The Shockwave Rider

by John Brunner

  She gave him a level look.

  “But you’re in a paid-avoidance area,” she said.

  “Hell, so I am!” Suddenly he felt very much alone, unspeakably vulnerable. “Does the avoidance go deep? I mean even if you can’t use any public phone to tap the net, do they forcibly exclude computers?”

  “No, but you have to make special application to get time. And there’s more cash in circulation than anywhere else on the continent, and veephone service is restricted: you can’t dial out to the rest of the country, you have to cable and ask to be called back. Things like that.”

  “But if I can’t rewrite myself, what am I going to do?” He was on his feet, shaking.

  “Sandy!” She rose also, confronting him with a glare. “Have you never tried to outface the enemy?”

  “What?” He blinked at her.

  “I get the impression that every time one of your schemes went wrong, you abandoned it—and the identity that went with it—and switched to something else. Maybe that’s why you’ve always failed. You’ve relied on this trick talent of yours to bail you out of trouble instead of seeing through what you started. The overload you’ve suffered today ought to be a warning to you. There’s a limit to the number of times you can revise your personality. There’s a limit to the load you can pile on your powers of reasoning. Your body just told you, loud and clear, you’ve gone too far at last.”

  “Oh, shit …” His voice was full of misery. “In principle I’m certain you’re right. But is there any alternative?”

  “Sure I have an alternative. One of the best things about a paid-avoidance area is you can still get manual cooking. I don’t know what it’s like here, but at Protempore it was delicious. We go find a good restaurant and a jug of wine.”

  FENCED BUT NOT FOILED

  Inter alia the Handbook of the National Association of Players at the Game of Fencing states:

  The game may be played manually or electronically.

  The field shall consist of 101 parallel equidistant lines coded AA, AB, AC … BA, BB, BC … to EA (omitting the letter I), crossed at 90° by 71 parallel equidistant lines 01 to 71.

  The object is to enclose with triangles a greater number of coordinate points than the opponent.

  The players shall toss or draw for red or blue; red begins.

  At each turn each player shall claim two points, one by visibly marking it in the field, the other by entering its coordinates in a list concealed from the opponent (but subject to scrutiny by a referee in match play).

  After at least 10 points (5 red, 5 blue) have been visibly claimed, having claimed his visible point for that turn either player may forego the option of claiming a concealed point and attempt to enclose a triangle by connecting three of his visibly claimed points. Prior to doing so he must require the opponent to enter his concealed points in the field. He may then enclose any triangle that does not include a point claimed by the opponent. A point claimed in a concealed list, which proves on inspection to have been claimed visibly by the opponent, shall be deleted from the concealed list. A triangle may enclose a point claimed by the same color. A point once enclosed may not be claimed. If a player claims such a point in error he shall forfeit both the visible and the concealed point due on that turn.

  If a player finds, when the opponent’s concealed points are entered in the field, he can enclose no valid triangle, he shall at once enter all his own concealed points, after which play shall proceed normally.

  All triangles must have sides at least 2 units long, i.e. two adjacent coordinates cannot serve as apices of the same triangle, though they may serve as apices of two triangles of the same or different colors. No coordinate may serve as the apex of more than one triangle. No triangle may enclose a point enclosed by another triangle. A coordinate claimed by the opponent which lies on a horizontal or vertical line between apices of a proposed triangle shall be deemed included and renders the triangle invalid. A coordinate claimed by the opponent which lies on a true diagonal (45°) between apices of a proposed triangle shall be deemed excluded.

  Scores shall be calculated in terms of coordinate points enclosed by valid triangles. An approved device shall be employed such that as each triangle is validly enclosed its apices may be entered into the memory store of the device and upon entry of the third apex the device shall unambiguously display the number of points enclosed. It shall be the responsibility of the player to keep accurate record of his cumulative score, which he shall not conceal from the opponent, except in matches played for stake money or on which there has been wagering or by mutual agreement of the players, when the cumulative score may be kept by a referee or electronically or mechanically, but in such cases there shall be no grounds for appeal by either player against the score shown at the conclusion or at any stage of the game.

  It is customary but not obligatory for any game in which one player’s score exceeds that of the other by 100 points to be regarded as lost and won.

  METONYMIA

  According to the instrument display the metabolic level of the subject remained satisfactory; however, his voice was weakening and his reaction times were slowing. It was becoming necessary to update him from regressed mode at ever-shorter intervals. Very probably this was due to the low-stimulus environment, excessively low for someone whose ability to tolerate rapid and extreme change had been graphically documented over the past several weeks. Accordingly Freeman indented for some equipment to ameliorate the situation: a large projection-type three-vee screen, an electrotoner and a personifactor which would give the illusion of one, two or three other people watching.

  Waiting for the new machinery to be delivered, though, he perforce had to continue in the former manner, conversing with the subject in present time.

  “You’re a good fencing player, I believe.”

  “Care for a game to break the monotony?” A ghost of old defiance tinted the words.

  “I’m a poor player myself; it would be a mismatch. But why did fencing appeal to you rather than, say, go, or even chess?”

  “Chess has been automated,” was the prompt reply. “How long is it since a world champion has done without computer assistance?”

  “I see. Yes, I understand nobody has yet written a competent fencing program. Did you try it? You had adequate capacity.”

  “Oh, using a program to play Chess is work. Games are for fun. I guess I could have spoiled fencing, if I’d spent a year or two on the job. I didn’t want to.”

  “You wanted to retain it as a nondeterminate analogy of your own predicament, because of its overtones of captivity, enclosure, secure ground and the like—is that it?”

  “Think of it in any way you choose. I say the hell with it. One of the worst things wrong with people like you is inability to enjoy themselves. You don’t like the idea that there are processes that can’t be analyzed. You’re the lineal descendant, on the sociological side of the tree, of the researchers who pithed cats and dogs because even their personalities were too complex for comfort. Which is fine for studying synapse formation but no damned good for studying cats.”

  “You’re a holist.”

  “I might have guessed that sooner or later you’d turn that word into an insult.”

  “On the contrary. Having studied, as you rightly say, the separate components of the nervous system, we finally feel we’re equipped to attack their interaction. We declined to accept personality as a datum. Your attitude resembles that of a man content to gaze at a river without being interested in the springs and the watershed and the seasonal variations in rainfall and the silt it’s carrying along.”

  “I notice you make no mention of fish in the river. Nor of taking a drink from it.”

  “Will watching from the bank inform you why there are no fish this year?”

  “Will counting the liters-per-minute tell you why it’s beautiful?”

  Freeman sighed. “Always we reach the same sort of deadlock, don’t we? I regard your attitude as complementary
to mine. You on the other hand deny that mine has any validity. Impasse.”

  “Wrong. Or at best only half right. Your problem’s this: you want to file my attitude as a subcategory of yours, and it doesn’t work because the whole can’t be included in the part.”

  GAME FOR ANYTHING

  Venturing out on the streets of Lap-of-the-Gods, he felt a little like someone raised in an inhibited family braving a naturist beach, but the sensation did not last long. This was a surprisingly attractive little town. The architecture was miscellaneous because it had been thrown together in a hurry, yet the urgency had resulted in a basic unity enhanced now by reddish evening sunlight.

  The sidewalks were crowded, the roadways not. The only vehicles they saw were bicycles and electric buses. There were many trees, bushes and flowering shrubs. Most of the people seemed to care little about dress; they wore uninspiring garments in blue, buff and tan, and some were shabby. But they smiled a lot and said hello to someone—even to himself and Kate, strangers—every half-dozen paces.

  Shortly they came across a restaurant modeled on a Greek taverna, with tables on a terrace under a roof made of vines trained along poles and wires. Three or four games of fencing were in progress, each watched by a group of intent kibitzers.

  “That’s an idea,” he muttered to Kate, halting. “Maybe I could pick up a bit of credit if they play for money.”

  “Are you a good player? Sorry. Stupid question. But I’m told competition here is stiff.”

  “But they’re playing manually. Look!”

  “Does that have to make them poor players?”

  He gazed at her for a long moment. Eventually he said, “Know something? I think you’re good for me.”

  “So I should hope,” she answered tartly, and pulled the same face he’d seen at their first meeting, wrinkling her nose and raising her upper lip so her front teeth showed like a rabbit’s. “Moreover I knew you liked me before you knew it, which is kind of rare and to be treasured. Come on, let’s add fencing hustler to your list of occupations.”

  They found a table where they could watch the play while eating pizza and sipping a rough local wine, and about the time they finished their meal one of the nearest players realized he had just allowed his opponent to notch up the coveted hundred-point margin with a single slender triangle running almost the full width of the field. Swearing at his own incompetence, he resigned and strode away fuming.

  The winner, a fat bald once-fair man in a faded pink singlet, complained to anybody who cared to listen, “But he didn’t have to be such a sore loser, did he? I mean did he?” Appealing to Kate, who smiled and shook her head.

  “And I can spare at least another hour before I have to go, and—Hey, would either of you care to take over? I noticed you were watching.”

  The tone and manner were unmistakable. Here was a full-timer, counterpart of those chess hustlers who used to sit around anonymously pretending to be no good until someone was fool enough to stake money on a game.

  Well, it’s a way in. …

  “Sure I’ll play you, and be glad to. This is Kate, by the way, and I’m—” He hoped the hesitation would go unremarked; one could convert to Alexander and since Kate was accustomed … “I’m Sandy.”

  “I’m Hank. Sit down. Want to think about odds? I’m kind of competent, as you may have gathered.” The bald man tailed the words with a toothy grin.

  “Let’s play level, argue about odds when we have grounds for debate.”

  “Fine, fine! Would you care to let—uh—a little cash ride on the outcome?” A glint of greed lighted Hank’s eyes.

  “Cash? Uh … Well, we’re fresh into town, so you’d have to take scrip, but if that’s okay—? Good. Shall we say a hundred?”

  “By all means,” Hank purred, and rubbed his hands under the table. “And I think we ought to play the first one or two games blitz-tempo.”

  The first game aborted almost at once, a not uncommon happening. Attempting on successive turns to triangulate, both found it was impossible, and according to custom rather than rule agreed to try again. The second game was close and Hank lost. The third was even closer and he still lost, and the expiry of his hour gave him an excuse to depart in annoyance, two hundred the poorer. By then many more customers had arrived, some to play—a dozen games were now in progress—and some preferring to kibitz and assess a stranger’s form. One of the newcomers, a plump girl carrying a baby, challenged the victor and went down in twelve turns. Two of the other watchers, a thin young black and a thin elderly white, whistled loudly, and the latter promptly took the girl’s place.

  What is it that feels so weird about this evening … ? Got it. I’ll be damned. I’m not playing Lazarus’s game, or even Sandy Locke’s; I’m playing mine, and I’m far better than I ever dreamed!

  The sensation was giddying. He seemed to be walking up steps inside his head until he reached a place where there was nothing but pure white light, and it showed him as plainly as though he were telepathic what his opponent was planning. Potential triangles outlined themselves on the board as though their sides were neon bars. The elderly man succumbed in twenty-eight turns, not beaten but content to resign on a margin of fifty points he was unlikely to make up, and ceded his place to the thin young black saying, “Morris, I think we finally found someone who can give you a hard time.”

  Faint warning bells began to sound at that stage, but he was having too much fun to pay attention.

  The newcomer was good. He obtained a margin of twenty on the first triangulation and concentrated on preserving it. He did so for another six turns, growing more and more smug. But on the fifteenth turn his smugness vanished. He had tried another triangulation, and when the concealed points were entered there was nothing valid, and he had to post his own concealed list, and on the next turn found himself cut out of an entire corner worth ninety points. His face turned sour and he scowled at the score machine as though suspecting it of lying. Then he gathered his resources in an effort to regain the lost lead.

  He failed. The game went to its bitter end and left him fourteen down. Whereupon he thrust his way through the bystanders—by now a couple of dozen strong—and stormed off, slamming fist into palm in impotent fury.

  “I’ll be damned,” said the elderly man. “Well, well! Look—uh—Sandy, I didn’t make too good a showing against you, but believe it or not I’m the area secretary of the Fencing Association, and if you can use a light-pen and screen as well as you use a manual board …!” Beaming, he made an all-embracing gesture. “I take it you have club qualifications where you come from? If you intend to shift your residential commitment to Lap-of-the-Gods, I can predict who’ll win the winter championships. You and Morris together would make an unstoppable—”

  “You mean that was Morris Fagin?”

  All around the group of onlookers there were puzzled reactions: this poker claims he didn’t know?

  “Sandy,” Kate murmured in the nick of time, “it’s getting late. Even later for us than it is for these nice people.”

  “I—uh … Yes, you’re right. Excuse us, friends; we came a long way today.” He rose, collecting the grimy unfamiliar bills which had accumulated on the corner of the table. It had been years since he handled this much of the generalized scrip known as paper money; at the church in Toledo it had been collected and counted automatically. For most people cash payments stopped at the number of dollar coins you would drop in a pocket without noticing their weight.

  “I’m flattered,” he said to the elderly man. “But you’ll have to let me think about it. We may be only passing through. We have no plans to settle here.”

  He seized Kate’s arm and hurried her away, terribly aware of the sensation he had caused. He could hear his feat being recounted already along the mouth-to-mouth circuit.

  As they were undressing he said miserably, “I sabotaged that one, didn’t I?”

  Admitting the blunder was novel to him. The experience was just as unpleasant as he
had imagined it would be. But in memory echoed Kate’s description of the graduates from Tarnover: convinced they were incapable of error.

  That’s not human. That’s mechanical. It’s machines whose view of the world is so circumscribed they go right on doing the only thing they can although it’s wrong.

  “I’m afraid so.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, devoid of criticism. “Not that you could help it. But to be spotted by an area secretary of the Fencing Association and then to beat the incumbent West Coast champion—yes, that is apt to provoke comment. I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you hadn’t recognized Fagin.”

  “You knew who he was?” In the middle of shedding his pants he stood ridiculous, one leg in and the other out. “So why the hell didn’t you warn me?”

  “Do me a favor? Before you pick your first quarrel with me, get a little better acquainted. Then you can do it with justification.”

  He had been on the verge of anger. The inclination vanished. He completed undressing, as did she, and then took her in his arms.

  “I like you very much as a person,” he said, and bestowed a grave kiss on her forehead. “I think I’m going to like you just as much as a woman.”

  “I hope so,” she answered with equal formality. “We may have to go a lot of places together.”

  He drew back to full stretch, hands on her shoulders.

  “Where next? What next?”

  As rare in his life as admitting mistakes was asking for advice. It too was disturbing. But it would have to become a habit if he was to stay afloat.

  She shook her head. “Think about that in the morning. It has to be somewhere else, that’s definite. But this town is already halfway right … No, too much has happened today. Let’s overload it and sleep it out and worry about decisions afterwards.”

  With abrupt tigerish violence, as though she had borrowed from Bagheera, she clamped her arms around him and sank her sharp tongue—sharp as her gaze—between his lips.