Harry Harrison - The Turing Option

“I don’t understand. You’ve checked my passport—”

“I have indeed, most intriguing as well as puzzling it is. The date of issue is perfectly correct and all the visas appear to be in order. But I find one thing difficult to understand — which is why I am asking you to proceed with this garda to the office. You see this style passport has been replaced by the new Europas. This particular style passport hasn’t been issued for over ten years. Now don’t you find that interesting?”

“You better wait here for me,” Brian said weakly to Shelly as the big man in blue uniform led him away.

The interrogation room was windowless and damp. There was nothing on the drab walls except some water stains; a table and two chairs stood in the center of the worn wooden floor. Brian sat on one of them. His carry-on bag was on top of the box in the corner. A large policeman stood next to the door staring patiently into space.

Brian was depressed, chilled, and probably catching a cold. He rubbed his itching nose, pulled out his handkerchief and sneezed loudly into it.

“God bless,” the garda said, glancing at him then back to the wall again. The door opened and another big man came in. No uniform, but the dark suit and heavy boots were uniform enough. He sat down on the outer side of the table and put Brian’s passport down before him.

“I am Lieutenant Fennelly. Now, is this your passport, Mr. Byrne?”

“Yes, it is.”

“There are certain irregularities about it. Are you aware of that?”

Brian had had more than enough time to think about what he was going to say. Had decided on the truth, everything except the fact that he had been imprisoned by the military. He would keep to a highly simplified version of what had actually happened.

“Yes. The passport was out of date. I had some important business appointments, couldn’t wait to get a new one. So I made a few slight changes myself to bring it up to date.”

“Slight changes! Mr. Byrne, this passport has been so excellently altered that I sincerely doubt that it would have been detected had it not been the old model. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m an electronic engineer.”

“Well you could make a grand living as a forger should you wish to continue your criminal career.”

“I’m no criminal!”

“Aren’t you now? Did you not just admit to forgery?”

“I did not. A passport is only a piece of identification, nothing more. I have just brought my passport up to date — which is the same thing that the passport office would have done had I the time to apply for a new one.”

“That’s a pretty Jesuitical argument for a criminal to use.”

Brian was angry, even though he realized the detective had angered him on purpose. A sneeze saved him; by the time he had dug out his handkerchief and wiped his nose he had the anger under control. Attack was the best defense. He hoped.

“Are you charging me with some kind of crime, Lieutenant Fennelly?”

“I will make my report. I would like some details first.” He opened a large notebook on the table, took out a pen. “Place and date of birth.”

“Is all that needed? I have been living in the United States, but I was born in Tara, County Wicklow. My mother died when I was young. She was not married. I was adopted by my father, Patrick Delaney who took me to live in the States where he was then working. It’s all in the record. You can have names, dates, places if you must. It will all check out.”

The Lieutenant did want the facts, all of them, and slowly and carefully transcribed them in his book. Brian held nothing back, just terminated the record before he began to work at Megalobe, before the theft and the killings that happened.

“Would you open your luggage now?”

Brian had been waiting for this, had planned ahead. He knew that Sven was listening to everything that was being said, hoped that the MI would understand as well.

“The small bag, here, contains personal items. The large box is a sample.”

“A sample of what?”

“A robot. This is a machine I have developed that I plan to show to some private investors.”

“Their names?”

“I cannot reveal that. A confidential business matter.”

Fennelly made another note while Brian unlocked the box and opened the lid. “This is a basic model of an industrial robot. It can answer simple questions and take verbal input. That is how it is controlled.”

Even the garda by the door was interested in this, turning his head to look. The detective gazed down at the unassembled parts with a baffled expression.

“Shall I turn it on?” Brian asked. “It can talk — but not very well.” Sven would love that. He reached down and pressed one of the latches. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes — I can — hear — you.”

A great job of ham acting, scratchy and monotone like a cheap toy. At least it caught the attention of the lawmen.

“What are you?”

“I am — an industrial — robot. I follow — instructions.”

“If that is enough, Lieutenant, I will turn it off.”

“Just a moment, if you please. What is that?” He pointed to the hollow plastic head.

“To make the demonstration more interesting I occasionally mount that on the robot. It draws attention. If you don’t mind I’ll turn if off, the battery you know.” He pressed the latch again and closed the lid.

“What is this machine worth?” Fennelly asked.

Worth? The molecular memory alone had cost millions to build. “I would say about two thousand dollars,” Brian said innocently.

“Do you have an import license?”

“I am not importing it. It is a sample and not for sale.”

“You will have to talk to the customs officer about that.” He closed the book and stood up. “I am making a report on this matter. You will remain within the airport premises if you don’t mind.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“At the present moment, no.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“That decision is up to you.”

Shelly was sitting over a cold cup of tea, jumped to her feet when he came up.

“What happened? I was so worried—”

“Don’t be. It is all going to work out all right. Have another cup of tea while I make a phone call.”

The classified directory had a half page of solicitors in Limerick. The cashier sold him a phone card — this must be the only country in the world that still uses them. With his third call Brian talked to a Fergus Duffy, who would be happy to drive out to the airport at once and take on his case. But it was an Irish at-once, so it was afternoon, and a number of cups of tea and some very dry cheese sandwiches later, before his new solicitor managed to make any alteration in his status. Fergus Duffy was a cheerful young man with red tufts of hair protruding from his ears and nose, which he tugged on from time to time when excited.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” he said, sitting down and taking a file from his briefcase. “I must say that this is an unusual and interesting affair and no one seems to be able to work out that no crime has been committed, you have merely altered your own expired passport, which certainly can’t be considered a crime. In the end the powers that be have come to a decision to pass the problem on to a higher authority. You are free to go but you must give your address so you can be contacted. If needs be.”

“What about my baggage?”

“You can pick it up now. Your machine will be released as soon as you have a customs broker complete the forms and have paid duty and VAT and such. No problem there.”

“Then I am free to go?”

“Yes — but not far. I would suggest the airport hotel for the time being. I’ll push these papers through as fast as I can, but you must realize that fast in Ireland is a relative term. You know, like the story about the Irish linguist. You’ve heard it?”