The Darkness on Diamondia, page 15
The excitement that came to Morton in that moment was all the more intense because there had been no lead-up to such a revelation. All that small talk, and now, suddenly—
Incredibly they had got that far. Deep inside him a solitary hope curled open its life-seeking petals. Yet an overall uneasiness remained… an intuition that Laurent’s facts were twelve hours late.
“Fourteen years ago,” said Laurent, “when the Diamondian situation began to puzzle High Command on Arcturus IX, we commissioned a young physicist to settle here with the purpose of investigating the magnetic field. During his entire study he has carried protective equipment. Ten years ago he was provided with a special protective building, a D.A.R., and given what seemed to be a small official job as head of the military post in Capodochino Corapo. His name is Marriott, and according to his reports he has been able to exercise some control over the field out there—”
The sick feeling in Morton was stronger… Is it possible I’ve messed this thing up? He grew aware that the white face was saying gravely, “We haven’t been able to contact Marriott this morning, Charles. Which is why I’m bringing you up to date. Will you rush out there and see what’s happened?”
“Sir—” began Morton unsteadily.
He couldn’t say more. He could only stand there and catch a faint, emotional glimpse of the disaster that threatened here.
“You may have wondered,” Lauren’t voice came as from a tunnel, so remote had everything become, “why I and a few of my top assistants have never left this part of the building. It’s because this section has been protected against whatever is in that planetary energy field. We are connected to the Corapo defense.”
Slowly Morton straightened. The world came partly back into focus. He echoed aloud, “This section is… protected?”
So that was the explanation for their immunity.
Hopeful again, he looked around the glittering room. Could it be that at this moment, while he was here, he also was protected? And that if he were to tell Laurent the truth, it would in this protected environment not instantly bring reaction?
Before he could decide, Laurent said, “What has especially disturbed us is that late last night this protective field, which Marriott had rigged for us, suddenly ceased to manifest. It’s vital that you get over there and investigate.”
As he finished speaking, he paused and squeezed his eyes hard.
He looked up after a long moment and said, “Excuse me. All this seems to have affected me, and I am subject to periodic dizzy spells—I notice you have a similar affliction.”
It was not a good moment. For that moment Morton couldn’t speak.
Laurent continued, “I have one more point. As one of my amusements during an otherwise boring time of waiting, I have played the mental game of being Colonel Charles Morton.” He smiled in that friendly way. “After reading one of your reports, I’d lie awake and imagine myself looking at the scenes you described. In fact, I would try to reconstruct your movements. As a strictly intellectual exercise, I have attempted to live your life as I imagined it.”
He broke off. “Judging by the reports I have here on my desk, I was singularly unsuccessful in that effort.” Ruefully he tapped the papers on his desk, said, “According to these accusations, you have been guilty of minor violations of the law these past few days: Escaping from a hospital, stealing an Irsk prisoner, and—”
Morton parted his lips.
He grew aware that the ambassador was holding up a hand, warningly. “No explanations now,” Laurent smiled. “But I trust you will eventually be able to look your accusers in the eye and tell them that Intelligence officers must sometimes act quickly. On your way, colonel.”
Morton did not move. Instead: “Do you trust Marriott?” he asked.
There was a long pause. The eyes in the white face widened a little: “He’s a human being,” the older man said finally: “He’s got to be on our side.”
After a hesitation of his own, Morton nodded. “All right,” he said simply, “where have I met you before?”
Silence. The gray eyes staring at him, widening a little. And then—
Laurent was on his feet. He came running around the gleaming, brilliant desk, his hand held out. “You’ve done it!” he said. “Congratulations, colonel!”
The next second he had grabbed Morton’s hand and was shaking it vigorously. As he did so, he made certain statements about what Morton’s question established about his personal development as a finite logic human being.
It was Morton who suddenly drew back. “Sir, are you saying that you yourself are nearly four hundred years old?”
“Yes.” The white face was calm. “And the fact that you spotted me, which I suspected when you first came in, means that you can now be admitted to the first stage of the finite logic brotherhood. I’m delighted for you, colonel. It’s the same story: thousands of hours of doing and thinking; and at last the cells begin to align.”
“But,” protested Morton faintly, “where did we meet before? And why don’t I remember?”
Once again the reassuring smile. “We have never met, Charles. What happens is that eventually finite logic people know each other as such. Surely you’ve already had the female attraction.”
He became abruptly somber. “However, let me caution you. We can be killed as easily as anyone. But if we survive violence, then our life span is considerable.”
It was Morton’s turn to brace himself. It seemed to him that the pure truth he had received deserved a minimum of candor in return. “Let me caution you, sir,” he said. “Your action in trying to be me may have got you… connected… to my duplicate up in the magnetic field. How that will come out is not obvious to me at this time.”
Having spoken, he spun around and left the room.
Twenty-Six
He drove with Luftelet to Capodochino Corapo. There was heavy traffic all the way. Observing that scene again, seeing the vaguely smiling drivers as they careened toward them just across the double line, Morton thought: It can’t be that these crazy little cars will still be driving here a thousand years from now.
But of course finite logic said they would. And also that equally mad people (though in a somewhat improved society) would be driving them. The intermilieu motor had been standard for more than fourteen hundred years. Noisy it was, yes; but it operated on the “dead” part of the atmosphere, the nitrogen, and so its fuel was forever free. Hard to imagine an improvement on that… Perhaps some genius would find a way to silence the little blasters.
After a little, Morton made a small attempt to placate Luftelet. He said, “Aristotle’s syllogisms were a joke long before the twentieth century. Yet they have a certain purity. When applied to a proper subject in their frame, they proved true enough.”
There was no reply. The older man was at the wheel, and he was peering grimly forth. It did seem to Morton that Luftelet’s expression changed to contempt.
Morton persisted, “Most of the things that a syllogism could prove everybody knew. What it couldn’t prove everybody knew, too. So in ancient days learned men, having nothing else, used the method where it applied. Life was kind of simple. Grim but simple. And so the human brain bridged the gap between the system and the reality. The ‘modern’ logic that succeeded the syllogistic system in the twentieth century was bravely named. Sort of like here, finally, is the truth… It wasn’t.”
It was an either-or idea. “Where Edward is, Mary isn’t. Most useful in the great switching systems of computers and such,” they said. Those were the days when if a switch or a transistor or a relay didn’t work, the engineer would say irritably, “For God’s sake, get us another R2B unit.”
At some deep level of his being, he believed (with “modern” logic) that all R2B units belonged to a “set,” and they should work, damn it.
And that system kept things in operation, because the human brain sort of understood that sometimes Mary did try to occupy the same space as Edward. And the gap between the set theory and the certainties of the Venn diagrams on the one hand and, on the other, the reality that as the machines grew more complicated, engineers learned from sad experience to furnish backup equipment that could take over in the event of a failure. People even worked out sophisticated MTBF (Mean Time Before Failure) theories for innumerable components.
But there was a day in the twenty-first century when (so the news reports later stated) every machine everywhere stopped. Obviously that was never literally true. But that was the way it looked.
For a day or more science confronted the nightmare product of a logic system that was based upon a mathematics which stated that there is such a thing as a dozen eggs or a dozen duplicate transistors—in short, a “set” of eggs or of anything.
Not true.
On that day of total (?) stoppage, every egg on Earth stood up and said, in effect, “I too am an individual.”
Of course, the things that really made this point were the components of a computerized America and West Europe. No logic system would ever be able to deal with so much individuality. And so the finite logic on which modern (39th century) computers worked consisted of—
Morton’s mentalizing ended abruptly. He was snatched out of the world of thought and precipitated back into the universe of New Naples. A visual feast greeted his eyes.
Their little monstrosity had roared around another green hill. This time, instead of more closely packed houses, the land fell away suddenly. The city almost disappeared from view. To the left was the ocean shoreline. Beyond, shafts and flashes of soft light sparkled from an opalescent sea. For several, breathless moments, as he gazed out over the remoter crystalline waters, Morton had one of the rare views of shining Capri (usually buried in mist).
It reminded him… what Marriott had said about finally finding the place where you wanted to spend your life. Marriott, of course, had made the decision quite a while ago. But it was a thought which had never really impinged on Charles Morton.
Suddenly it tempted him. Why not? he asked himself. Why not marry that girl? After all, he was no angel. He had been making love to females for a long, long time, indeed, at least until he was suddenly offended by his methods.
Spending one’s life in beautiful New Naples might be—what? Once more a train of thought came to an end. He blinked… Am I out of my mind? he wondered, appalled. The whole planet was a boiling inferno, for God’s sake.
He leaned back, breathing hard. And guessed that there were other false Mortons in the circuit now and their collective feeling had nearly conned him. As he realized that, the beautiful sea disappeared. They curved around a height, past some green and rounded hills, and then down a steep slope that led straight into the outskirts of Capodochino Corapo.
At Morton’s direction, Luftelet drove as close to the military post as other parked cars permitted. The two men climbed out. Luftelet walked down the street to the door of the building. Morton headed across the road. He turned and gazed at the strange little structure.
It seemed to crouch close to the ground. It was flat and dark in shape and color. Architecturally, the mountains behind it demanded shingled peaks and towering spires. It had none. The roof was black brown metal. The walls were a dull, corrugated substance without windows.
There was considerable size. A spreadoutness suggested many rooms inside. A barracks might conceivably look like that. Big or small, Morton knew, didn’t matter. Size was not a factor where a cubic inch can hold thousands of resistors, coils, transistors and other electronic components. The outer and inner “skins” of this particular military post consisted of a chemical substance that was superresistant to impacts, energies, and, in fact, all negating forces. Between the two skins of that immensely hard substance was such an array of receptors, scanners and receivers that no human brain could even grasp the complexity. More than a hundred constructing computers had reasoned it together.
Disconcerting to discover at this late date that a James Marriott had been put in charge of it; a man with an impressive Ph.D. in physics but with no emotional equivalent of a degree in loyalty—
It was a minute later. He had walked to the door. There was a little time, then, while he established his total take-over credentials—and discovered that Marriott had departed in the wee hours that morning and had not returned.
“He had us call an ambulance, sir; and he took his patient with him.”
“Patient?” echoed Morton.
“Yes, sir, the unconscious body of a woman.”
“Do you know the woman’s name?”
“I have it here—” The guard bent over his book and read out. “She came in two nights ago; Isolina Ferraris.”
So this is where she came; I’ll be damned, thought Morton.
He was unable to dredge up any other thought about it.
Somewhat blanked out by the information, he led the way into the building. It turned out—Luftelet reported—that only the power had been shut off which connected with the protective field of the Negotiating Palace… A deliberate act? Morton wondered. And, obviously, that was the first deduction one could make about such an action.
It seemed minor; almost a pettish thing for Marriott to have done. Yet it had some of the aspect of a man burning his bridges. Morton stood by as Luftelet closed four relays.
“Is the palace protected again?” Morton wanted to know.
In replying Luftelet made a series of obscure technical remarks. It required all of Morton’s ability for careful listening to evaluate the words as meaning yes. Standing there, he suppressed the impulse to have another try at breaking down this madman’s barriers to communication. Finally, he walked, instead, off long the gleaming corridor to the instrument room. One look; and his fleeting impulse to check the equipment personally collapsed. The long, narrow chamber ran all the way around the outer walls of the building, and it was absolutely jammed, with just enough room for some equivalent of a catwalk.
In this world, Morton thought grayly, we really have to depend on trustworthy technical help… He met Luftelet a few minutes later in Marriott’s private office.
…No alternative, it seemed to a reluctant Morton. For all he knew, this was the twelfth hour minus a few minutes on Diamondia. Perhaps, with Luftelet, the old, old ploy of responsibility would achieve what direct reason could not.
Aloud he said, “Major Luftelet, you will remain here in charge of this post until further notice. You outrank Captain Marriott—in case he returns…”
“Yes, sir! I’ll have my effects sent over.”
“Before I leave,” said Morton, “is there anything else that you should tell me?”
In checking out the building controls, Luftelet had observed several automatic aspects. But he considered these to be too “technical” to be brought to Morton’s attention. So he said, “No, sir.”
After making his denial, the major stood calm and straight. His eyes were clear and untroubled. His mouth was innocent. And his whole manner radiated the purity of what an honest fellow this was: supremely intelligent yet carrying himself with the quiet, courteous restraint of one who knew the limitations of untrained people.
“Good,” said Morton.
He led the way to the outer door. He actually stepped outside before turning once more to look at Luftelet, who had paused beside the guard station inside. At this final moment, it seemed to the superior officer that he must do his level best to think of questions that would alert the other man to the necessity for good communication.
“In the event,” Morton said, “that I trigger this whole machine into action, will it all work?”
“It’s ready for operation, sir,” was the reply.
“It will,” asked Morton, “actually work as a unit and do what it is constructed to do? In other words, according to your figure of 138,000, this building can keep itself in repair for about nine minutes when it is fighting?”
“That is correct, sir,” said Major Luftelet.
Something in the man’s manner continued to bother Morton. “Tell me again what it does when it’s at peak operation,” he said.
Luftelet told him patiently. It was exactly as Morton had previously understood. And yet—again the tone of the telling, the attitude of it, disturbed him. He made a final effort.
“Major,” he said frankly, “it is very likely that at a key moment I shall, in fact, instruct this marvelous machine into its fighting posture. If at that time it does not operate correctly, we may lose this planet; and at very least you will be court-martialed if it does not do exactly as it is supposed to. Bearing that in mind, is there anything that you would like to add to your reassurance? This is probably the last time I’ll have a chance to discuss it with you.”
If the earnestness of his voice impressed the heavy-set man, it did not show. Luftelet said with dignity, “If I am ever court-martialed, sir, and I have the opportunity to call on my peers to verify the technical expertness of my check out, I shall be completely exonerated. Is that what you want to know?”
It was—in a way. Morton turned, intending to walk to his car. Then once more, stopped. Poised there, conscious of the scores of things he must still do today, he nevertheless took time to consider what he had gained from this visit. Morton tried to tell himself that what the other man meant and what he desired to be were in fact the same thing.
Had he, through Luftelet, converted this building into a weapon that he could count on to help him in the coming storm?
Reluctantly he decided that he had not.
It was a down moment. What bothered him, he realized, was that he had apparently accomplished neither of his purposes in coming to the post. His second intent, to have it out with Marriott, was naturally nullified by Marriott’s total absence from the scene.
If only, he thought, I could control my interaction with the Morton duplicate in the field up there… As he had that thought, his awareness embraced the possibility that had occurred to him on his way back from Nucea. Be the duplicate. Sort of let yourself do an internal shift. Like a visual illusion. It even seemed to him that he could test the concept by attempting to locate Lieutenant Bray. And then, and only then, after he felt secure in the process, go after Marriott.
