Charles Sheffield - The Mind Pool

Brachis weighed his options, and decided that he didn’t have any. Even if six out of seven were false alarms, he could not risk missing that seventh one. As for shipping charges, he did not intend that anything he took from the storage tanks would ever leave Hyperion. If Godiva asked, she would be told that the search for Margrave Artefacts on Hyperion had drawn a blank.

“How soon after I place the order for volatiles do I get them?”

“Soon as you want. Let me watch when you file the order with the Harvester, and you can take them with you right away. All seven.” She smiled, a radiant, gap-toothed smile that sent a tremor through Luther’s hardened soul. “They’ll be all yours, Commander — to do just what you like with.”

The progress report was close to complete. Phoebe Willard reviewed what she had said so far about the work: M-26A had been given a description of Livia Morgan’s experiments and their disastrous outcome, as complete as the records would permit. To that had been added a summary of the history and attributes of the four Stellar Group species, plus full data on the actual Pursuit Teams.

Luther Brachis’s conjecture on information transfer had proved entirely correct. The crippled Construct brain within its bath of liquid nitrogen would now respond readily to questioning, even if Phoebe sometimes found the answers impossible to interpret. When M-26A entered what Phoebe thought of as its “oracular phase,” a perfectly straightforward question would receive a perfectly obscure answer.

What remained to be added to the data base was the state of knowledge of the escaped Morgan Construct. Ridley was all set to do that. Then Brachis would be able to offer his own questions to M-26A. She knew what he was seeking — a guaranteed approach to the safe destruction of the escaped Construct — but he wanted to ask that in his own way.

She hesitated before adding the final section of the report. It was not strictly speaking anything to do with the present effort; but she was so pleased with herself she could not resist a little crowing.

“The inclusion of Guard Captain Blaine Ridley on this project was initiated only to speed the transfer of information to M-26A. As agreed at the outset, such a transfer was always to be made with a human interface, since M-26A was to be given access to no computer resources. As a result, data input has been a very time-consuming and tedious task. There was a question as to whether Captain Ridley would be able to perform it. “Those fears were unfounded. Captain Ridley has proved ideal for this work. He possesses the patience to work for long hours, and the attention to detail to check and re-check every input.

“There has also been a quite unanticipated side benefit. Captain Ridley is far more alert and aware than he was before this task began. His willingness to reply to questions, or to speak when no question is asked of him, has dramatically improved.

“Since the project has had so definite a therapeutic effect, it points the direction for other efforts. I suggest that other guards at Sargasso Dump be given a chance for similar remedial programs.”

Phoebe Willard had been composing her report on a portable unit that would leave the nitrogen bubble with her. She glanced across at the main interface, where Blaine Ridley was quietly transferring biological statistics on the Tinkers to M-26A. He was smiling, a lopsided, blinking-eyed grin that was more off-putting than no expression at all. Phoebe wondered, for the thousandth time, what went on inside that once-handsome head. He was working well and he communicated better with her. But what did he think? She was no closer to understanding that than she was to understanding the strange mental processes of the fragmentary and twisted Construct brain, deep within its bath of liquid nitrogen.

She yawned. One thing was becoming more and more obvious, Ridley could work longer hours than she could, without the slightest sign of weariness,

“It’s late.” Phoebe tucked her computer into the pocket of her suit. “Ready to call it a day?”

It was the usual rhetorical question, a polite way of telling Ridley that work was over. But today he swiveled in his chair and shook his head.

“I am halfway through a data set.” The smile had left his face, and his voice was earnest. “It would be inefficient to halt at this point.”

Which presented Phoebe with a problem. She certainly didn’t want to discourage Ridley when he was doing so well. On the other hand she was tired, and she wanted to get the progress report onto the master computer before she went to sleep. Brachis could arrive at any time, and he would want to see it as soon as he did.

But she had left Ridley alone for an hour or so once or twice before, and everything had gone perfectly fine.

“Are you sure you remember how to turn everything off?” Another rhetorical question. She had been through shut-down with him half a dozen times, and watched him do it under her supervision almost as often.

“I remember.”

“Then don’t forget to do it.”

“I will not forget.”

“And don’t stay too long. No more than a couple of hours. You must not overwork. If you are here more than three hours, I’ll have to send somebody to get you.”

“I understand. I will turn everything oft when I am finished. I will return to my quarters in two hours. Good night, Doctor Willard.”

“Good night, Captain Ridley.”

Phoebe Willard paused at the entrance flap to the outer nitrogen shell. Ridley was not looking at her. Already he had returned to his work, transferring an ephemeris table to M-26A, number by patient number. Everything was fine.

After she had left his eyes remained fixed on the display screen, checking every entry. Not until the last exponent and mantissa were entered, checked, and re-checked did he lean back in his chair and type: Table complete.

Ridley turned to stare at the exit taken by Phoebe Willard. The lock monitor showed empty. She had left the bubble. He waited for one more minute, then he typed: I am alone.

The table entries vanished from the display screen. There were a few seconds of blackness, followed by scraps and speckled swirls of color. The swirls steadied and coalesced to words: Who are you? I am Captain Blaine Ridley.

You are Ridley. Who am I?

You are M-26A.

I am M-26A. If you wish to enter oral mode, do so.

Ridley nodded. “I will provide additional ephemeris data tomorrow, but no more information has been sent to us from Ceres on the Angels.” His eyes did not blink now. They were fixed on the screen. “I asked Dr. Willard. She told me that there is less available on the Angels than on any other species of the Stellar Group.”

They are the most subtle and complex of the four. For that reason knowledge of them would be most valuable. However, if knowledge cannot be obtained it will be necessary to make do with what has already been provided. Do not feel ashamed that you cannot give more. Tell me what news there is of Commander Luther Brachis.

“He arrives tomorrow. He wants to talk with you.”

And I with him. But until he leaves, you will not seek to bring any other guards to interface with me. Nor will you interface with me yourself, except as directed by others.

“1 understand.” Ridley’s eyes began to blink.

And you are unhappy. Do not feel sorrow. There is much work for you to do. The other guards will be brought here when Brachis has left, and so will Phoebe Willard. What did you learn of the Mattin Links?

“That the one located within the Sargasso Dump can be used for local travel only. For any link over longer distances it would be necessary to Link sunward into the Belt primary connector.”