“I just wish that I could remember what task it was that I was intended to carry out.” There was a touch of sadness in the Autothor’s voice.
“There now, don’t fret. It’ll come to you,” Gelmann said reassuringly. “My third husband, Alex, he should rest comfortably; he had trouble with his memory before he died. He started thinking he was the chief medical officer in our hometown and would stop people on the street to prescribe medications for them. The poor man only wanted to help. Ordinarily this was not a problem, but it could be awkward at dinner parties.”
“Was Alex in the medical profession?” Shimoda inquired politely.
“Alex?” Gelmann laughed. “Alex was a welder. He didn’t understand my work at all, but I didn’t care.” She whistled softly. “The shoulders that man had!” A sigh of remembrance escaped her lips. “He always wanted to be a doctor, though. An osteopathic surgeon. But he didn’t begin to qualify. So he learned how to put together buildings instead of people.” She gestured gently in the Autothor’s direction.
“You just stay powered up and be patient and you’ll see: you’ll be able to reintegrate. These things just take time.”
“Thank you,” the Autothor replied earnestly.
“I would offer to help. I’ve worked with computers all my life. But I have this feeling your schematics would defeat me. I don’t know where your central cortex is located, or if I’d even recognize it if I walked right past it.”
“Please, Mina.” Hawkins looked anxious. “Let’s leave the giant alien ship alone, okay?”
“You probably would find my design confusing.” The Autothor rotated twice. “I know it’s confusing to me.”
Shimoda nodded ponderously. “Self-analysis is always difficult.”
Ksarusix rolled forward eagerly. “Maybe I could help?” They looked toward the serving robot. “I mean. I’m an AI mechanical myself.”
“You cannot help,” declared the Autothor. “I have appraised you thoroughly and find you to be basically a source-responsive device of minimal inductive capabilities.”
“Geez,” muttered the serving robot as it backed away, “you don’t have to say it in front of everybody. Minimal inductive capabilities, huh? You try distinguishing on sight between chocolate pudding and chocolate mousse.”
“Anyway,” the Autothor continued, “I am programmed to prohibit entry to my central core to any individual not specially authorized for access. But you give me hope. Even though the pace of resurrection has slowed, it does continue. For example, another large portion of one section of my basic structure has just come on-line.”
“At least your communications skills seem to be functioning efficiently,” said Gelmann.
“Yes. It’s nice to have other minds to communicate with. Consciousness is neat.”
“Beats the alternative,” Hawkins muttered.
“A moment.” The Autothor paused. “I am being contacted again.”
“The people in Baltimore?” Iranaputra rose, moved away from the wall. “They should be content. Your proximity no longer threatens them.”
“No. This signal comes from a new source; from the other side of the large body of water beneath us.”
The seniors exchanged a look. Follingston-Heath eyed the blue ellipse. “You might as well put them through, don’t you know.”
The voice the Autothor relayed came from Barcelona. “Greetings to you aboard the alien vessel. I am Jean-François Holmberg, Chief Administrator of the Planetary Council of Earth. I should like to ask who are you and what are you about. Reports have come to me which say there are five people from a place called the Lake Woneapenigong Retirement Village in Newyork, N.A., aboard. Can you do me the favor of confirming or denying this?”
“We’re here, all right,” said Hawkins cheerfully. “How’s things in the capital?”
There was a pause at the other end. “At the moment they could be calmer,” the chief administrator finally replied. “Now listen: We simply can’t have this sort of thing. It’s been very disruptive, and it’s bad for the tourist business. People have a regrettable tendency to panic when something like this happens. Although it must be admitted that nothing like this has ever happened.”
Again Hawkins cut Follingston-Heath off at the pronoun. “Hey, it’s not our problem. We’re just hitchhikers. Why don’t you talk to the ship?”
“Talk to the ship? Are you saying there is crew aboard?”
“Not exactly crew.” Gelmann whispered to the Autothor. “Nothing personal.” She raised her voice again. “My name is Mina Gelmann. I am retired from the field, but I can still recognize a cybernetic consciousness when I meet one.”
“Ah.” The Chief Administrator sounded understanding. “AI robotics.”
“Considerably more sophisticated than that.” The Autothor bobbed appreciatively. “But if it helps you to think of it that way, fine.”
“Very well. The problem is that this vessel and its guiding consciousness are currently in violation of more regulations than I could quote in an hour, n’est pas?”
“We haven’t violated nothing,” Hawkins shot back.
“I understand.” Holmberg’s voice was like whipped cream. “Yet the violations remain. I am led to believe you have some control over this visitation.”
“Quite so,” admitted Follingston-Heath.
“Then for the good of Earth, not to mention the continued mental stability of its inhabitants, I wonder if perhaps you might ask it to move elsewhere. You see, its continuing presence here constitutes something of an irresistible attraction to certain aggressive political entities who shall go unnamed. Through no fault of its own, it has become a bit of a diplomatic burden.”
“I don’t mean to upset anyone.” The Autothor was contrite. “I can shift position again, if you wish?”
“Who is that?” The Chief Administrator’s interest was palpable.
“That was the ship,” Gelmann informed him.
“Really?” Another pause, longer this time. “Well, tell it that it, um, has a very nice speaking voice. Will it really move if you ask it to?”
“I think so.”
“That would be most obliging of it. It would make me personally very happy.”
