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Authors: Vernor Vinge
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BOOK: The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge
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He could see the trees on the shore quite clearly now, and the weeds at his feet seemed backed by solid ground. Just a few more yards—Norman gasped with relief as he struggled out of the water. He noticed an itching on his legs and arms. There had been blood-drinkers in the water after all, but fortunately small ones. He paused to remove the slugs from his body.
Norman sneezed violently and inspected his blanket. Although the mists had made it quite damp, he wrapped it around himself. Only after he was more or less settled did he notice the intermittent thrumming sound coming through the trees on his left. It sounded like the transport vehicles back in the tunnels, or like the automobiles that he had heard and seen on film.
Norman scrambled through the underbrush in the direction of the noises. Soon he came to a dilapidated four-lane asphalt highway. Every minute or so, a car would appear out of the mist, travel through his narrow range of vision, and disappear into the mist again.
MOST SECRET (Unauthorized use of MOST SECRET materials is punishable by death.)
He had to get to Canada or they would kill him for sure. He knew millions,
billions
of things labeled MOST SECRET. Nearly all were unintelligible. The rest were usually boring. A very small percentage were interesting, like something out of an adventure story. And some were horrifying bits of nightmare couched in cold, matter-of-fact words. But all were labeled MOST SECRET, and his access to them was certainly unauthorized. If only he had known beforehand the consequences of Memorizing It All. It had been so easy to do, and so useful, but it was also a deadly, clinging gift.
He had to get to Canada or they would kill him for sure. He knew millions,
billions
of things labeled MOST SECRET. Nearly all were unintelligible. The rest were usually boring. A very small percentage were interesting, like something out of an adventure story. And some were horrifying bits of nightmare couched in cold, matter-of-fact words. But all were labeled MOST SECRET, and his access to them was certainly unauthorized. If only he had known beforehand the consequences of Memorizing It All. It had been so easy to do, and so useful, but it was also a deadly, clinging gift.
Now that the airplane had crashed, he had to find some other way to get to Canada. Maybe one of these cars could take him some place where he would have better luck in his attempt. For some reason, the idea didn’t trigger warning memories. Blissfully unaware that a talking
chimpanzee is not a common sight in the United States, Norman started down the embankment to the shoulder of the highway, and in the immortal tradition of the hitchhiker in
Two for the Road
, stuck out his thumb.
chimpanzee is not a common sight in the United States, Norman started down the embankment to the shoulder of the highway, and in the immortal tradition of the hitchhiker in
Two for the Road
, stuck out his thumb.
THREE MINUTES PASSED; HE CLUTCHED THE BLANKET MORE TIGHTLY TO HIMSELF as his teeth began to chatter. In the distance he heard the thrum of an approaching vehicle. He stared eagerly in the direction of the sound. Within fifteen seconds, a sixty-ton ore carrier emerged from the fog and lumbered toward him. Norman jumped up and down in a frenzy, waving and shouting. The blanket gave him the appearance of a little Amerind doing a particularly violent rain dance. The huge truck rolled by him at about thirty-five miles per hour. Then when it was some forty yards away, the driver slammed on the brakes and the doughy rollagon tires bit into asphalt.
Norman ran joyfully toward the cab, not noticing the uncared-for condition of the starboard ore cranes, the unpainted and dented appearance of the cab, or the wheezy putputting of the Wankel rotary engine—all signs of dilapidation which would have been unthinkable four years before.
He stopped in front of the cab door and was confronted by a pair of cynical, bloodshot eyes peering at him over a three-day growth of beard. “Who … Whash are you?” (The condition of the driver would have been unthinkable four years ago, too.)
“My name’s Norman—Jones.” Norman slyly selected an alias. He resolved to act dull, too, for he knew that most chimps were somewhat stupid, and couldn’t speak clearly without the special operations he had had. (In spite of his memory and intelligence, Norman had an artificial block against ever completely realizing his uniqueness.) “I want to go to”—he searched his memory—“Marquette.”
The driver squinted and moved his head from side to side as if to get a better view of Norman. “Say, you’re a monkey.”
“No,” Norman stated proudly, forgetting his resolution, “I’m a chimpanzee.”
“A talkin’ monkey,” the driver said almost to himself. “You could be worth plen … wherezhu say you wanna go … Marquette? Sure, hop in. That’s where I’m takin’ this ore.”
Norman clambered up the entrance ladder into the warm cab. “Oh, thanks a lot.”
The ore carrier began to pick up speed. The highway had been blasted through greenish bedrock, but it still made turns and had to climb over steep hills.
The driver was expansive, “Can’t wait to finish this trip. This here is
my las’ run, ya know. No more drivin’ ore fer the government an’ its ‘Public Works Projects.’ I know where to get a couple black market fusion packs, see? Start my own trucking line. No one’ll ever guess where I get my power.” He swerved to avoid a natural abutment of greenish rock that appeared out of the mist, and decided that it was time to turn on his fog lights. His mind wandered back to prospects of future success, but along a different line. “Say, you like to talk, Monkey? You could make me a lot of money, ya know: ‘Jim Traly an’ His Talkin’ Monkey.’ Sounds good, eh?”
my las’ run, ya know. No more drivin’ ore fer the government an’ its ‘Public Works Projects.’ I know where to get a couple black market fusion packs, see? Start my own trucking line. No one’ll ever guess where I get my power.” He swerved to avoid a natural abutment of greenish rock that appeared out of the mist, and decided that it was time to turn on his fog lights. His mind wandered back to prospects of future success, but along a different line. “Say, you like to talk, Monkey? You could make me a lot of money, ya know: ‘Jim Traly an’ His Talkin’ Monkey.’ Sounds good, eh?”
With a start, Norman realized that he was listening to a drunk. The driver’s entire demeanor was almost identical to that of the fiend’s henchman in “The Mores of the Morgue.” Norman had no desire to be a “talkin’ monkey” for the likes of Traly, whose picture he now remembered in Social Security Records. The man was listed as an unstable, low competence type who might become violent if frustrated.
As the ore carrier slowed for a particularly sharp turn, Norman decided that he could endure the cold of the outside for a few more minutes. He edged to the door and began to pull at its handle. “I think I better get off now, Mr. Traly.”
The ore carrier slowed still more as the driver lunged across the seat and grabbed Norman by one of the purple suspenders that kept his orange Bermuda shorts up. A full grown chimpanzee is a match for most men, but the driver weighed nearly three hundred pounds and Norman was scared stiff. “You’re staying right here, see?” Traly shouted into Norman’s face, almost suffocating the chimpanzee in alcohol vapor. The driver transferred his grip to the scruff of Norman’s neck as he accelerated the carrier back to cruising speed.
“CRASHED IN A SHALLOW SWAMP JUST BEYOND THE SECURITY FENCE, SIR.” The young Army captain held a book up to the viewer. “This copy of Asimov was all that was left in the cabin, but we dredged up some other books and a typewriter from the water. It’s only about five feet deep there.”
“But where did the chim … the pilot go?” Pederson asked.
“The pilot, sir?” The captain knew what the quarry was but was following the general’s line. “We have a man here from Special Forces who’s a tracker, sir. He says that the pilot left the Cub and waded ashore. From there, he tracked him through the brush to the old Ishpeming-Marquette road. He’s pretty sure that the … um … pilot hitched a ride in the direction of Marquette.” The captain did not mention how surprised the lieutenant from Special Forces had been by the pilot’s tracks. “He probably left the area about half an hour ago, sir.”
“Very well, Captain. Set up a guard around the plane; if anyone gets
nosy, tell them that ORES has asked you to salvage their crashed Cub. Fly everything you found in the cabin and swamp back to Sawyer and have it sent down here to Files Central.”
nosy, tell them that ORES has asked you to salvage their crashed Cub. Fly everything you found in the cabin and swamp back to Sawyer and have it sent down here to Files Central.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pederson cut the connection and began issuing detailed instructions to his chief aide over another circuit. Finally he turned back to Dunbar. “That chimp is not going to remain one step ahead of us for very much longer. I’ve alerted all the armed forces in the Upper Peninsula to start a search, with special concentration on Marquette. It’s lucky that we have permission to conduct limited maneuvers there or I might have an awful time just getting permission to station airbornes over the city.
“And now we can take a little time to consider ways of catching this Norman Simmons, rather than responding spastically to
his
initiative.”
his
initiative.”
Dunbar said quickly, “In the first place, you can cut whatever connection there is between Files and Norman’s computer.”
Pederson grinned. “Good enough. That was mixed in with the rest of the instructions I’ve given Smith. If I remember right, the two computers were connected by a simple copper cable, part of the general cable net that was installed interweaving with the tunnel system. It should be a simple matter to cut the circuit where the cable enters the Files room.”
The general thought for a moment. “The object now is to catch the chimp, discover the location of the chimp’s computer, or both. Down here we can’t do anything directly about the chimp. But the computer has to be in contact with Norman Simmons. Could we trace these emanations?”
Dunbar blinked. “You know that better than I, General. The Signal Corps used our experiment to try a
quote
entirely new concept in communications
unquote
. They supplied all the comm equipment, even the surgical imbeds for Norman. And they are playing it pretty cozy with the technique. Whatever it is, it goes through almost anything, does not travel faster than light, and can handle several billion bits per second. It might even be ESP, if what I’ve read about telepathy is true.”
quote
entirely new concept in communications
unquote
. They supplied all the comm equipment, even the surgical imbeds for Norman. And they are playing it pretty cozy with the technique. Whatever it is, it goes through almost anything, does not travel faster than light, and can handle several billion bits per second. It might even be ESP, if what I’ve read about telepathy is true.”
Pederson looked sheepish. “I do recognize the ‘new concept’ you mention. I just never connected the neutri … this technique with your project. But I should have known; we have only one way to broadcast through solid rock as if it were vacuum. Unfortunately, with the devices we have now, there’s no way of getting a directional bearing on such transmissions. With enough time and as a last resort we might be able to jam them, though.”
Now it was Dunbar’s turn to make a foolish suggestion. “Maybe if a thorough search of the tunnels were made, we could find the—”
Pederson grimaced. “Bill, you’ve been here almost three years. Haven’t you realized how complicated the Labyrinth is? The maze is composed of thousands of tunnel segments spread through several cubic miles of bedrock. It’s simply too complex for a blind search—and there’s only one set of blueprints,” he jerked a thumb at the racks of fiberglass. “Even for routine trips, we have to make out tapes to plug into the transport cars down there. If we hadn’t put his quarters close to ground level, so you could take him for walks on the surface, Norman would still be wandering around the Labyrinth, even though he knows what passages to take.
“About twice a day I ride over to Continental Air Defense Headquarters. It takes about half an hour and the trip is more tortuous then a swoopride at a carnival. CAD HQ could be just a hundred yards from where we’re sitting, or it could be two miles—in any direction. For that matter, I don’t really know where
we
are right now. But then,” he added with a sly smile, “neither do the Russki or Han missilemen. I’m sorry, Doctor, but it would take years of random searching to find the computer.”
we
are right now. But then,” he added with a sly smile, “neither do the Russki or Han missilemen. I’m sorry, Doctor, but it would take years of random searching to find the computer.”
And Dunbar realized that he was right. It was general policy in the First Security District to disperse experiments and other installations as far as possible through the tunnel maze. So it had been with Norman’s computer. With its own power source the computer needed no outside assistance to function.
The scientist remembered its strange appearance, resting like a huge jewel in a vacant tunnel—where? It was a far different sight from the appearance of Files. Norman’s computer had the facets of a cut gem, although this had been a functional rather than an aesthetic necessity. Dunbar remembered the multi-color glows that appeared near its surface; further in, the infinite reflections and subtle refractions of microcomponent flaws in the glass blended into a mysterious flickering, hinting at the cheerful though immature intelligence that was Norman Simmons. This was the object which had to be found.
DUNBAR BROKE OUT OF HIS REVERIE. HE STARTED ON A DIFFERENT TACK. “Really, General, I don’t quite see how this situation can be quite as desperate as you say. Norman isn’t going to sell secrets to the Reds; he’s as loyal as a human child could be—which is a good deal more than most adults, because he can’t rationalize disloyalty so easily. Besides, you know that we were eventually going to provide him with large masses of data, anyway. The goal of this whole project is to test the possibility of giving humans an encyclopedic mental grasp. He just saw how much the information could help him, and how much easier it
could be obtained than by study, and he pushed the experiment into its next phase. He shouldn’t be punished or hurt because of that. This situation is really no one’s fault.”
could be obtained than by study, and he pushed the experiment into its next phase. He shouldn’t be punished or hurt because of that. This situation is really no one’s fault.”
Pederson snapped back, “Of course, it’s no one’s fault; that’s just the hell of it. When no one is to blame for something, it means that the situation is fundamentally beyond human control. To me, your whole project is taking control away from people and giving it to
others
. Here an experimental animal, a chimpanzee, has taken the initiative away from the U.S. Government—don’t laugh, or so help me—” The general made a warning gesture. “Your chimp is more than a co-ordinator of information; he’s also
smarter
than he was before.
What’re the humans we try this on going to be like?”
others
. Here an experimental animal, a chimpanzee, has taken the initiative away from the U.S. Government—don’t laugh, or so help me—” The general made a warning gesture. “Your chimp is more than a co-ordinator of information; he’s also
smarter
than he was before.
What’re the humans we try this on going to be like?”
Pederson calmed himself with a deliberate effort. “Never mind that now. The important thing is to find Simmons, since he appears to be the only one who,” Pederson groaned, “knows where his brains are. So let’s get practical. Just what can we expect from him? How easy is it for him to correlate information in his memory?”
Dunbar considered. “I guess the closest analogy between his mind and a normal one is to say that he has an eidetic memory—and a
very
large one. I imagine that when he first began using the information he was just swamped with data. Everything he saw stimulated a deluge of related memories. As his subconscious became practiced, he probably remembered only information that was pertinent to a problem. Say that he saw a car, and wondered what year and make it was. His subconscious would hunt through his copy of Files—at very high speed—and within a tenth of a second Norman would ‘remember’ the information he had just wondered about.
very
large one. I imagine that when he first began using the information he was just swamped with data. Everything he saw stimulated a deluge of related memories. As his subconscious became practiced, he probably remembered only information that was pertinent to a problem. Say that he saw a car, and wondered what year and make it was. His subconscious would hunt through his copy of Files—at very high speed—and within a tenth of a second Norman would ‘remember’ the information he had just wondered about.
BOOK: The Collected Stories of Vernor Vinge
4.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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