People began to frown, to nod, to fidget. I felt myself tumbling into an abyss. Such nonsense I was spouting! In front of Dr. Schein, Dr. Horkkk, all these experienced archaeologists!
Helpless, I went on.
"The question is, can we find the asteroid where the vault is located? I think we can. We have certain clues. The opening shot of the sequence gives us a broad pan shot of at least a thousand parsecs of space. The constellations shown, naturally, are a billion years old and don't have that configuration any more, nor do we have any idea which sector of space was being photographed. Even so, I think any good observatory could provide us with computer simulations of various regions of our galaxy as they looked a billion years ago. Perhaps we could get a hundred such simulations, spaced two or three million years apart, to cover possible errors in our dating of the globe.
"This may locate the part of the galaxy shown in that opening shot. Next we zero in on our close-up: that little group of stars, the red giant, the binary, the yellow stars, the blue-white ones. Of course, a billion years is a long time even in stellar evolution. I imagine that those hot O-type stars cooled a long time ago, that the red giant may be a white dwarf by now, and that the white dwarf may have burned out altogether. It's also possible that these stars may have had very different velocities and are no longer anywhere near one another in space. Nevertheless, it's not all that tricky for an astronomical computer to find some of the key members of that group, track them backward on their paths, and come up with a simulation of where they were a billion years ago. With a certain amount of luck we'll find the white dwarf still associated with some members of the group. An expedition can go there and hunt for the asteroid, and then it can't be too much of a problem to find . . . the vault. . . the robot . . ."
I ran out of juice. My idea sounded so absurd to me that I couldn't go on. I sank limply into my seat and waited for the derisive hooting to begin.
"Brilliant!" Dr. Horkkk cried. Dr. Horkkk, no less.
"A superb scheme, Tom, superb!" said Dr. Schein.
"Tremendous!" "Wild!" "Beautiful!" and other choice adjectives came from the others.
Mirrik snorted and bellowed in enthusiasm.
Jan beamed at me with pride.
Pilazinool stirred in his seat, twiddled with the fastenings of his left leg as though about to unscrew it, then changed his mind and waved a hand for attention. He spoke very slowly, telling us how impressed he was with my idea. In his judgment it was possible to locate the vault, and he thought there was even an excellent chance that it still would contain the robot.
"I recommend that we make contact with an observatory computer at once and learn if the location of the vault is indeed discoverable. If it is, I am of the opinion that we should discontinue work here and seek it out," Pilazinool said. "Aside from the globe, we have found nothing here that has not been found at all other High Ones sites. We are engaged in a routine and conventional dig. But I see the globe as the first link in a chain of evidence that may reach across the entire galaxy. The vault, perhaps, is the second link. Shall we remain here, drudging away at our little tasks, or shall we reach forth for knowledge elsewhere?"
Instantly we were split into factions again. The conservative people—Saul, Mirrik, Kelly—were in favor of staying here and exhausting the present site before doing anything else. The romantics—Jan, Leroy, Steen, and me—spoke for Pilazinool's point that we were better off chasing an exciting will-o-the-wisp across the galaxy than digging up another ten thousand inscription nodes here. 408b leaned to our viewpoint, not out of any romantic hunger for adventure but only because it wanted a close look at a High Ones robot. Dr. Schein seemed split between what he saw as our obligation to work the promising Higby V site down to the bottom, and our chance of finding something colossal on that asteroid. Dr. Horkkk, who had earlier advocated quitting here so we could concentrate on studying the globe, seemed now eager to keep on here out of pure contrariness, but I sensed that he too was at least partly fascinated by the possibility of tracing the asteroid vault.
We didn't try to reach a decision. Why draw conclusions until we know if we can find the asteroid? Tomorrow we'll call one of the big observatories and see.
But after the meeting broke up, we fissioned into several groups and went right on discussing. Jan and I were talking with Pilazinool, and the Shilamakka was not minded to sponge his syllables. In that smooth lathe-turned mechanical voice of his, Pilazinool said quietly, confidently, "We will find the asteroid, Tom. And the robot will still be there. And it will lead us to other and more astonishing things."
A Shilamakka doesn't use the future tense in quite that way unless he's delivering The Word. If Pilazinool is right, we won't be on Higby V much longer.
And Pilazinool specializes in being right.
EIGHT
October 1, 2315
Higby V
A very busy few weeks. We have all been working double and triple overtime, which is why I've made no entry in these memoirs for you, Lorie. Let's see if I can bring you up to date in one sizzling blaze of verbiage. The important thing is that we are now committed, kneecaps, collarbones, and medulla, to my totally chimpo project for finding that asteroid vault.
It happened in easy stages, the way cataclysmic events often do. When you sink into quicksand, you don't get sucked—sploosh!—to the bottom of the swamp in one quick glunk. No, you're drawn in slowly thinking at first that the quicksand is just ordinary muck, that you can always pull out of it if you want to, that it's a cinch to get free in case you decide you didn't really want to cross that particular swamp. Suddenly the stuff is up around your shins and you get a little worried, and you move faster, thinking it'll do you some good, but it only mires you in deeper, but you remain cool and confident, and gradually, when you're hip deep and gently sinking, you begin to admit that your struggles are making things worse and that you're in the sticky for keepses.
Thus I found the globe. Thus we watched the fascinating scenes. Particularly the asteroid-and-rock-vault sequence. Whereupon I suggested finding the vault. Whereafter Pilazinool lent his vast prestige to the quest. Ipso facto we took the idea seriously and went so far as to obtain the computer simulations I talked about. And then—and then-One of the first steps in our ensnarement involved borrowing a telepath from the military base, so we could transmit our astronomical data to the observatory. We did not request Marge Hotchkiss. I made it clear to Dr. Schein that her attitude wasn't a positive one. Dr. Schein spoke to the base commander and we got one of the other TPs stationed on Higby V. Perhaps you know him: Ron Santangelo.
In the flesh he's a pale young man, nineteen at most, with watery blue eyes, thin sandy hair, and a generally fragile look. He gives the appearance of being poetic. Maybe he is. He once had a Virangonian tattoo job on both cheeks, but evidently thought better of it and had it removed; not by a very capable surgeon, though, because the outline scars still show. I'll bet he hates it here.
His first job for us was to make TP contact with Luna City Observatory and find out if they could handle the work we needed. We chose Luna City after a long debate; half a dozen other observatories were proposed, including one on Thhh, the Marsport one, and even old Mount Palomar, but we decided to go to the biggest and best. It doesn't cost any more to call Luna than it does Marsport or Mount Palomar, after all, and the time factor would be the same. And despite Dr. Horkkk's chauvinism, neither Thhhian astronomers nor Thhhian computers are in neutrino-buzzing distance of those of Earth and Earth's colonies; everybody knows that.
Santangelo obligingly went through bimpty-bump relay posts and transmitted our message to Luna City, a task that took about an hour. The folks on the other end already knew about our globe, from the news release we had sent out, and naturally they were quite excited at taking part in the search for the High Ones' hidden asteroid.
I don't think they knew what they were letting themselves in for. Nor did we. Quicksand. Utter quicksand.
We had to get our dat
a to the observatory, now. The easiest way to accomplish that would have been to ship our photos to Luna aboard the next ultraspace vessel to call at Higby V. One of the regular multihoppers was due here in the middle of September and would be reaching the Sol system in its roundabout way a couple of weeks after Christmas. Luna City could process the material, reply by TP, and give us our info by the end of January, say.
But that seemed like an impossibly long time from now. So the three bosses conferred and decided to send the data to Luna City via TP. That's right—TP transmission of photographs. I can feel you shuddering from here.
Ron Santangelo looked paler than ever when we told him what we wanted him to do. Give him credit, though: he didn't run off screaming into the night. Instead he served as our technical advisor. Here's how he had us handle the job.
We began by making a standard stereo photo of the thousand-parsec galactic scene that the robot sequence opens with. Jan did most of the darkroom work, and came forth with a fine blowup, two meters long, one meter high, and with an apparent perceptual depth of one meter. Then we rephotographed this, using a trick camera from the military base that is capable of stepping down a stereo hologram into an ordinary antiquated two-dimensional photo. What it gave us was a sheaf of prints, each representing a flat section of the stereo; it was as though we had taken a knife and sliced that three-dimensional print into a bunch of layers.
It took a little over a week to do all this, with an assist from Dr. Horkkk's little computer, which we had to reprogram completely in the process. (He is now restoring the original program for linguistic analysis, and doing a lot of cursing in Thhhian and many other tongues.) We now had our first astronomical shot converted into a form suitable for TP transmission.
Poor Ron.
He went off into a quiet corner of the lab to transmit. He labeled each photo, keying in its place in the overall picture so that the composite could be put back together again at the other end. Then he broke every photo into a series of ten-square-centimeter grids. And then he started transmitting the contents of each grid to other members of the TP relay network.
I hadn't ever given much thought to methods of transmitting pictures by TP. In my naive and ill-informed way, I assumed that Ron was somehow going to send descriptions of each section of the photo. (You know: "Up here, two point eight five centimeters from the top left-hand corner, we've got a star that covers point nine millimeters, and is sort of fuzzy on the right-hand side. . . .") But of course that would never have worked. At best it would have produced a vague approximation of the original photos; and computations based on vague approximations tend to come out as even vaguer approximations. As they say in the data-processing trade, garbage in, garbage out.
Jan had a much more imaginative idea of how Ron was going to do it. She said, "I think he'll stare at each little piece of the grid until he's got it firmly in his mind. Then he'll transmit the entire image to the next TP in the relay chain, and on and on so that the picture reaches Luna City in all its original detail."
Certainly that was superior to trying to break the image down into words and measurements and dictating those. But there was one little flaw in Jan's scheme, and Steen Steen found it.
"How," he/she asked nastily, "does the final TP in the chain convert the transmitted mental image back into a photograph?"
Jan thought there might be some kind of machine that the TP could think the image into, which would mechanically transform it into a photo. Saul Shahmoon overheard that and clapped his hands. "A thought-activated camera! Wonderful! Wonderful! When shall it be invented?"
"There isn't any such thing?" Jan asked.
"Sadly, no," said Saul.
It turned out that Ron Santangelo transmitted the details of those photos in the most prosaic way possible, using a method that was invented more than three hundred years ago so that the primitive space satellites and flybys could relay photographs of the Moon and the planets to Earth. We were embarrassed for our ignorance when we found out about it. All that was done—as I suppose you know—was that each little photo was placed before an optical scanner that converted its gradations of black and white into data bits. Ron then took the printout and transmitted it to the TP network. He didn't send images, he didn't send verbal descriptions; he sent stuff that went like this:
0000000000000010000000000000 0000000000000110000000000000 0000000000000111000000000000 0000000000000111000000000000 0000000000000111000000000000 0000000000001111000000000000 0000000000001111000000000000
And so on and on and on, thousands of bits for each photo.
At the far end of the relay, a computer would with the greatest of ease turn the combinations of 1s and 0s back into shades of light and dark and produce photo-replications. Then something similar to Jan's suggestion would be used. Our TP would indeed transmit the whole image of the photo to a specially-trained TP at the Luna City Observatory, who would compare the image against the replication and carefully make any necessary corrections. Finally the whole giboo could be assembled into a duplicate of the original three-dimensional photo and handed over to the astronomers, who could at last begin their work. What a cosmic headache! More to the point: what a cosmic expense! Ron looked a little grim as he began his task, but the rest of us, having no hint of the immensity of it, were in high spirits. We trotted to and fro between the scanner and Ron, bringing him his pages of gray printout with their interminable Is and Os, and he sat there, getting paler and thinner and more poetic-looking by the minute, boosting the data into the TP net. Meanwhile Jan and Saul were already at work making a two-dimensional breakdown of the second photo we planned to transmit, the close-up of the white dwarf and its stellar neighbors.
Ron didn't collapse until the third day. We non-TPs talk a lot about the soaring wonder of roving the galaxy with your mind. What we overlook, I guess, is the terrible strain of it. And the fact that drudgery is drudgery, with or without TP.
Ron gave. He worked maximum hours, two hours on, two hours off, four shifts a day; and during the rest shifts he seemed impatient to get back to transmitting. God knows why. He had become as involved in the project as we were, but there couldn't have been much thrill for him in sitting in the corner going 0000011100000 for eight hours a day.
The strain showed on him. He sweated a lot, and his tattoo scars mysteriously became more visible, glowing against his sunken cheeks. Why a quiet, reserved lad like that had ever let a Virangonian needle artist go to work on him is beyond me. The tattoos were wildly obscene, too—according to the Virangonian notion of obscenity. That's what Mirrik said. Someday I'd like to know why Virangonians consider mouths obscene, because that's what Ron had on his cheeks: two big toothy tattooed mouths.
We could see him caving in hour by hour, and we tried to be good to him, to help him relax. Mirrik told stories, and Steen Steen did a pretty fair juggling act, and Jan took him for a walk and came back looking a little flushed and rumpled. I wasn't too happy about that, but I told myself it was All For The Cause. By the second day Ron's data-transmission speed was about two thirds what it had been at the start, and the next day it was even slower. And he was nowhere near the midpoint of the job. On his fourth shift of the third day he stopped suddenly, looked around the laboratory, blinked, and said, "What time is it? Does anyone know the time? My watch won't tell me. I've asked it, but it won't tell."
Then he stood up and, as though all his bones had suddenly been pulled from his body, crumpled and dropped.
The base medic said it was simply exhaustion, ordered Ron not to do any TP work for a week, and hauled him away for a few days of deepsleep recuperation. There were two other TPs available on Higby V: Marge Hotchkiss and a gloomy Israeli named Nach-man Ben-Dov. Since the communications net had to stay open for messages around the clock, this presented certain problems of scheduling. With Ron temporarily out of the hookup, Hotchkiss and Ben-Dov were required to put in twelve Earthnorm hours each day simply handling routine switching and transmitting assignments. That was f
our hours a day more than the supposed maximum for TP work, and left neither of them any time at all for us. Since they had already been working overtime for the three days that Ron had been transmitting full-time from our lab, neither of them took kindly to an extension of their duties. Particularly dear Marge.
Dr. Schein pulled some strings and we managed to work out a deal. First, it was agreed that the TP staff on Higby III, where some patchy farming settlements have been founded lately, would intercept all incoming messages bound for Higby V. These would be relayed from III to V by ordinary radio transmission; we undertook to pay the extra cost of this. That took about half the burden off the local TP staff. The military people were willing—grudgingly—to defer most outgoing messages until Ron got better, which also helped. The two TPs would still have to be on call four hours a day apiece for normal duties. But that left each one of them four hours a day for us.
We didn't want any more collapses, though. We decided on a pattern whereby Ben-Dov would come out to the lab and transmit for us for two two-hour shifts, while Marge was sleeping. Then somebody would drive him back into town and get Marge, who'd come out and do two two-hour shifts while Ben-Dov was handling the ordinary stuff at the communications office. Then Ben-Dov would get some sleep and Marge would go back to put in her four hours of office work. That gave us the four daily shifts we had been getting out of Ron, and still left the two TPs time to handle their real work without burning out. Our transmission times were different now, though. Ron had preferred to do his transmitting in one sixteen-hour burst, two hours on and two hours off for the full four shifts, followed by eight hours of exhausted sleep. But Marge and Ben-Dov didn't work that way. They kept shifting their sleep periods around, now knocking out in the evening, now in the middle of the day; they might put in eight hours of TP (four work, four rest) after breakfast and then eight more (four work, four rest) after dinner, with a nap in between. With sleepdrugs it's no trick to arrange your slumber pattern to suit your whims, of course, and you know all about the odd living habits of the TP tribe. It made life weird for us, though, since somebody had to be around to assist the TP, bring snacks, correlate the computer printouts, and so forth. We tried to maintain a normal digging schedule at the site—yes, we're still digging through all this—and yet have somebody available to hold the TP's hand no matter what hour.