Harry Harrison - The Turing Option

“Couldn’t the criminals have gotten records of that flight erased? So there would be no traces at the time of the crime?”

“No way. All the radar signals are maintained for a year in FAA archives, as well as screen-dumps from each air traffic controller’s terminal. A good computer hacker can do many wonderful things, but the air traffic system is simply too complex and redundant. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of different kinds of records of every detected flight.”

Shelly did not look up, was hard at work, oblivious of them as they left.

“Shelly doesn’t know about the implant CPU,” Ben said. “Was that what you were talking about?”

“Yes. I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but Dr. Snaresbrook and I have had some success in my accessing the CPU by thought alone.”

“That is — what can I say — incredible!”

“That’s what we think. But it is early times yet. I have instructed it to do some math — that’s how it started, in a dream, would you believe it? And I read data from its memory files. It is all exciting and a little frightening. Takes some getting used to. I have a strange head and I’m not sure I like it.”

“But you’re alive and well, Brian,” Ben said grimly. “I saw what that bullet did to you…”

“Don’t tell me about it! Someday, maybe. In fact I would like to forget this for a while, get on with AI. And you and Shelly get on with your Dick Tracy program. I don’t like hiding — or the perpetual threat to my life. I’m beginning to feel like Salman Rushdie — and you remember what happened to him! I would like to, what can I say, rebuild my life. Be as normal as the rest of you. I’m beginning to feel like some kind of freak—”

“No, Brian — don’t ever think that. You are a tough kid that has been through too much. Everyone who has worked with you admires your guts. We’re on your side.”

There was little more that could be said. Ben mumbled an excuse and left. Brian punched up yesterday’s work where he had been transcribing his notes in more complete and readable form but it made no sense to him. He realized that he was both depressed and tired and could hear Dr. Snaresbrook’s voice giving the obvious order. Right, message received, lie down. He told Shelly that he would be back later and went to his rooms.

He must have fallen asleep because the technical journal was lying on his chest and the sun was just dropping behind the mountains to the west. The black depression still possessed him and he wondered if he should call the doctor and report it. But it just didn’t seem serious enough. Maybe it was the room that was getting him down — he was spending more time alone here than he had in the hospital. At least there someone was always popping in and out. Here he even had to eat his meals alone; the novelty of this had worn off quickly.

Shelly had finished for the day and she mumbled goodbye when she left, her thoughts involved in her work. He locked her out and went in the opposite direction. Maybe some fresh air would help. Or some food, since it was getting dark and he had forgotten to eat lunch again. He left the building and walked around the lake and toward the orderly room. He asked if the Major was in — and was taken at once to his office.

“Any complaints — or recommendations?” Woody asked as soon as they were alone.

“No complaints, and I think your troops are doing a tremendous job. They never seem to get in the way, but when I am out of the lab there always seem to be a few in sight.”

“There are a lot more than a few, I assure you! But I’ll tell them what you said. They are trying hard and doing damn well at this assignment.”

“Tell the cooks that I like the food too.”

“The chow hall will be delighted.”

“Chow hall?”

“That’s another name for the mess hall.”

“Mess?”

Woody smiled. “You’re a civilian at heart. We’ve got to teach you to talk like a dogface.”

“Bark you mean?” They both laughed. “Woody, even though I’m not in the Army — is there a chance that a civilian dogface could have a meal in your chow hall?”

“You’re more than welcome. Have all your meals there with the grunts if you like.”

“But I’m not in the Army.”

The Major’s perpetual twisted grin widened at the thought. “Mister, you are the Army. You are the only reason that we are here and not jumping out of planes every day. And I know that a lot of the troops would like to meet you and talk to you.” He glanced up at the time readout on the wall. “Do you drink beer?”

“Is there a Pope in Rome?”

“Come along, then. We’ll have a brew in the club until the chow hall opens at six.”

“There’s a club here? That’s the first I heard.”

Woody stood and led the way. “A military secret which, I would appreciate, you didn’t word about among the Megalobe civilian types. As far as I can find out the entire establishment is dry outside these walls. But this building right now is a military base for my paratroop unit. All army bases have an officer’s club, separate ones for the NCOs and E.M. as well—” He saw Brian’s eyes widen. “The military probably invented acronyms, they love them so much. Noncommissioned officers and enlisted men. This unit is too small for all that boozing discrimination — so we got this all-ranks club.”

He opened the door marked security area — military personnel only and led the way inside. It wasn’t a big room, but in the few weeks that the paratroopers had been here they had managed to add some personal touches. A dart board on one wall, some flags, guidons and photographs — a nude girl on a poster with impossibly large breasts — tables and chairs. And the bottle-filled, beer-pump-sporting bar at the far end.

“How about Tiger beer from Singapore?” Woody asked. “Just tapped a fresh keg.”

“Never heard of it, much less tasted it. Draw away!”

The beer was cold and delicious, the bar itself fascinating. “Some of the troops will be coming in soon, they’ll be happy to meet you,” Woody said, drawing two more glasses. “There is only one thing that I’ll ask of you — don’t talk about your work. None of them will speak to you about what goes on in the laboratory — that order is out — so please don’t volunteer. Hell, even I don’t know what you are doing in there — nor do I want to know. Top Secret, we’ve been told, and that’s all the orders we need. Other than that, shoot the breeze.”

“Shoot the breeze! My vocabulary grows apace!”

Soldiers, some of whom he recognized from their guard duties, came in one by one. They seemed please to meet him personally at last, to shake his hand. He was their age, in fact older than most, and he listened with pleasure to their coarse military camaraderie — heard heroic bragging about sexual prowess and learned some fascinating vulgarities that he had never dreamed existed. And all the time he was listening he never let on that he was only fourteen years old. He was growing up faster every moment!

They told stories and old, familiar jokes. He was included in the talk and was asked what part of the States he came from, phrased politely but with the implication that they were puzzled about his brogue. The soldiers of Irish descent were full of questions and they all listened eagerly when he told them about growing up in Ireland. Later they went into dinner together — getting him a line tray and supplying him with plenty of advice on what to eat and what to avoid.

All in all it was an enjoyable evening and he resolved to eat in the mess hall again, whenever he could. What with all the talk and friendliness, what the Irish called good crack — not to forget all the beers either, he had pulled completely out of the glooms. The grunts were a great bunch of government-issue dogfaces. He would still start the day alone with coffee and toast, since he hated to talk to anyone first thing in the morning. And he had got into the habit of making himself a sandwich to take to the lab for lunch.