Michelle was wearing a pale blue, pleated skirt with white blouse and navy top. Her hair was looser this time, held by a band instead of being tied in a ponytail. Kevin pictured her as the sun-bronzed, untamed Amazon queen, riding a white horse, her hair billowing, a bow slung across her back—and, naturally, one of those loincloths that they always had in fantasy-novel cover illustrations, showing all of those incredible legs.
They came into the lab, with its wall of window facing the slope behind the house, leading down to the shore of the inlet. Kevin went over to the corner where the video equipment was and retrieved the cartridge from a drawer. Michelle stopped to look over the tabletop mec world. "So what's new with these little guys since I was here," she asked. "Anything interesting?" That was what warmed Kevin toward her: like Eric, she found microspace fascinating in its own right and was able to lose herself in the wonder of simply experiencing it. Everything didn't have to be a matter of bottom lines and market sizes.
Kevin made a face. "Not really. We talked about trying a speck of depleted uranium mounted on some kind of sprung joystick as a balance sensor, but nobody could figure out how to interface it. Flies use something like that."
"Why uranium?"
"You need all the mass you can get."
Michelle thought back to what Eric had talked about at the lab. "Oh, is this to do with that business about mass and size shrinking at different rates?" she said.
Kevin nodded. "Mass scales down with the cube of size—being a hundred times smaller makes you a million times lighter. So inertial systems don't work too well when you get really small—for example, as balance regulators."
"You mean like the ones in your ear?"
"Right. It's probably why insects have six legs. A tripod is the most naturally stable configuration you can get. So what you do is stand on one while you move the other."
Michelle put the attaché case down on the bench and picked up one of the mecs from the table. She pulled up a stool and studied the mec through one of the benchtop lenses. "Is that why you came up with those weird weapons too—jumbo chain saws and drill-tipped lances?" she asked.
Kevin didn't normally go into technicalities with outsiders, but Michelle's interest seemed genuine. "Nothing that depends on stored kinetic energy works," he replied. "Hammers, axes, spears, missiles—anything that you swing or throw—they all behave as if they were made of Styrofoam."
"So what do insects do? That's right, they concentrate on things like stabbing and cutting and crushing, don't they?"
"Right. Exactly."
"Don't they spray chemicals around too?"
"Yes . . ." Kevin made a vague gesture in the air. "But it's kind of messy. We haven't really gotten into that."
Michelle leaned back from the lens. "How did this Bug Park thing start? Ohira says it was with you and Taki playing out combat games—the kind of thing you see on computers."
"That's about how it was. Being able to stalk somebody across real terrain was just a whole lot better than things faked on screens." Kevin nodded toward the window. "Especially with the kinds of landscapes you get down there."
"But wait a minute, you can't be serious. Those weapons of yours are totally destructive." Michelle indicated the mec that she was still holding. "These might be a bit out of date, but they're still pieces of high-quality engineering. You're not telling me that you hack them to pieces playing adventure games?"
Kevin shook his head. "Oh no. The real battlemecs have got buttons that you have to get at—like vital spots. If you can hit the other guy's first it deactivates him, and he's dead." He hesitated, wondering if a lawyer might have a problem about bugs' rights or something. "The, er, other stuff . . ."
"Oh, say what you mean. Chain saws and spin-tipped lances?"
"Right. That came later, for protection—when we found that all kinds of other things were likely to come muscling in on the act too."
"But it was more fun, right?" Michelle winked, daring him to deny it. That was the moment when Kevin found that he felt at ease with her completely for the first time. This adult was okay, he decided. He grinned and nodded back at her in a way that said of course it was more fun.
"Why the fancy colors?" she asked.
"Birds. They think you're something yucky and leave you alone."
Michelle sighed and nodded. "Obvious, really. Why is the obvious always the last thing we think of?"
"Probably because once you realize it's obvious, you quit looking. Who's going to keep on looking for an answer after they've found one that works?"
"Hm. I guess that's obvious too, really."
"Anyhow, we lost a few that way—before we started painting them."
"You don't mean the birds ate them?"
"Oh, I wouldn't think so. Probably they just got dropped in the water or around the neighborhood."
"I suppose if we went public, the place could be enclosed with nets or something," Michelle said distantly. In her mind she seemed to be involved in the scheme already. It was refreshing.
"It could actually happen, then?" Kevin said. "Dad says that Ohira is really serious."
Michelle put the mec back down on the table. "You bet he is. He could end up scraping quite a lot of investment money together to back it, too. He's got people back home interested. You know, it could turn out to be an even bigger hit in Japan. They seem to go in for things like that—you know, novelty."
"You think so? Taki and I have been having other thoughts as well."
"Such as . . . ?" Michelle looked interested.
"We've got a mec over at his place that we're trying to get to fly. The wings are flexible and vibrate like an insect's. The trick is getting the twist right. When people tell you that old story about bees not being able to fly, what they don't understand is that those equations were for fixed-wing. Insects fly more like helicopters." Kevin waved a hand to indicate boundless possibilities as the tide of enthusiasm swept him on. "Suppose you could actually be a submarine in an aquatic environment, able to see parameciums and amoebas?"
"Great educational potential," Michelle said, getting into the swing. "A lot more than just entertainment, maybe—the way Ohira thinks."
Kevin cast an arm around. "How many people really know what else goes on in the houses they live in? It's a whole new world at mec scale, just like outside. It's unbelievable. You really don't want to know what's down there in your carpet. And when you get a chance, take a close-up look at the solid walls that you think keep everything out. Every school should have something like this. They tell you all about how corporations are structured inside, but how many kids get a chance to climb around inside a clock?"
Michelle stared at him, intrigued. "You know, Ohira has never talked about anything like that. I don't think possibilities like that have occurred to him. I'll bring it up next time I see him." She glanced at her watch. "Speaking of which, Kevin, I hate to break this up because it's absolutely fascinating, but I have to get moving. I would like to see more of Bug Park, though. When can we set up a date?"
"Well . . . any time that suits you, I guess. I don't have too many commitments."
Michelle stood up from the stool. "I'll look forward to that."
Kevin still had no idea where to find the relay that he had promised to retrieve for Taki. He thought frantically. "What kind of computer is that?" he blurted suddenly, nodding at the burgundy attaché case on the bench.
"That?" Michelle looked surprised. "It isn't a computer."
Kevin knew it wasn't, but the laptop had to be somewhere for Taki to have remote-guided the mec. He waited in the hope that Michelle might pick up on the subject, but she just came around the table and picked up the video cartridge that she had come downstairs for. "Oh, I thought it was a laptop," he said lamely. She didn't respond. He went on desperately, "Do you use one?"
"All the time for reference material and e-mail. You can't get away from them. It's out in the car." She began moving to the door.
Great, Kevin thou
ght as he followed her. What was he supposed to do now? He drew alongside her as they crossed the yard. "What kind is it?" he asked—anything to keep on the subject.
"I'm not sure. Bell, I think."
"Oh. What model?"
"Seven hundred something. Does that sound right?"
Kevin tried to look astonished. "That's really amazing! Do you know, I was having an argument about those with somebody just the other day." He hoped it didn't sound as stupid as he felt. "Does the internal phone come out on an ansi or International PIN configuration connector?"
"Kevin, would you believe?—I have absolutely no idea. Neither do I care."
"Could I have a look? It would only take a second."
"Well, sure . . . I guess." Michelle gave him a strange look. "If it's really that important."
They came around to the front of the house, where the white Buick was parked in the driveway. Kevin stopped and pulled off his sweater. "Wow, it's hot all of a sudden. Don't you think it's hot? Or maybe it's just me."
Michelle unlocked the doors. "It's down by the seat there," she said, indicating with a nod.
"Oh, right." Kevin opened the passenger door and lifted out the laptop while Michelle climbed in the far side of the car. "Now let's see, what have we got?" He unzipped the case, slid the computer partway out, opened the lid for no reason that he could have explained if she'd asked, and made a show of flipping open covers and peering at the connector arrays inside. All the time, his fingers were searching feverishly through the pouches inside the case. He found the plastic pack containing the relay card and slipped it into the folds of the sweater draped in his other hand. "Okay, right, that's it." He reclosed the case and put it back on the floor in front of the seat. Michelle leaned across to peer out at him.
"Did you find what you wanted?" she inquired in the kind of tone she might have used to ask if he were feeling well.
"Yes, thanks. . . . It's what I thought." He closed the passenger door, and stooped to wave as the car pulled away, sending Michelle an inane grin before he could stop himself. Taki, you'll pay for this, he vowed savagely. He waited until the Buick had disappeared from the driveway, then turned and trudged back to the house.
CHAPTER SIX
Doug Corfe's experiences had left him with a generally pragmatic approach to life.
His background before working for Eric Heber at Microbotics had been Navy. After enlisting and going through the Naval Training Center at Great Lakes, Illinois, he had been selected for electronics school, graduated in the top five percentile, and spent two years as an electronics technician in attack submarines. That qualified him for the Navy's scientific education program, in which he did well enough to be sent to Cal Tech, where he got his electrical and electronics degree. He then received a commission as ensign, applied for flight training, and was sent to the Naval Air Station at Pensacola, Florida. After a year's duty as a Navy Flight Officer based at San Diego, he transferred to carriers and left the service four years later having made full lieutenant.
His experiences said there was no such thing as a dysfunctional piece of equipment that couldn't be fixed, and few problems that would admit to no solution. It was just a question of looking hard enough. In dealings with people, he valued directness and simplicity. While there were exceptions, his inclination was to mistrust those who seemed unable or unwilling to put plainly what they had to say. Too often he had found obfuscation a sign that somebody just didn't know what they were talking about, or wasn't being honest about something.
It was not surprising, therefore, that he had taken well to working with Eric, who, heedless of the scientists vying for status in the fast-growing environment that Microbotics offered at the time, had shown no interest in campaigning for self-glorification but saved his energies for the work at hand instead. So when the schism developed over whether to go with conventional or DNC interfacing, it had been almost predictable that Eric would be the one to defy what eventually emerged as the consensus, and perfectly natural that Corfe would move with him when he left.
Things had been different with Vanessa, who seemed completely unprepared for the development, and Corfe could remember some acrimonious exchanges between her and Eric when Eric announced his intention to head off on his own. But they were married by then; and Eric could be astonishingly stubborn once he had made his mind up. Here Neurodyne was today, maybe a fledgling yet as corporations went, but after three years its feathers had sprouted. It was about to fly high. . . .
Provided, that was, that nothing happened to prevent the company from capitalizing on the unique technology that it now owned.
After all, DNC was a completely new way of connecting between things going on in people's heads and events in the world outside. It hooked straight into the brain, bypassing the normal buffering functions of the senses. Some people found that a pretty scary thought. While others, apparently, made it their business to ensure that as many people as possible stayed scared.
Corfe had suspected in the early days that hostile interests were at work, playing upon such fears to undermine confidence in the new company. He had tried alerting Eric, but Eric had been too immersed in his work and was too innately trusting to give serious consideration to the thought. After twelve years in the Navy, Corfe, having made his point, didn't argue with the boss.
Although the initial fuss did eventually die down, it had never really gone away. Every now and again some journalist would dig up one of the earlier articles and gnaw on it again like an old bone, or a scientific editorial might make a passing reference when commenting on a newly alleged hazard that had absolutely nothing in common. It was as if somebody, somewhere had been keeping things at a simmer, waiting for . . . what? Now the latest signs were that it was all about to build up again, just when the news was starting to go around that Neurodyne was poised to clean up a market reckoned to be worth billions. Just coincidence? Corfe didn't know. And the same restraints that had checked him before made him reluctant to go back to Eric, harping the same tune all over again. Besides, this kind of thing really wasn't in his line of expertise.
But a new person had recently appeared on the scene who might have better ideas on how to handle this kind of situation. It was, after all, a legal matter at the bottom of it all, wasn't it? He pondered for a few days on how to go about broaching the subject. Finally he called Kevin's number.
Corfe's only regret in marrying the Navy was that the eventual divorce had left him without any children of his own. But at thirty-five he still had time to put that right. In the meantime, he was getting some good practice, having become something of a second father to Kevin when Patricia died. It would have been as well in any case; teenagers with minds as active as Kevin's needed two fathers.
"Hey, Kev, it's Doug. How's things?"
"Oh, hi, Doug. Fine. What's up?"
"Listen, do you have any plans for Friday?"
"I don't think so. Let me check with Taki. Do we—" A blur of voices followed as Kevin talked away from the phone. Then, "No, it looks okay. Taki's got something going on in Seattle, anyhow."
"Is he at the house?"
"No, I'm at his place. The call was rerouted. So, Doug, what did you have in mind for Friday?"
"Mack called. He's got a used outboard that sounds right for the boat—twenty horsepower for under two hundred dollars. How would you like to give me a hand mounting it?"
"Sure. Sounds great."
"Okay, I'll pick it up and be over at the house at, say, five-thirty. We'll make the cutout and line it with fiberglass, and I'll come back in the morning when it's all dry to mount the motor. Betcha we'll have it out on the water by lunch."
"In that case I'll plan on a late lunch. Okay, Doug. See you Friday at around five thirty."
It was an old fourteen-foot hull that Eric had picked up from a yard in Tacoma as an intended renovation project to get into with the boys, and had put off repeatedly as other demands rolled inward in their relentless tide. Kevin and Taki had scrape
d the bottom, stripped off what was left of the paint, and recoated it to at least keep it together until some new initiative should make itself known from the adult world. Since then, it had remained upturned by the end of the dock behind the house, providing shade and shelter for a menagerie of things that rustled and scurried on the ground below, and a grandstand from which to view the world for contemplative gulls above.
Corfe stood over the stern, measuring and marking the cutout to be made in the transom. Kevin, in jeans and a tracksuit top, sat on a crate, sorting out the items they would need from the toolbox.
"We'll need that rasp with the wooden handle too," Corfe said, glancing across.
"Got it." Kevin turned over other items in the toolbox curiously and held up a two-handled gadget with pivoted fingers and a serrated piece that looked like some kind of ratchet. "What's this thing?"
"For autos—a valve spring compressor. To take the tension off until you've got the keeper in."
"Neat." Kevin picked up the container of polyester resin that Corfe had brought and studied the instructions on the label.
"How are things with that lady lawyer who was at the labs?" Corfe asked, plugging the drill into an extension cord from a power point set in a concrete post at the end of the dock.
"Pretty good from the sound of things. She's been here at the house a couple of times. Getting to be one of the family already."
Corfe inclined his head to indicate the rocks and mounds at the bottom of the slope down from the house. A stick with a red-and-yellow pennant marked the location of one of Kevin and Taki's mec boxes. Another fluttered a few yards from it, blue and white. "Eric tells me she gave Bug Park a try too. How'd she get on?"
"She really got into it," Kevin said. "I mean right away—like somebody who really wanted to find out what it was all about. A lot different from just freaking out, like Taki's stupid sister."
Corfe handed Kevin the drill and indicated the places he had marked for the corner holes. While Kevin was attending to those, Corfe unfolded the fiberglass cloth. "What would you say about her as a lawyer?" he asked. "Does she seem like a good person to handle this scheme that Ohira's talking about?"
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