: Earth would have had the time it needed to make itself invincible." The a.s.sa.s.sin shook his head in mock sympathy. "That, Arthur, is what you should have done."

The colonel looked down at him and stroked his mustache pensively. When he spoke, his tone was soft and mildly reproaching. "But, my dear Hadley, that's precisely what we did do."

The a.s.sa.s.sin's face registered confusion and non-comprehension.

"I must apologize," the colonel said. "I haven't quite told you everything yet." He swiveled the bedside infonet terminal around so that the screen was facing the a.s.sa.s.sin, and keyed in a sequence of commands. "Here are some movie records from our files that I think you'll find answer your questions."

The screen came to life to show a row of airmobiles in a parking area.

"Recognize it?" the colonel asked casually. "It's at Kansas City International Airport. We found out you were going there by interrogating the traffic control net to see what designation you'd logged in. We simply had one of our agents waiting on every level to see where you went after you landed. Here you come now-there-in the gray coat. Telephoto shot from five rows back."

The a.s.sa.s.sin's bewilderment increased as he watched the image of himself walk along to one of the vehicles, which he recognized, retrieve the keys from up inside the undercarriage recess, climb in, and depart.

"It didn't take long, of course, for us to trace that that vehicle had been hired out by a Paul Langley at Roosevelt s.p.a.ceport," the colonel commented. "From there on it was just routine to establish how Langley arrived from Mars and that he was booked on a flight to London and from there back to Mars via Anglia s.p.a.ceport, England.

"British security agents watched you check through the boarding gate for the shuttle up from Anglia-just to make sure there were no hitches. We even had somebody up on the transfer satellite to make sure you didn't miss your ship out to Mars. There . . ." Barling touched another b.u.t.ton, and the picture changed to show a short line of people standing at a check-in gate. "Pa.s.sengers embarking for Flight 927 to Mars. There you are again-fourth from the front. The ship left on schedule, and that was the last we saw of you, or should I say of Paul Langley." He snapped off the screen and regarded the a.s.sa.s.sin challengingly.

The a.s.sa.s.sin shook his head wildly from side to side. "But-those pictures-I never did those things.

I'm here!"

The Englishman frowned and made a clicking noise with his tongue. "Oh dear, you disappoint me, Hadley. Hasn't it dawned on you yet? Don't you realize? When you were captured, you were knocked out cold, weren't you? You've been out for quite some time now. I'm afraid that during that time we took something of a liberty. . . ."

A look of horror spread across the a.s.sa.s.sin's face.

"Ah! I think you've cottoned on at last." The colonel nodded approvingly. "Yes-you've got it. You're not the real Hadley-the one who arrived from Mars. That one you've just been looking at on the screen was the real one. You're an a.n.a.log of him.

"He woke up remembering exactly the same as you did-everything that happened right up until he was knocked out on the roof at Anderscliff; that, of course, included the successful elimination of Brozlan.

Unlike you, however, he managed to escape. Quite extraordinary, that-wouldn't have thought our security could be so lax. Actually his escape was, shall we say, contrived, but he wasn't to know that.

The rest you know. I think Earth has bought the time it needs."

The a.s.sa.s.sin had been seized by something akin to acute mental shock. His eyes bulged, and his fingers clawed at the sheets. "But why?" he croaked. Perspiration showed on his forehead. "Why all this?"

"I explained it all at the beginning," the colonel replied in unruffled tones. "You can help us with so many things we'd like to know. We'd like to know a lot more about an organization that can crack one of our top-security computer systems . . . where they got the bogus information from to put in those files . . .

how they knew the pa.s.s codes . . . you know the kind of thing, Hadley. There's lots more."

"No." The a.s.sa.s.sin clenched his teeth grimly. "I am still a Martian. You can expect no help from me."

"Oh dear, Hadley." The colonel shook his head and sighed. "Look, how can I put this?" He paused as if considering how to phrase a delicate matter. "There really is no point at all in being obstinate. Everybody has his weakness. Some people crack up when things get unpleasant; others respond to the friendly approach. Every man can be bought for a price of some kind: money, women, a life of luxury without worries. . . . There's always something. The big problem that interrogators have had to contend with in the past has been that they've had only one subject to work with. It was always too easy to ruin any chance of the right approach working by trying the wrong ones first." The Englishman's eyes twinkled.

"But we don't have that problem with you, do we, Hadley? We can go back to the beginning as often as we like by simply generating another of you from the same program that we used to generate you. We're bound to succeed eventually. Maybe we'll learn a little bit from one Hadley, a little bit more from another. . . . Sooner or later we'll know all we need to."

He paused as if struck by a sudden, amusing thought. "Come to think of it, you've no way of knowing if you're the first Hadley at all, have you . . . or the only one? We could have ten Hadleys in this building right now for all you know. That day at Anderscliff might have been years ago now, mightn't it?

"Now, as I'm sure you understand, we are very busy people, and we'd much rather spend our time talking constructively to a sensible Hadley than wasting our time with one that chose to be difficult. It's up to you to decide which you are going to be. It really doesn't make a lot of difference to us; but, as I'm sure you will already have worked out for yourself, it could make an awful lot of difference to you."

A moan escaped the a.s.sa.s.sin's lips as he slumped back against the pillows. He had been rigorously trained to understand and counter every situation of interrogation in the book. He knew all the tricks.

But they'd never thought of this . . . nothing like this. . . .

GOING FULL-TIME.

When, in 1979, I finally quit my regular job to write full-time, everyone wanted to know how much more I'd produce in a year. I told them I didn't think I'd produce any more than I had been. "Why not?" they asked. "How could you not write more with an extra forty hours every week?" I explained that I expected to do other things with the extra time, such as actually be able to sit down and read every now and again, talk to people occasionally, and recover something of a social life. It turned out I was right.

Many of the people at science-fiction conventions would like to be writers (sometimes I get the feeling this is true of every other person in the country). The panels on writing topics always generate lots of questions from the audience on personal working habits and methods, as if there were some kind of "insiders' secret" to be divulged. There isn't, of course. My advice is usually to "burn your TV" (I haven't owned one for years), "live within walking distance of a twenty-four-hour restaurant, and after that, do whatever works best for you." It does help to have something worthwhile to say and know how to say it, but amazingly few of the questioners seem very concerned about such irrelevancies. I suspect that a lot of people are in love with the thought of writing, not with writing.

As I settled into the U.S., I met people from all sides of the publishing business-editors, agents, writers who were professionals before I was born. When I started mentioning that I was contemplating going full-time, one comment I heard time and time again was that the biggest mistake made by new writers was that after selling one book-frequently without even waiting to see any reactions or sales figures-they'd be off yelling, "I've made it! I've made it!" quitting their jobs, getting new cars, and checking the real-estate prices in Hawaii. Almost invariably it didn't work out, and within six months they'd be knocking on the door of their old company, desperate to get back in out of the rain. And more often than not, worse than the financial setback, they had destroyed themselves psychologically.

That was some of the best advice I ever had.

So, I set three conditions that I said would have to be satisfied before I'd consider going full-time. One: I'd have five published books-not signed contracts or ma.n.u.scripts delivered, but five t.i.tles out on shelves in bookstores, and out there long enough for the sales to be evident. Two: Each would have to have done better than the one before. In general, the sales of a book peak in the month or two following its release, and then drop off. What this condition said was that each peak should be higher than the last, indicating a satisfied, growing readership. Three: Enough cash in the bank to last one year-even if all income were to dry up, but expenses continued unabated-and no debts or credit.

People can delude themselves in strange ways when defending their fantasies. I've often heard it a.s.sumed that once the earnings from part-time writing equal one's regular salary, then quitting the job won't make any difference. Wrong. Let's say, to take a round number, that somebody's salary is thirty thousand dollars per year. When their part-time writing incomes equals that, their total income is sixty thousand dollars-simple when you think about it, but so few do. When they quit, they'd better be ready for a fifty percent cut.

The third condition was to cushion against life's "unexpecteds." Not unexpectedly, there were plenty of those, not the least of which was acquiring a third wife and another three children. Since the survival plan was resilient enough for us to muddle through without my having to abandon writing, I feel I can recommend it.

The message, I suppose, is to make sure that your umbrella isn't designed for sunny days.

NEANDER-TALE.

"Artificial fire!? Waddya mean 'artificial fire'? What the h.e.l.l is artificial fire?" Ug scowled down from beneath heavy close-knit Neanderthal brows at the tangle-haired, bearskin-clad figure squatting in front of him. Og was leaning forward to peer intently into the pile of sticks and twigs that he had built between two stones in the clearing where the trail from the stream widened on its way up toward the rock terrace fronting the caves. He seemed unperturbed by Ug's pugnacious tone; Ug was standing with his club still slung across his shoulder, which meant that, for once, he was not in a trouble-making mood that day.

"It's the same as you get when lightning hits a tree," Og replied cheerfully as he began rubbing two sticks vigorously together in the handful of moss which he had placed underneath the twigs. "Only this way you don't need the lightning."

"You're crazy," Ug declared bluntly.

"You'll see. Just stand there a couple of seconds longer and then tell me again that I'm crazy."

A wisp of smoke puffed out from the moss and turned into a blossom of flame which quickly leaped up through the twigs and engulfed the pile. Og straightened up with a satisfied grunt while Ug emitted a startled shriek and jumped backwards, at the same time hurriedly unslinging his club.

"Now tell me again that I'm crazy," Og invited.

Ug's gasp was a mixture of terror, awe, and incredulity.

"Holy sabre-cats, don't you know that stuff's dangerous? It can take out a whole block of the forest in the dry season. Get rid of it for chrissakes, w.i.l.l.ya!"

"It's okay between those rocks. Anyhow, I don't want to get rid of it. I was wondering if we could figure out how to use it for something."

"Like what?" Ug continued to stare nervously at the crackling pile and kept himself at a safe distance.

"What could anybody do with it, besides get hurt?"

"I don't know. All kinds of things. . . ." Og frowned and scratched his chin. "For instance, maybe we wouldn't have to kick people out of the caves and make them trek a half mile down to where the hot springs are whenever they start to smell bad."

"How else are they gonna clean up?"

"Well, I was thinking . . . maybe we could use this to make our own hot water right there in the caves and save all the ha.s.sle. Think what a difference that would make to the girls. They wouldn't-"

"WHAT!" Ug cut him off with a shout that echoed back from the rocks above. "You wanna take that stuff inside the caves? You are crazy! Are you trying to get us all killed? Even the mammoths take off like bats outa h.e.l.l if they catch so much as a whiff of that stuff. Anyhow, how could you make water hot with it? It'd burn through the skins."

"So you don't put it in skins. You put it in something else . . . something that won't burn."

"Such as what?"

"h.e.l.l, I don't know yet," Og yelled, at last losing his patience. "It's a brand new technology. Maybe some kind of stone stuff . . ."

The sounds of running feet and jabbering voices from just around the bend in the trail above interrupted them. A few moments later Ag, the Vice-Chief, rushed into the clearing, closely followed by about twenty of the tribespeople.

"What's going on down here?" Ag demanded. "We heard shouting . . . ARGH! FIRE! There's fire in the valley. FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES! FIRE IN THE VALLEY!" The rest took up the cry and plunged back into the undergrowth in all directions. The trees all around reverberated with the sounds of colliding bodies and m.u.f.fled curses, while Og continued to stare happily at his creation and Ug watched nervously from a few paces back. Then silence descended. After a while bearded faces began popping one by one out of the greenery on all sides. Ag re-emerged from behind a bush and approached warily.

"What's this?" he enquired, looking from Ug to Og and back again. "There hasn't been a storm for weeks. Where did that come from?"

"Og made it," Ug told him.

" 'Made it'? What are you talking about-'made it'? This some kinda joke or sump'n?"

"He made it," Ug insisted. "I watched him do it."

"Why?"

"He's crazy. He says he wants to take it inside the caves and-"

"INSIDE THE CAVES?" Ag clapped his hand to his brow and rolled a pair of wide-staring eyes toward Og. "Are you outa your mind? What are you trying to do? Haven't you seen what happens to the animals that get caught when the forest goes up? We'd all get roasted in our beds."

"n.o.body's saying you have to sleep on top of it," Og said wearily. "You keep it out of the way someplace. Water pulls up trees when the river floods, but you can still take water inside without having to flood the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n cave. Well, maybe we can make our own fire and learn to live with it in the same sort of way."

"What's the point?" Ag challenged.

"It could be useful to have around," Og said. "The animals don't like it. It might stop the bears from trying to muscle into the caves every time the snow comes. Things like that . . . all kinds of things. . . ."

Ag sniffed and remained unimpressed. "All the people would have taken off for the hills, too, so it wouldn't do much good," he pointed out.

"What about the smoke?" a voice called out from the circle of figures that had started to form around the edge of the clearing.

"What about it?" Og asked.

"You can't breathe it. How could people live in a cave full of smoke?"

"You fix it so the smoke goes outside and not inside," Og shouted in exasperation.

"How?"

"For Pete's sake, I don't know yet. It's a new technology. What do you want-all the angles figured out in one day? I'll think of something."

"You'd pollute the air," another voice objected. "If all the tribes in the valley got into it, there'd be smoke everywhere. It'd black out the sun-G.o.d. Then he'd be mad and we'd all get zapped."

"How do you know it isn't a she?" a female voice piped up from the back, only to be promptly silenced by a gentle tap on the head from the nearest club.

At that moment the circle of onlookers opened up to make way for Yug-the-Strong, Chief of the tribe, and Yeg-the-Soothsayer, who had come down from the caves to investigate the commotion. Yeg had been a great warrior in his youth and was reputed to have once felled an ox single-handed by talking at it nonstop until it collapsed in the mud from nervous exhaustion; hence Yeg's nickname of 'Oxmire.' For the benefit of the two elders Ag repeated what had been said and Ug confirmed it. Yeg's face darkened as he listened.

"It's not safe," he p.r.o.nounced when Ag had finished. The tone was final.

"So we learn how to make it safe," Og insisted.

"That's ridiculous," Yeg declared flatly. "If it got loose it would wipe out the whole valley. The kids would fall into it. On top of that, the fallout would foul up the river. Anyhow, you'd need half the tribe to be carrying wood up all the time, and we need the resources for other things. It's a dumb idea whatever way you look at it."

"You've got no business s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with it," Yug said, to add his official endors.e.m.e.nt.

But Og was persistent and the arguing continued for the next hour. Eventually Yeg had had enough. He climbed onto a rock and raised an arm for silence.

"How this could be made safe and why we should bother is still unclear," he told them. "Everything about it is unclear. Anyone who still wants to mess around with unclear energy has to be soft in the head." He turned a steely gaze toward Og. "The penalty for that is banishment from the tribe . . . forever.

The law makes no exceptions." Yug and Ag nodded their mute agreement, while a rising murmur of voices from the tribe signaled a.s.sent to the decision.

"Throw the b.u.m out!"

"I don't want no crazy people collecting free rides outa my taxes."

"Let the Saps down the end of the valley take care of him. They're all crazy anyway."

Og lodged a plea with the appeal-court in the form of Ag, who pa.s.sed it on to Yug.

"Beat it," was Yug's verdict.

An hour later Og had drawn his termination pay in the form of two days supply of raw steak and dried fish, and was all packed up and ready to go.