Algis Budrys: Michaelmas

“Norwood and Limberg never met. There is no record of any transmission of Norwood cell samples to any depository. No present system will permit complete biological and experimental reconstruction from data alone.”

“And there you are,” Michaelmas said. “Simplest thing in the world.” He worked a dab of sauce between thumb and forefinger and then tasted them with satisfaction. He set the pan down on the shut-off burner, put a lid on it, and turned towards the table where the little machine lay with its pilot lamps mostly quiescent but sparkling with reflected room light.

“You don’t fake an astronaut,” he said to it. “Even in this culture they’re unique for the degree to which their response characteristics are known and studied. Limberg wouldn’t try to get away with it. He’s brought the real Colonel Norwood back to life. But he hasn’t done it using any of the techniques and discoveries he’s announced over the years. Limberg’s career, his public image, everything — it’s all reduced simply to something useful as a cover for the type of action he’s taken now. It really is all very clear, Domino, if you disregard that balderdash about Norwood’s surviving the explosion. Think about it, now.”

He was patient and encouraging. In the same way, he had often led the tongue-tied and confused through hundreds of vivacious interviews, making and wrecking policies and careers before huge audiences.

The reply through the machine was equally patient but without forbearance:

“Doctor Limberg is a first-rate genius —”

Michaelmas smiled shyly and mercilessly but did not interrupt.

“ — who could not possibly be living a double life. Even given a rate of progress so phenomenal that he could develop his overt reputation and still secretly pursue some entirely different line, there are insurmountable practical objections.”

“Oh, yeah? Name some.” The sauce hissed ebulliently as it made contact with the beef skillet. A few dextrous turns of Michaelmas’s fork enveloped the fillet in just properly glutinous flavouring, and then he was able to place his dinner on its warmed, waiting dish and bring it to the place he had laid in the dining aspect. He poured a glassful of wine that had been breathing in its wicker server, and sat down to partake of his meal.

“One,” Domino said. “He is a gruff saint, in the manner developed by many world intellectual figures since the communications revolution. The more fiercely he objects to intrusions on his elevated processes of thought and his working methods, the more persistently the news media attempt to discover what he’s doing now. One of the standard methods of information tap is to keep careful account of everything shipped to him. You’ll recall this is how Science News Service deduced his interest in plasmids from his purchase of olephages. As a direct result, several wise investors in the appropriate manufacturing concerns were rewarded when Limberg made the announcements leading to his earlier prize. Since then, naturally, there are scores of inferential inventories being run on his purchases and wastage. His overt researches account for all of it.”

“One of the inventories being yours.” Michaelmas chuckled over his fork. “Go on.”

“Two. All analyses of the genius personality, however it may be masked, show that this sort of individual cannot be other-directed over any significant period of time. You’re hypothesizing that this excellent mind has been participating for years in a gross deception upon the world. This cannot be true. If that had been his original purpose, he would have grown away from it and rebelled catastrophically as his cover career began to assume genuine importance and direction. You can’t oppose a dynamic —and I shouldn’t be quoting your own basics back to you,” Domino chided, and then went on remorselessly:

“And exactly so, if he’d been approached recently for the same purpose, he would have refused. He would have died —more meaningfully, he would have undergone any form of emotional or physical pain—rather than submit. The genius mind is inevitably and fluently egocentric. Any attempt to tamper with its plans for itself—well, putting it more conventionally, any attempt to tamper with its compulsive career—would be equivalent to a threat of extinction. That would be unacceptable.”

Michaelmas was smiling in approval through the marching words, and pouring himself another glass of wine. “Quite right. Now let’s just assume that Herr Doktor Professor N. Hannes Limberg, life scientist, is a merely smart man, with a good library and access to a service that can supply a technique for making people.”

There was a perceptible pause. With benevolent interest, Michaelmas watched the not quite random pattern of rippling lights on the ostensible machine’s surface. Behind him, the apartment services were washing and storing his kitchen-ware. There was the usual music, faint in view of the entertainment centre’s awareness, through Domino, that there was a discussion going on. It had all the ingredients of a most pleasant evening, early poetry forgotten.

“Hmm,” Domino said. “Assuming you’re aware of the detail discontinuities in your exact statement and were simply leap-frogging them… Well, yes, a competent actor with the proper vocabulary and reference library could live an imitation of genius. And a man supplied with a fullblown technique and the necessary instruments needs no prototype research or component purchases.”

There was another pause, and Domino went on with obvious reluctance to voice the obvious.

“However, there has to be a pre-existing body of knowledge to supply the library, the equipment, and the undetected system for delivering these things. Practically, such an armamentarium could arise only from a fully developed society that has been in existence at least since Limberg’s undergraduate days. No such society exists on Earth. The entire Solar System is clearly devoid of other intelligent life. Therefore, no such society exists within the ken of the human race.”

“But perhaps not beyond the reach of its predictable intentions,” Michaelmas said. “Well, I assume you’ve been screening contract offers in connection with the Norwood item?”

“Yes. You’ve had a number of calls from various networks and syndicates. I’ve sold the byline prose rights. I’m holding three spoken-word offers for your decision. The remainder were outside your standards.”

“Sign me for the one that offers me the most latitude for the money. I don’t want someone thinking he’s brought the right to control my movements. And tap into the UNAC management dynamic—edit a couple of inter-office memos as they go by. Stir up some generalized concern over Papashvilly’s health and safety. Where is he, by the way?”

“Star Control. He’s asleep, or at least his phone hasn’t been in use lately and his room services are drawing minimum power but showing some human-equivalent consumption. UNAC’s apparently decided not to disturb him unless they have to.”

“Are you saying the electronic configuration of his room is exactly the same as on previous occasions when you’ve known him to be in it asleep?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. He’s in there, and he’s sleeping.”

“Thank you. I want us to always be exact with each other on points like that. Limberg’s masters have taken a magnificent stride, but I don’t see why my admiration has to blind me. I’m not Fate, after all.”

He went down through the building security systems and to the taxi dock. The dock was ribbed in pale brownish concrete, lit by blue overheads. Technically, the air was totally self-contained, screened, and filtered. But the quality was not to apartment standards; the dock represented a large, unbroken volume that had needed more ducts and fans than the construction budget could reasonably allow. There was a sense of echoing desolation, and of distant hot winds.