“I will, Martin.” She reached out for him, rested a tiny hand on his arm. “I know this has been difficult for you, Martin. The responsibility of seeing to it that mankind’s most important tool continues to function smoothly rests ultimately on your shoulders. It’s not a responsibility I would care for.”
Martha was very far away then. The hand was warm and gentle on his arm, and he’d been stuck inside the mountain for a long time. It was hard just to nod.
“Thank you for your concern, Dhura. It’s nice to know someone’s sympathetic. Besides the verdammt machine, of course.”
“We’re all sympathetic,” she said. As he did not respond, her hand drew back. “If there’s anything else you need, if you need to talk again, please call on me.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. But I’m not on the verge of collapse just yet.”
“I understand,” she said, favoring him with one of her rare smiles. He was reminded of certain tropical flowers that blossom only once or twice a year. The blossom moved away, graceful and delicate beneath the thin sari.
It took an effort to drag his thoughts back to business. The import of what they were going to do with the machine weighed heavily on him. Their worries were still subjective, but there had never been a situation quite like this one in the whole history of Colligatarch Central. Doubts nagged at him as he walked back toward his office.
How would the machine react to such a probe? It was feeling threatened from outside. Would it interpret a special investigation of its innards as a threat from inside?
Nonsense, he told himself firmly. You’ve seen too many horror-optos. The Colligatarch could not possibly perceive an internal study as a threat. Still, he recognized the truth of what he’d told Dhurapati. There was much that went on in the billions upon billions of circuits that composed the Colligatarch they did not understand.
More and more problems were handed to the machine every year. Expansion barely kept pace with demand. Had they finally fallen behind? Was it just possible that under the immense burden of all mankind’s problems the machine was capable of having a mental breakdown? Dhurapati could voice such a fear. As Chief of Operations he could not. It was a fear he would have to keep to himself, at least for the foreseeable future.
There was no reason for panic. He still had full confidence in his people and in the Colligatarch itself. If the problem was internal, it would be discovered and corrected. Like as not the machine would aid in the diagnosis. But if the trouble was inside the machine, it would certainly explain the enigmatic nature of the “threat.”
He couldn’t do it all himself. In the complex cell that was the Authority, he was no more than endoplasmic reticulum, a conduit between the nucleus that was the Colligatarch and the surging protoplasmic mass of mankind. It was a wonder he hadn’t cracked under the strain.
He wouldn’t, of course. It was why he was CPO. His co-workers knew that. He suspected the machine did also. He had no intention of disappointing anyone. Problems with the Colligatarch there might be, but the Chief Programmer would show none.
The lingering heat of Dhurapati’s hand still warmed his skin. He forced himself to think of other matters. There was plenty to occupy his thoughts.
Eric was feeling much better as he sat in the substreet bar. It was large enough to swallow a stranger, low enough to mask many of the sounds of the walkway above. The bartender served him indifferently. So had the clerk in the clothing department of the big discount store. There had been one bad moment when the register seemed to hesitate while processing his credit card, but it spit it out soon enough. It would take the authorities a little while to put a tracer on the newly altered card.
Now he sat in a suit of new clothes that fit in all the proper places, his tool packets secure in both inside breast pockets, cash from the intentional overcharge fattening his wallet. Much better.
The rest of his belongings might as well be back in Phoenix, since his Nueva York hotel was off-limits from now on. Certainly Tarragon’s people didn’t intend to sit quietly and wait for him to put in an appearance.
The laugh-opto blared loudly above the bar as larger-than-life figures stumbled over each other, accompanied by larger-than-life laughter. He didn’t know the series. Sitcoms were not among his favorite forms of entertainment. He preferred sporting events, docu-optos, or an occasional concertcast.
It was hard to gauge the opinions of his fellow drinkers. Some of them stared blankly at the screen. If they registered amusement at the antics being portrayed, it was all internalized. Now and then a faint, uncertain grin might appear on a tired face, as if some gag or pratfall had penetrated to the central node several minutes after the joke itself had passed into history.
Livelier couples inhabited the booths and tables. They chose conversation over the opto, words mixing with subtle looks and touches. Eric envied them their security, their acceptance of their place in the scheme of things. They knew where they’d come from and where they’d be in the morning.
Once he’d shared that security, that certainty. Now it seemed he was certain of very little. As the brandy warmed his belly, he tried to dissect the events of the past week. He had done a number of improbable things, then followed up by doing a number of impossible things. All he was sure of anymore was his love for Lisa Tambor.
Of his flight from her codo the previous night, he recalled surprisingly little. While all the action had been taking place, a shadow had been drawn between his eyes and his mind. Of one thing he had no doubt: by any reasonable extrapolation of events he ought to be dead or dying several times over.
He was not. Nor was he filled with panic anymore. He had passed beyond panic.
I am not insane, he told himself repeatedly. I can think and perceive quite sensibly. Nor am I Superman. But if I am sane and not Superman, then what I am I? Not a robot. Of that he was certain also.
Experimentally he tried to lift the table on which his drink rested. It was bolted to the floor and didn’t budge. It reaffirmed what he’d already proved with the water fountain. His peculiar abilities and exceptional strength only manifested themselves in moments of extreme stress. Something inside him sent his body into overdrive whenever he was threatened.
How he’d come by this remarkable talent was a total mystery to him. Since he’d never been one to waste time on an insoluble problem, he put it aside for future consideration.
One thing was certain: whatever this peculiar ability consisted of, he had it. He’d used it on three separate occasions in two different cities. Could he count on its aid if another crisis arose? He had no way of knowing. Each time was a new throw of the dice, with two lives at stake. He wondered what was responsible.
Also a question for future consideration. Right now he was full of the present, a present centered on Lisa, of the way she felt in his arms and the way his soul drained into her each time they met. That was sufficient motivation for the moment. Everything else would have to wait until he could be certain of her safety.
The opto near the bar blurred. A few disappointed groans rose from those who’d been sucked into watching the sitcom. A brief highlighting flash illuminated the face of a popular local newsawk. A second image was superimposed on the upper left-hand corner of the screen.
Eric recognized it and froze. It was an old picture, a company ID shot. He’d changed a lot since it had been taken, but there was no mistaking the portrait.
“Good evening from thirty-three news update. This is a picture of Eric Abbott, a resident of New River, Arizona, NAT, who is believed to be at large in the city and is wanted on several charges by the authorities. Abbott is believed responsible for the recent disturbance at a luxury East Side codo complex. He is considered armed and dangerous.
“Any citizen who thinks he or she may have seen this man is urged to contact metropolitan police immediately. In other news tonight, the Japanese Emperor announced a doubling of Prosperity Sphere rice exports to …”
Eric didn’t hear the rest. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, he turned in his chair until he was facing away from the center of the bar. Few customers appeared to have paid any attention to the opto announcement.
Was the picture old enough to permit his continued use of the public walkways? There were more lines in his face now. He’d worn a beard in the old days but that was no help: the police computer had wiped it for the broadcast.
He forced himself to finish his brandy, then exited without comment. It was starting to drizzle again and he was still without umbrella or raincoat. An umbrella would be better. It could help hide his face.
It was easy to find a lower-class hotel, midtown and away from the rivers. He paid for the night in cash. Once inside he double-locked the door and spent several tedious hours under a bright lamp altering his credit card again. Only when his latest identity was safely in place did he let himself lie down.
He slept much better than he’d expected to. Exhaustion overcame his anxiety. Whatever had helped him escape Lisa’s building did not let him off without making any demands on his body.
When he finally awoke it was midday. Using the directory in the optophoné, he located the type of store he needed. It wasn’t a long way off. Little was, in Nueva York. Avoiding the come-ons of the cabs, he walked the necessary half-mile.
The proprietor was most helpful, and Eric soon returned to his room. No one confronted him, but he knew he had to do something. Citizen indifference wouldn’t protect him forever. Sooner or later some zealot would recognize him from the repeated publication of his portrait and point him out to the police.
The spirit gum was hard to work with and he found himself wishing he’d spent more time in company amateur theatricals. At last he had the moustache in place. Then he worked the bleach through his head until he was a nice Nordic blonde. Putty would have altered his entire face, but he chose not to chance it. He had no experience with such materials, and a badly done false nose would draw more attention than his real one.
