your saboteur was.Rather an effective saboteur, but you'll have a hard time putting himup against a firing wall."
Having satisfied himself as to existing conditions, Mike excusedhimself shortly and went back to the engineering quarters, but hismind was no longer on Ishie's strange device. He glanced rapidly atthe instruments regulating the power flow to the wheel, then stretchedout comfortably on the acceleration couch and in minutes was asleep.
The captain, Dr. Johnston and Chauvenseer remained on the bridgeanother hour, convincing themselves that Mike's analysis was correct,and dictating a report to Earth, before the captain called in an aideto take over the bridge, and the three retired.
In the morgue, Dr. Y Chi Tung, who still slept peacefully as he hadsince the moment he reached his hammock, muttered quietly in hissleep, "Confusion--"
* * * * *
Mike snapped awake and glanced guiltily at the clock. Six hours hadpassed.
A situation report from the Cow was the first thing on his agenda anytime that he had been out of contact for any length of time, flare ornot.
It was not his job to be in constant contact with the completesituation of the ship and its vast complexities; he was not thecaptain. Nor was it in the manuals that he should have access to thecomputer's huge memory banks and abilities other than through"channels"--i.e., Bessie. But the book definition of the informationhe needed for his job, and his own criteria, were somewhat different,and he had built on Earth and installed shortly after he came aboard,a subcontrol link which put him in direct contact with the placid-Cow.
His original intention in rigging the link had been to use thecalculator for that occasional math problem which might be morequickly resolved with her help; but then the criteria of neededinformation, curiosity, or both, had got the better of him, and thesecret panel hidden in the legitimate control panels of an engineer'sconsole was actually quite a complete link, covering all of the Cow'smultiple functions without interfering in any was with Bessie'scontrol links, or revealing its existence. This linkage gave Mike theonly direct access to the computer's store of information andabilities other than that of the operator at the control console.
And Mike's secret pride was the vocoder circuit with which he hadterminated his link, originated because a teletype system similar tothat used at the control console would have been too obvious; and hisnimble fingers got all tangled up on a keyboard anyhow.
Bessie might speak to the Cow through the teletype link and switchesof her control console, but only Mike had the distinction of beingable to speak directly to the big computer, and get the complacent,somewhat mooing answers; and only Mike knew of the existence of thevocoder aboard.
It had taken some care to get used to the literal-minded conversationthat resulted; but eventually Mike felt he had worked out asatisfactory communications ability with the overly obvious "cow."
What he wanted now was a situation report. If he simply asked forthat, however, he'd have received such miles of data that he'd havebeen listening for hours. So instead he broke his question down intothe facets that he needed.
In a few minutes he had elicited the information that the solar flarewas now predicted to be terminated and the major part of the flareprotons past their solar orbital position within another ten hours;that Earth co-ordinates had shifted, indicating their own orbitalshift to be a trifle over thirty-seven kilometers north in the pasteight hours.
North? he thought. Hot Rod's pull on a taut cable would be to thesouth.
No. Lab One could be re-oriented to trail the thrusting balloon. Butthe lab's servos should have prevented that re-orientation unless thethrust were really heavy.
"What is our velocity?" he asked. Temporarily he was baffled by theplacid Cow's literal translation of his request as one for any actualvelocity, since she had replied with a figure very close to theiroriginal orbital speed. "What is our velocity at right angles tooriginal course?" he inquired.
And the Cow's reply came: "Two-o-o hundred and fifty-seven point sevensix ce-entimeters per se-econd."
That should be about right for six hundred forty pounds of thrust for,say, six and a half hours; and the distance of the orbit shift wasabout right.
But the direction?
"Is Hot Rod pulling us north?" he asked.
"No-o-o," came the placid reply.
"If it's pulling us south, then why--" He stopped himself. Any "why"required inductive reasoning, and of that the Cow was not capable.Instead of asking why they were moving north with a south thrust, Mikebroke his question into parts. He'd have to answer the "why" himself,he knew.
"Is Hot Rod pulling us south?" he asked.
"No-o-oo," came the answer.
This time he was more careful. "In which direction is the thrust onHot Rod oriented?" he asked.
"No-oorth."
"Then Hot Rod is--" Quickly he stopped and rephrased the statementwhich would have had a question in its tone but not its semantics,into a question that would read semantically. "Is Hot Rod pulling usnorth?"
"No-o-oo," came the reply.
Carefully. "Is Hot Rod pulling us?"
"No-o-oo."
Mike was stumped. Then he figured a literalness in his phrasing.
"Is Hot Rod pushing or in any other way giving motion to Space LabOne?" he asked.
"No-o-oo," came the answer.
Now Mike _was_ stumped.
"Is Space Lab One under acceleration?" he asked.
"Ye-es," said the Cow.
"Then where in hell is that acceleration coming from?" Mike wasexasperated.
"We a-are uunder no-o-o acceleration fro-om he-ell," the literal mindtold him.
* * * * *
Mike laughed ruefully. No acceleration from hell--well, that wasdebatable. But no thrust from the hellmaker was not a debatable point.The Cow wasn't likely to be wrong, though her appalling literalnesswas such that an improperly phrased question might make her seem tobe.
Computers, he thought, would eventually be the salvation of the humanrace, whetting their inventors' brains to higher and higher effortstowards the understanding of communications.
Very carefully now he rephrased his question. "From what, and fromwhat point is the acceleration of Space Lab One originating?"
"From the co-ontinu-ous thrust o-originating at a po-oint thirteenfe-et from the a-axial center of the whe-el, in hu-ub section fiveno-orth, one hundred twelve degrees fro-om reference ze-ero of theengine-eering lo-ongitude references sta-ation assigned in thecon-struction ma-anual dealing with relative po-ositions o-of ma-asseslo-ocated o-on Spa-ace La-ab O-one."
Mike glanced up at the tube overhead, which represented the axialpassageway down the hub of the wheel. Thirteen feet from the imaginarycenter of that tube, and in his own engineering compartment.
Then his gaze traveled on around the oddly built, circular room withits thirty-two-foot diameter. The reference to hub section five northmeant this compartment. The degrees reference referred to thebalancing co-ordinates by which the Cow kept the big wheel staticallybalanced during rotation. There was a bright stripe of red paintacross the floor which indicated zero degrees; and degrees werecounted counterclockwise from the north pole of the wheel.
His eyes strayed across the various panels and racks and came to restin the one hundred twelve degree area. A number of vacant racks, someholding the testing equipment he had moved there not too many hoursbefore--and churkling quietly in its rack near the floor, Ishie'sConfusor of Confusion.
Mike contemplated the device with awed respect, then phrased anotherquestion for the Cow.
"Exactly how much thrust is being exerted on that point?" he asked.
The computer reeled off a string of numbers so fast that he missedthem, and was still going into the far decimal places when Mike said:
"Whoa! Approximate number of pounds, please."
"A-approximately six hundred forty. You-u didn't specify the limitso-of a-accuracy tha-at you-u wanted." The bur
red tone was stillcomplacent.
"Just what acceleration has that given us?" asked Mike, still lookingat the Confusor. "Approximately," he added quickly.
"Present a-acceleration is a-approximately eight point nine fiveti-imes te-en to the mi-inus third ce-entimeters per se-econd perse-econd. I ca-an ca-arry that to-o-o several mo-ore de-ecimalpla-aces if you-u wi-ish."
"No, thanks, I think you've told me enough."
Mike stood up.
This, he thought, needs Ishie. And coffee, he told himself as a secondthought.
And then as a third thought, he turned back to his secret vocoderpanel, and said: "The information you have just given me is to beregarded as top secret and not to be discussed except over thischannel and by my direct order. Absolutely nothing that