James P. Hogan (15 page)

“And that’s it?”

“It’s enough, Korshak.
Envoy
is due to go in a month. Its tasks when it arrives at Hera will depend almost totally on autonomous robots. If word got around that Tek has gone astray, it could raise questions about the reliability of robots generally and result in the whole program being set back. It would be just the kind of ammunition that the opposition needs.” In the unique circumstances of Constellation’s existence, physical materials took on inestimable value. Agitators and activist groups were objecting that to send a portion of the newly acquired stock away again in the form of
Envoy
represented a reckless waste of resources that would better serve future generations by being kept here, where they would one day be needed more.

Korshak hesitated, not wanting to contradict by stating the obvious. The line of models like Tek and Kog that Masumichi had produced for general cognitive and behavioral research were in a different class from the robots developed for
Envoy
, which were adaptive to a degree but designed essentially to carry out a limited range of specialized tasks. There was no reason why any decision concerning them should be influenced by an unanticipated quirk in Tek’s makeup.

Masumichi sensed Korshak’s reservation and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“All right, there’s more. I’d just rather not make this official. Some of the people I depend on for backing and cooperation can be a bit stuffy about Istella…. And, yes, I’ll be frank, it would be personally embarrassing. You know Tek, and you have a flare for getting to the bottom of the strange and perplexing. How would you like to take a crack at this?”

“Hm.” Korshak contemplated the remainder of his drink, swirling it one way, then the other. “Don’t they have a tracking device that would locate it?” he asked, looking up. “I’d have thought you’d make them with something like that.”

“It never seemed necessary,” Masumichi replied. “It’s not as if they have somewhere the size of Earth to get lost in – and in any case, I never anticipated a situation like this. They do have two-way communication, which I thought would be sufficient if I ever needed to know where one was. But that isn’t a lot of good if it’s switched off.”

“How long ago did this happen?” Korshak asked.

“Nearly two weeks. I’ve been making discreet inquiries, but without result.”

Korshak shook his head wonderingly. “It’s hard to believe. As you said, it isn’t as if there was somewhere the size of Earth for it to get lost in. Yet nobody’s seen a hint of it?”

“It just seems to have evaporated.” Masumichi picked up his own glass at last and emptied it in a gulp. “You’re pretty good at making things vanish and bringing them back again, Korshak. I’m hoping you can make it work here, too.”

Istella was also popularly known as the Christmas Tree, something mentioned widely in surviving old-world writings, although nobody was quite sure what kind of tree it had referred to. For reasons that were obscure, the term had also meant a collection of multicolored lights, and it was in this sense that it was applied to Istella.

From
Aurora
it looked like a cluster of gemstones glittering in the blackness of space. A night sky lent atmosphere to the miniworld’s style of attractions, and the consequent extensive use of window roofing in its construction gave effect to its lavish internal illuminations. Constellation – the configuration of
Aurora
and its daughter worlds – did not maintain a constant orientation with respect to the fixed distant stars, but rotated slowly about the common center of gravity, causing the background to turn. Once every twenty-two minutes, the lights of Istella passed in front of a particularly brilliant nebula, giving the appearance of jewels set in a crown.

Closer up, Istella resolved into a squat dumbbell composed of two wheels connected by a short, thick cylinder. The cylinder housed such support functions as power generation and environmental control, as well as carrying the docking ports for the ferries. The nightlife that Istella had been built to provide took place in the wheels, which were named Haydon and Bruso, after the project’s two leading instigators and architects from years back. Haydon’s plazas and arcades were dominated by a central domed structure containing a number of restaurants and bars, a casino, and a theater. The dome was floodlit in rich blue and known as the Blue Palace. This was the end of Istella that featured shows and clubs catering to most people’s ideas of a night out that was “exciting,” “different,” and even acceptably “daring” – but observing unspoken, yet generally recognized limits. The raunchier stuff was to be found in Bruso.

That was the direction in which Korshak and Ronti headed after disembarking from the
Aurora
ferry and clearing the docking bay. The name blazed as a hologram, repeating and moving above one of the two illuminated archways on opposite sides of the reception concourse. The promenade beyond led to Bruso’s central “Square” and was lined on both sides by bars, a variety of eateries and shops, and animated signs advertising everything from current shows and attractions to specialty clubs and sex partners given to various penchants.

Plenty of people were about, the regular numbers of browsers and sidewalk-table patrons swollen by the new arrivals from the ferry and others on their way to catch it before it departed. There were colorfully dressed groups, here to party and have fun; guys checking the scene; girls doing their best to get checked; and the inevitable sprinkling of loners keeping to the background behind the anonymity of pulled-down hats, enveloping clothes, and a proliferation of beards that challenged the statistical norm of the population.

“I guess the Happy Feet must have walked,” Ronti commented as they strolled through the throng, looking around and taking in the sights. That had been the name of a dance studio that doubled as a popular party venue. In its place had appeared an establishment billing itself as the “Oyster Bar,” its interior dark, with blue lighting and aquarium tanks in the walls. Marine-related names and decorative themes were widespread, reflecting a commonly felt nostalgia for the oceans of Earth. Nobody aged twelve or under had ever seen one.

“That’s probably a better place for a bar anyway,” Korshak said. “Good spot for meeting people when they come off the ferries. And maybe a last drink on the way home if they’ve got time to kill.”

“So at least we don’t have to wonder if Tek decided to take up dancing,” Ronti joked.

“Oh, I don’t know. If I ran the Feet, I’d have moved it closer to the Square.”

“We’ll see.”

Of all the unlikely situations that Korshak had found himself in through his varied and colorful life, looking for a lost robot was perhaps the strangest. Agreeing to take on the task had been more than simply helping a friend in need, or choosing the easier between accepting and refusing. True, he was compulsively curious by nature, and attraction to anything out of the ordinary had been ingrained into him long enough to qualify as an instinct. But beyond that, he and Masumichi had developed a strong professional working relationship, in which each was able to benefit from the specialized knowledge and experience of the other.

It had to do with communication. In many ways, the art of the illusionist depended on subtly communicating the suggestion of something being seen that in fact was not seen, which equated to defining the conceptual framework within which a spectacle would be judged. Or, put another way, setting the assumptions by which a communicated message would be interpreted. And assumptions were all-important in communicating. Because of the world knowledge that all humans shared, humans communicating with each other tended to supply only the information that they didn’t assume the other already had. And the amount they assumed was enormous. In one of their discussions on the subject, Masumichi had illustrated the point with the simple dialog:

“I’m leaving you.”

“Who is she?”

Just six words in total, but capturing a panorama of emotions, tragedy, conflict, and drama that any human would understand immediately. An artificial mind, however, not grounded in the same reality by experience, would have either to be given explicitly every fact about human existence that was necessary to comprehend the exchange in all its depth and shades of meaning, or alternatively, some set of rules for inferring them from more general principles. Masumichi had finally conceded that the first was not practical; whatever approach was tried, the amount of data that needed to be supplied exploded exponentially with increasing complexity of the situation being addressed. The only other way, then, was to build into the software a process for integrating new items of knowledge into a network of associations that would grow and modify itself as experience directed – in a way, attempting to mimic the uncanny, universal learning ability that every human baby was born with. Masumichi’s earlier attempts had run into difficulties because of his failure to appreciate the extent to which associations are formed unconsciously through suggestion, and it was in this area that Korshak’s insights had proved invaluable.

On the other hand, Masumichi’s analytical methods were frequently able to provide Korshak with a more precise understanding of what was happening to produce effects which he knew from long practice worked, but until now had never tried to discover exactly why. Indeed, without the introduction to the ways of Sofian science that Masumichi more than anyone had given him, Korshak wouldn’t have known where to begin looking to discover such things, even if he had wanted to.

They emerged into the bustle and life of the Square, with its lights and color and music on every side. Terrace bars and restaurants overlooked the scene against a background of show houses and storefronts, while above, the grandeur of space and stars unfolded beyond the enclosing sky window. Korshak nudged Ronti and indicated a direction with a nod of his head. The Happy Feet was alive and well, secure in a new location next to an establishment illuminated in red and purple but not deigning to announce itself with a sign.

The Rainbow bar was in a secluded niche on one of the upper terraces. Inside, small, shadowy booths lined the walls on either side of the door, with a brighter, more open area of tables and chairs taking up the center. The place was moderately busy. Korshak and Ronti barely had time to take two of the bar stools before a voice bellowed, “Well, I’ll be! Korshak and his fellow rogue!” A figure who was presumably the proprietor came out from behind a partition dividing off a space at the rear. He was short, balding, and sported an immense mustache covering his lower face in a pair of curving waves. His eyes were brown and beady, and just at this moment glinting with genuine pleasure at seeing them.

“Osgar!” Korshak exclaimed.

“What happened?” Ronti asked him. “Did you get tired of cleaning pipes and raking weeds?” The last they’d known, Osgar had been a maintenance worker on Plantation, the low-tech agricultural and wildlife world.

Osgar shrugged. “You know how it is. Everyone needs a change sometime. I figured it was time to get out of the coveralls and the boots. Anyway, they’ve got enough younger people coming along now to do that kind of stuff.”

“So, how long has it been?” Korshak asked.

“Aw, three months, I’d say. Maybe a little more.”

“Different, anyhow,” Ronti commented.

“That’s true enough. You meet all the characters here. And there are a few stories I could tell you if you’re ever stuck for ways to spend your time.” Osgar leaned forward, and his voice fell. “There are some names here in Bruso right now who wouldn’t like it to be general knowledge. You wouldn’t believe how fast news travels in the trade.” He straightened up, spreading his arms along the edge of the bar. “Anyway, what can I getcha?”

Korshak ran a curious eye over the display of offerings. “How about a bartender’s recommendation?”

“Ever tried Envoy?”

“What’s that?”

“A new beer that they brew out on Plantation. That’s what they’re calling it – to celebrate the star probe. It’s supposed to be the way it was done back on Earth, without the synthetics. Getting good ratings. Dark and not too sweet, with a touch of tangy.”

“Sure, I’ll try it,” Korshak said.

Ronti nodded. “Make it two.”

Osgar took down two glasses and placed one under a bar tap. “So, what brings you guys here? Somehow I can’t see it as recreation or to find out things you don’t already know about.”

“Business… kind of, I suppose you’d call it,” Korshak replied.

“Uh-huh.”

“To do with the scientist that I work with, who lives in Jakka.”

Osgar nodded. “The guy who works with robots?”

“Right. Well, the fact of the matter is, one of them has gone missing.”

“A robot,” Osgar said, pushing one glass across the bar. Korshak waved for Ronti to take it as Osgar moved the other one under the tap. Somehow, he didn’t seem especially surprised.

“Yes,” Korshak said.

“And you think it might have been here.”

“Now, how would you know that?” Ronti asked. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing I’d expect people to be telling you every day.”

“True,” Osgar agreed. “But you’re not the first. There was a guy in about a week or two ago saying the same thing. He even showed me a picture of it – as if I needed one. He said it was supposed to meet somebody here, but it never showed up.” Osgar shrugged as he handed the second glass to Korshak. “That’s about all I can tell you.”

“And it didn’t appear later?” Ronti checked.

“Not earlier, or later, or while whoever the somebody it was supposed to meet was here – assuming he was here. We haven’t had any robots.” Osgar inclined his head to indicate Korshak’s glass as Korshak tried a taste. “What do you think?”

“Not bad. So who was this other person who was in here, wanting to know?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

“Okay, what did he look like?”

“Like he didn’t want anybody to know. Short – about like me, but skinnier. Big black coat, black hat, dark glasses, with a little beard. The beard wasn’t real; when you work on Istella, you get to tell. But his face had that kind of yellow-brown color with high cheeks, the way people from Parthesa used to be. You’ve got a touch of it, Ronti. And he had small hands.”