“Indeed,” Rho said, smiling and gently squeezing my arm again. “So he’s of northern European stock?”
“He’s definitely not Levantine, African, or Asian,” Irma Stolbart said. I watched her curiously, focusing on her face, lean and intent, with lovely, skeptical brown eyes.
“Have you spoken with your syndics?” I asked out of the blue, startling even myself.
Armand had clearly earned his position in Cailetet through quick thinking and adaptability. With no hesitation whatsoever, he said, “We work here until somebody tells us to leave. Nobody has yet. Maybe you administrators can work it all out in the council.”
You administrators. That put us in our place. Paper pushers, bureaucrats, politicians. Cut the politics. We were the ones who stood in the way of the scientist’s goal of unrestrained research and intellection.
“I see a fourteen Penrose cipher trace algorithm in the cerebral cortex,” Irma said. “Definitely Northern European.”
Rho looked troubled, examined my face for signs. With a tug of my ear and a gesture up into the air I indicated that we should talk. She drew me aside. “Are you tired?” she asked.
“Dead on my feet,” I said. “I’m an idiot, Rho, and maybe I’ve augured this whole thing right into a rille.”
“I have faith in the family. We’ll make it. I have faith in you, Micko,” she said, grasping my arm. I felt vaguely sick, seeing her expression of support, her trust. “I’d like you to stay and watch. This is really something … if you’re up to it?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
“It’s almost religious, isn’t it?” she whispered in my ear.
“All right,” Armand said. “We have locale. Let’s take a picture, upload into the translator, and see if we can draw a name from the file.”
Armand adjusted the position on the triple cylinders and tuned his slate to their output, getting a picture of a vague gray mass suspended by a thin sling in a sharp black square—the head resting in its cubicle and cradle within the larger box. “We’re centered,” he said. “Irma, if you could …”
“Field guide on,” she said, flipping a switch on a tiny disk taped to the box.
“Recording,” Armand said nonchalantly. There was no noise, no visible or audible sign that anything was happening. Squares appeared on Armand’s slate in the upper right hand portion of the mass. I was able to make out that the head had slumped to one side, whether facing us or not, I could not tell. I kept staring at the image, the squares flashing one by one in sequence around the cranium, and I realized with a gruesome tingle that the head had become misshapen, that during its decades in storage it had deformed in the presence of Earth gravity, nestling deeper into its sling like a frozen melon.
“Got it,” Armand said. “One more—the third unknown—and we’ll call it a session.”
For Rho’s sake, I stayed to watch the third head be scanned and its neural states and patterns recorded. I kissed Rho’s cheek, congratulated her, and took the lift to the bridge. Again, the voices flowed around me, soft technical chatter from the chamber below, the technicians on the bridge above.
I went to my water tank room and collapsed.
Strangely enough, I slept well.
Rho came into my room and woke me up at twelve hundred, eight hours after I’d dropped onto my bed. Obviously, she had not slept at all. Her hair was matted with finger-tugs and rearrangement, her face shiny with the long hours.
“We got a name on the number one unknown,” she said. “It’s a female, we think. But we haven’t done a chromosome check. Irma located a few minutes of pre-death short-term memory and translated it into sound. We heard …” She suddenly wrinkled her face, as if about to cry, and then lifted her head and laughed. “Micko, we heard a voice, it must have been a doctor, a voice speaking out loud, ‘Inchmore, can you hear me? Evelyn? We need your permission…’”
I sat up on the bed and rubbed my eyes. “That’s …” I couldn’t find a good word.
“Yeah, amen,” Rho said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Evelyn Inchmore. I’ve sent a query to StarTime’s trustees on Earth. Evelyn Inchmore, Evelyn Inchmore …” She spoke the name out loud several more times, her voice dropping in exhaustion and wonder. “Do you know what this means, Micko?”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“It’s the first time anybody has ever communicated with a corpsicle,” Rho said distantly.
“She hasn’t answered back,” I said. “You’ve just accessed her memories.” I shrugged my shoulders. “She’s still dead.”
“Yeah,” Rho said. “‘Just accessed her memories.’ Wait a minute.” She looked up at me, startled by some inner realization. “Maybe it’s a male after all. We thought the name was female … But didn’t Evelyn used to be a male’s name? Wasn’t there a male author centuries ago named Evelyn?”
“Evelyn Waugh,” I said.
“We could have it all wrong again,” she said, too tired to build up much concern. “I hope we can straighten it out before this goes to the press.”
My level of alertness went up several notches. “Have you told Thomas what’s happened?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Rho, if word gets out that we’ve already accessed the heads … But who’s going to stop Cailetet or Onnes from trumpeting this?”
“You think it would cause problems?” Rho asked.
I felt vaguely proud that finally I was starting to anticipate trouble, as Thomas would want me to. “It would probably cook off the bomb,” I said.
“All right, then. I don’t want to cause more trouble.” She looked at me with loving sympathy. “You’ve been in a rough, Micko.”
“You heard what happened in Port Yin?”
“Thomas talked to me while you were shuttling home.” She pushed out her lips dubiously and shook her head. “Fapping pol. Someone should impeach her and take away the Task-Felder charter.”
“I appreciate the sentiments, but neither is likely. Could you keep this quiet for a few more days?”
“I’ll do my damnedest,” Rho said. “Cailetet and Onnes are under contract. We control the release of the results, even if they eventually get full scientific credit. I’ll tell them we want to confirm with the Earth trustees, back up our findings, analyze the third unknown head … Work on a few known heads and see if the process is reliable.”
“What about Great-grandmother and Great-grandfather?” I asked.
Rho’s smile was conspiratorial. “We’ll save them until later,” she said.
“We don’t want to experiment on family, right?”
She nodded. “When we’re sure the whole thing works, we’ll do something with Robert and Emilia. As for me, Micko, in a few minutes I’m going to get some forced sleep. Right after I reiterate our rules to the Cailetet and Onnes folks. Now. William wants to talk with you.”
“About the interruptions?”
“I don’t think so. He says work is going well.”
She hugged me tightly and then stood. “To sleep,” she said. “No dreams, I think …”
“No ancient voices,” I said.
“Right.”
William seemed tired but at peace, pleased with himself. He sat in the laboratory control center, patting the QL thinker as if it were an old friend.
“It did me proud, Micko,” he said. “It’s tuned everything to a fare-thee-well. It keeps the universe’s quantum bugs from nibbling at my settings, controls the rebuilt disorder pumps, anticipates virtual fluctuations and corrects for them. I’m all set now; all I have to do is bring the pumps to full capacity.”
I tried to show enthusiasm, but couldn’t. I felt sick at heart. The disaster in Port Yin, the upcoming council meeting, Rho’s success with the first few heads …
With a little time to think about what had happened, I realized now that it all felt bad. Thomas was scrambling furiously to convince the council to reverse its action. And here I was, cut out of the drift of things, watching Wil
liam gloat about an upcoming moment of triumph. William caught my mood and reached out to tap my hand.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re young. Fapping up is part of the game.”
I screwed my face up at first in anger, then in simple grief, and turned away, tears running down my cheeks. To have William name the card so openly—fapping up—was not what I needed right now. It was neither circumspect nor sensitive. “Thank you so very much,” I said.
William kept tapping my hand until I jerked it away. “I’m sorry, Micko,” he said, his tone unchanged—telling it like it is. “I’ve never been afraid to admit when I’ve made a mistake. It nearly drives me nuts sometimes, making mistakes. I keep telling myself I should be perfect, but that isn’t what we’re here for. Perfection isn’t an option for us; perfection is death, Micko. We’re here to learn and change and that means making mistakes.”
“Thanks for the lecture,” I said, glancing at him resentfully.
“I’m twelve years older than you. I’ve made maybe twelve times more major mistakes. What can I tell you? That it gets any easier to fap up? Well, yes, it gets easier and easier with more and more responsibilities—but hell, Micko, it doesn’t feel any better.”
“I can’t just think of it as a mistake,” I said softly. “I was betrayed. The president was dishonest and underhanded.”
William leaned back in his chair and shook his head, incredulous. “Hay-soos, Micko. Who expects anything different? That’s what politics is all about—coercion and lies.”
Suddenly my anger reached white heat. “Goddamn it, no, that isn’t what politics is all about, William, and people thinking that it is has gotten us into this mess!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Politics is management and guidance and feedback, William. We seem to have forgotten that on the Moon. Politics is the art of managing large groups of people in good times and bad. When the people know what they want and when they don’t know what they want. ‘Cut the politics…’ Hay-soos yourself, William!” I waved my arm and shook my fist in the air. “You can’t get rid of politics, any more than you can …” I struggled to find a metaphor. “Any more than you can cut out manners and talking and all the other ways we interact.”
“Thanks for the lecture, Micko,” William said, not unpleasantly.
I dropped my fist on the table.
“What you’re saying is, the whole Moon is screwing this up,” William said. “I agree. And the Task-Felder BM is leading us all into temptation. But my point is, I’m never going to be a politician or an administrator. Present company excepted, I hate the breed, Micko. They’re put on this Moon to stand in my way. This council stuff only reinforces my prejudices. So what can you do about it?” He looked at me with frank inquiry.
“I can wise up,” I said. “I can be a better … administrator, politician.”
William smiled ironically. “More devious? Play their own game?”
I shook my head. Deviousness and playing the Task-Felder game were not what I meant. I was thinking of some more idealistic superiority, playing within the ethical boundaries as well as the law.
William continued. “We can plan ahead for the worse yet to come. They might cut off our resources, beyond just stopping other BMs from helping us. We can survive an interdict for some time, maybe even forge a separate business alliance within the Triple.”
“That would be … very dangerous,” I said.
“If we’re forced into it, what can we do? We have business interests all over the Triple. We have to survive.”
The QL toned softly on the platform. “Temperature stability has been broken,” it said.
William jerked up in his chair. “Report,” he said.
“Unknown effect has caused temperature to rotate in unknown phase. The cells have no known temperature at this time.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
William grabbed his thinker remote and pushed through the curtain to the bridge. He walked out to the Cavity and I followed, glad to have an interruption. The Cailetet and Onnes techs had retired to get some rest; the Ice Pit was quiet.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” William said in a low voice, concentrating on the Cavity’s status display. “There are drains on four of the eight cells. The QL refuses to interpret temperature readings. QL, please explain.”
The remote said, “Phase rotation in lambda. Fluctuation between banks of four cells.”
“Shit,” William said. “Now the other four cells are absorbing, and the first four are stable. QL, do you have any idea what’s happening here?” He looked up at me with a worried expression.
“Second bank is now in down cycle of rotation. Up cycle in three seconds.”
“It’s reversed,” William said after the short interval had passed. “Back and forth. QL, what’s causing a power drain?”
“Temperature maintenance,” the QL said.
“Explain, please,” William pursued with waning patience.
“Energy is being accepted by the phase down cells in an attempt to maintain temperature.”
“Not by the refrigerators or the pumps?”
“It is necessary to put energy directly into the cells in the form of microwave radiation to try to maintain temperature.”
“I don’t understand, QL.”
“I apologize,” the QL said. “The cells accept radiation to remain stable, but they have no temperature this thinker can interpret.”
“We have to raise the temperature?” William guessed, face slack with incredulity.
“Phase down reversal,” the QL said.
“QL, the temperatures have jumped to below absolute zero?”
“That is an interpretation, although not a very good one.”
William swore and stood back from the Cavity.
The QL reported, “All eight cells have stabilized in lambda phase down. Fluctuation has stopped.”
William went pale. “Micko, tell me I’m not dreaming.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” I said, frightened.
“The cells are draining microwave energy and yet maintaining a stable temperature. Christ, they must be accessing new spin dimensions, radiating into a direction outside status geometry … does that mean they’re operating in negative time? Micko, if any of Rho’s outsiders have messed with the lab, or if their goddamn equipment is causing this …” He balled his fists and shook them at the darkness above. “God help them! I was this close, Micko … All I had to do was connect the pumps, align the cells, turn the magnetic fields off … I was going to do that tomorrow.”
“I don’t think anybody’s messed with your equipment,” I told him, trying to calm him. “These are pros, William, and besides, Rho would kill them …”
William lowered his head and swung it back and forth helplessly. “Micko, something has to be wrong. Negative temperature is meaningless.”
“It didn’t say temperatures were negative,” I reminded him.
“This thinker does not interpret the data,” the QL chimed in.
“That’s because you’re a coward,” William accused it.
“This thinker does not relay false interpretation,” it responded.
Suddenly, William laughed, a rocking angry laugh that seemed to hurt. He opened his eyes wide and patted the QL remote with gritted-teeth paternalism. “Micko, as God is my witness, nothing on this Moon is ever easy, no?”
“Maybe you’ve found something even more important than absolute zero,” I suggested. “A new state of matter.”
The idea sobered him. “That …” He ran his hand through his hair, making it even more unruly. “A big idea, that one.”
“Need help?” I asked.
“I need time to think,” he said softly. “Thanks, Micko. Time without interruptions … a few hours at least.”
“I can’t guarantee anything,” I said.
He squinted at me. “I’ll let you know if I’ve discovered some
thing big, okay? Now get out of here.” He pushed me gently along the bridge.
The Council Room was circular, paneled with lunar farm oak, centrally lighted, with a big antique display screen at one end, lovingly preserved from the year of the Council’s creation. Politicians like to keep an eye on each other; no corners, no chairs facing away from the center.
I shuffled in behind Thomas and two freelance advocates from Port Yin, hired by Thomas to offer him extra-familial advice. Within the Triple it has often been said that lunar advocates are the very worst money can rent; there is some truth to that, but Thomas still felt the need of an objective and critical point of view.
The room was mostly empty. Three representatives had already taken their seats—interestingly enough, they were from Cailetet, Onnes, and Nernst BMs. Other representatives talked in the hall outside the room. The president and her staff would not enter until just before the meeting began.
The council thinker, a large, antique terrestrial model encased in gray ceramic, rested below the president’s dais at the north end of the room. Thomas nudged me as we sat, pointed at the thinker, and said, “Don’t underestimate an old machine. That son of a glitch has more experience in this room than anybody. But it’s the president’s tool, not ours; it will not contradict the president, and it will not speak out against her.”
We sat quietly while the room slowly filled. At the appointed time of commencement, Fiona Task-Felder entered through a door behind the president’s dais, Janis Granger and three council advocates in train.
I knew many of the BM representatives. I had spoken to ten or fifteen of them over the years while doing research for my minor; others I knew by sight from lunar news reports and council broadcasts. They were honorable women and men all; I thought we might not do so badly here after all.
Thomas’s frown revealed a less favorable opinion.
The Ice Pit controversy was not first on the council agenda. There were matters of who would get contracts to parent lucrative volatiles supply deliveries from the Outer; who had rights in a BM border dispute to sell aluminum and tungsten mining claims to Richter BM, the huge and generally silent tri-family merger that had taken over most lunar mining operations. These problems were discussed by the representatives in a way that struck me as exemplary. Resolutions were reached, contracts vetted and cleared, shares assigned. The president remained silent most of the time. When she did speak, her words were well-chosen and to the point. She impressed me.