"Sure . . . when I can fit them in." Kevin looked over at Taki again for an input. No response.
"Have you got something else fixed for the holiday weekend?"
"Oh, I like the idea. But there's a lot going on right now that I can't really go into. I don't know if it's going to be possible to get away."
"You will let us know, though? You've got the number, right?"
"You bet. . . . And thanks."
"Great. Well, I seem to be hogging the phone here. I'm going to sign off and let Janna say a few more words. You take care. So we'll hear from you soon, Kev?"
"Right. Bye for now."
"See you, Taki. . . ."
Then Janna was back. "Hello, is this still Kevin?"
"Wait a second. I'll kick him. . . . Taki. . . . Taki, your girlfriend is back. Aren't you gonna talk to her?"
"What? . . . Oh, hi again, Janna. This is Taki. Sorry, I got a bit carried away by something."
"Do you think you might be able to make it Saturday?"
"Saturday?"
"The hike."
"What hike?"
"The hike that Avril just—"
Kevin interrupted. "It's okay, I'll tell him about it. Don't worry. He's having one of his withdrawals. You know, Orientals—retreating into the inner world. Meditation, contemplation, all that stuff."
"Are you serious?"
"No."
"Gee, then maybe it's not a good time. You sound like you could be pretty busy."
"Well, now you come to mention it, actually there is that, you could say so, yes. . . ."
"Okay, we'll leave you to it. But you will let us know before the weekend, yes?"
"You've got it."
"So long then, Kev. We'll see you around, anyhow. And goodbye, Taki."
"See you, Janna," Taki managed from the background. The voice gave way to a steady, echoing tone, which ceased as Kevin reset the phone.
"Is it hot or cold there?" Kevin asked, turning back. "What color is the sky? Which planet are you on, Taki?"
Taki stared back at him for several seconds, his mouth making silent chewing motions. Then he said, "So, this guy Garsten hasn't been very helpful and left documents lying around for anyone to use as evidence. I think that's really inconsiderate of him. But you know, Kev, I bet there is one place they'll be—if they exist. And it wouldn't mean having to sit around waiting for someone else to give you what you want. You go there yourself and get it."
"Where's that?"
"Inside the computer in his office. He's bound to have one."
For a moment, Kevin started to sit up and look interested. Then he slumped down again, as if having expected better. "Oh, great. So what do we do, dress up as meter readers so we can sneak a look, like in some stupid movie? . . . And I'm sure he leaves it on a dial-in line overnight, with the files organized to be accessible just so as people like us can hack into it. Come on, Taki, get real. Even if you're right, what good does it do us?"
Taki got up from the barber's chair and walked over to lift one of the mecs down from the shelf above the bench. It was one of the older "telebot" designs, like Ironside—heavy-powered, sturdy, about the size of a quart can. Its name was Sir Real. Taki set it down on the console, facing the screen and keyboard like an organist confronting the controls of a gigantic Wurlitzer.
"What are you doing?" Kevin asked, straightening up again on the stool and looking baffled.
Taki moved the mec closer to the keys, estimating the range of its arm with his eye. "Can you move into the coupler and tune in?" he said to Kevin, still distantly. "I want to try something. I've just thought of another way of getting at what's inside somebody's computer."
CHAPTER TWENTY
Eric exited from on-line and stared at the desk-side screen in his office, now showing the general options menu. Another four points down. So the rumor about Geddes & West had been right on the mark. If this started a general run, it could get serious. No, it was a bit late to be thinking things like that—this was already serious.
Maybe the three-day closing of trading over the holiday would provide a cooling-off period and avert a panic? He shook his head, even as the thought began to form—he was honest enough with himself to recognize wishful thinking when he saw it. This was still only Wednesday morning, and with the aid of electronics these things could avalanche in hours, if not less.
On the other hand, the technical dispute at the back of it all might generate enough uncertainty to slow things down. He had been getting calls all week from reporters and journalists asking for comments, and his initially patient denials and explanations were beginning to sound more curt. Medieval superstition had not gone away with the advent of technology and its supposed accompanying rationalism; it had merely been computerized.
It couldn't be a coincidence that all this should be starting to happen again just when the company seemed ready to soar. Everything that was going on had the same feel and imprint about it as the events of three years ago that he had believed were over. Except that this time it had a more sophisticated touch. Whoever was behind it had been doing a lot more background research this time; or somebody was leaking information.
He still couldn't comprehend the spite of mentalities that would undermine what they had been unable to equal, the cowardice of trying to tear down now what they had been unwilling to risk themselves. But it seemed a truer picture of human history than the one he had tried to construct around himself, in which integrity and merit paid in the end. He had an uncomfortable feeling that perhaps he was just waking up to a fact of life that would already be self-evident to somebody like Kevin, and Kevin had been too kind or too polite to bring to his attention.
If true, then there probably wasn't very much that he could do about it, he decided. People were largely born what they were, and even if that weren't strictly the case, he was long past the age when nurturing or good intentions were likely to make much difference. He'd read a theory somewhere that the same peculiarity of makeup that enabled people to excel in one direction always created some compensating inadequacy somewhere else. He should have taken more notice of Doug in the early days, he told himself, for whatever use that was now.
The phone on his desk rang. He steeled himself for another reporter. "Dr. Heber, what is your reaction to the allegations that have been appearing recently concerning . . .?" Or, "Can you state categorically, Dr. Heber, that there are no adverse side effects whatsoever?" But it had to be done, of course. If not he, then who?
He sat forward and picked up the phone. "Yes, Beverley?"
"I've got Michelle Lang on the line for you."
"Oh." Eric's eyebrows raised. "Very well. Put her through."
"Hello, Eric?"
"Yes. Hello there. What's new in the legal parts of the world? Or did I phrase that badly? Are there illegal parts?"
"I think I'm beginning to see where Kevin gets it from. As a matter of fact it's more social. I know this is short notice, but are you doing anything for lunch?"
"Well, I was originally scheduled to spend it with a couple of entomologists from San Francisco who are interested in using mecs to observe working insect colonies from the inside." Eric shrugged to himself. "At least, they were interested. They've canceled the trip. I guess we slipped down on the priority scale. Why, are you due out this way?"
"I can be," Michelle said. "And I want to talk to you—preferably before the holiday."
"Well, I'm glad somebody does, apart from jugular-seeking reporters. What time did you have in mind?"
"I'm flexible. How about twelve-thirty?"
"Sounds good. Would you like to meet here?"
"That would be fine. Oh—and by the way, I mentioned what you said about Relativity to a physicist I know at the university. He said you're crazy, it's all been proved experimentally, and haven't you ever heard of mass . . . what was it? I've got a note somewhere here . . ."
Eric smiled. "Mass-energy equivalence," he supplied.
"That's it. And the
re was something else about—"
"Don't tell me. Velocity-dependence of mass, and time dilation," Eric said.
"Is that what it was? Okay, if you say so."
"I have heard that before. Well, you can tell him that all those can be derived from Maxwell's equations and the conservation of momentum by classical methods, and don't say anything that's unique to Relativity at all. Einstein himself admitted it in his later years." Eric waited a second. "Was that all?"
"From me or from the physicist?"
"From the physicist."
"Yes, I think so."
Eric made a face. "Then tell him I'm disappointed. If he comes up to Barrows Pass this coming weekend he'll hear more objections than those—and some interesting answers, too. Ask him to explain the aberration of VLB interferometers. And what about laser ring gyros?"
"Slow down, Eric. I'm still at the beginning. Who was it again with the equations? Maxwell, was it? . . ."
"Don't worry about it," Eric said, laughing. "I'll write it down and give it to you at lunch. We'll see you here at about twelve-thirty, then."
On her drive south from the city, Michelle tried to analyze her own thoughts and ask what, exactly, she was hoping to accomplish. Her honest answer was that she wasn't sure. She felt frustrated at the little headway she had made the day before, the only tangible result being faxed copies of Jack Anastole's autopsy report and death certificate, which were public-domain information anyway and could have been obtained by anyone. Her real intention, she supposed, was to sound out Eric's state of receptiveness, and, depending on his reactions, maybe plant some thoughts that might germinate over the holiday weekend. In that way she would have done as much as was possible for the present to create the circumstances for things to progress further in their own time. If nothing more happened for the remainder of the week, it would not have been entirely wasted.
She arrived at Neurodyne shortly before twelve-thirty. As she parked in the visitor area, she noticed that both the Jeep and the Jaguar were in the reserved slots, which meant that Vanessa was also on the premises today. Michelle tried to anticipate what complications that might be likely to precipitate. Would it not seem odd for Michelle to be visiting Eric, not Vanessa, when she and not he was involved most in the firm's legal matters? Worse still, he might invite Vanessa to join them, which would negate the whole point of Michelle's coming here.
Michelle was still hurriedly composing some alternative reason in her mind for being here, when Eric appeared in the lobby—alone. Outwardly he was his usual affable self, and said he'd had Beverley call ahead to make reservations at a seafood restaurant in University Place, a marina waterfront center on the shore of the Narrows; but in his eyes and his voice, Michelle detected hints of strain.
When they left the building, Eric showed her to the Jaguar. "What's this? Don't you think the Jeep is appropriate to taking a lady to lunch?" she teased as he held the door for her to get in. "It really doesn't matter. I'm not that much of a snob really."
"Vanessa's taking the Jeep into the shop to be looked at this afternoon," he told her. "She says the transmission's playing up, or something."
"How is she today?" Michelle asked as Eric climbed in the other side and closed the door.
"Tied up with Joe Skerrill—I think. Something to do with the DNC patents. It all means about as much to me as Swahili. I haven't seen her all morning."
Which put paid to that particular worry. Michelle settled back in her seat, feeling more relaxed. The road outside the gates was still as Michelle had last seen it: machines digging trenches for sewer pipes; earthmovers leveling the adjacent lots. "That's another advantage of being in microengineering," Eric commented as they threaded their way between cones and warning signs. "Expanding to larger premises isn't a problem. You just open up another room."
On the way to the restaurant, he talked about the bad press that DNC was getting and its effects on the company's fortunes. Neurodyne stock was down alarmingly, and investors were getting nervous. A couple of big ones had actually pulled out. It was the first time Michelle had heard him admit that it was probably being engineered deliberately. He didn't seem to understand how people could try to suppress through fraud and disinformation what they were unable to compete with legitimately. Michelle couldn't help but get the feeling that he had never before seriously entertained the possibility that the world could be that way. He was ready to grant, too, that certain among the top management at Microbotics—and perhaps some of their financial associates—were probably behind it. The journalists and hack scientists who figured more visibly were dupes or hired hands. At least, this changed outlook could make her task easier, Michelle reflected.
The head waiter knew Eric and had saved them a window table facing the water—not that there was especially much to look out at; it was a moody day, with dark piles of cloud low down to the west and gray overcast everywhere else. Choppy waves roughened the Sound, with a stiff wind flapping the lines and rigging of the boats at their moorings. Eric decided that the day called for something hot and ordered the steak and mushroom pie.
"Bowdlerized American version," he commented, now back to his usual self, eyes twinkling through the gold-rimmed spectacles. "In Europe it's steak and kidney."
"Sounds dreadful."
"You see—expectations predetermine taste."
Michelle settled for the grilled salmon.
When the waiter had gone, Eric produced a slip of paper with the phrases scrawled on it that he had used over the phone when they touched on Relativity, along with a few lines of explanation. "Do we need to go into this now?" Michelle asked as she took it.
"I hope not."
"Good." She folded the paper and tucked it into her purse. "You know, you and he are going to have to talk to each other direct if you want to take this further. This is as far as I go playing the messenger."
"What's his name?"
"Fred Wainer."
"At the university, you said?" Eric thought for a few moments and shook his head. "I know a few of the physicists there, but I don't think I've heard that name."
"His field is nuclear."
"Oh, that might explain it, then. How did you meet him? Was he an expert witness in another great lawsuit that you handled? Millions of dollars at stake, and a threat to national security? Espionage treachery, murder, mayhem—the stuff of great novels and blockbuster movies?"
"No. At a dance."
"Um." Eric broke a roll and started spreading butter on the pieces. The wine waiter stopped by. They decided to stay with a glass each—one house Burgundy, one Cabernet.
"Actually, most lawyers' work is pretty mundane," Michelle said. "I'll let you into a professional secret. All the business about titanic clashes of intellect, and rapier-like cuttings and parryings of reason that you read about—it's all invented to satisfy the expectations of the faithful. At the bottom of it all, we're really a religion too—just the way you said science is getting to be."
"Oh, really?" Eric looked interested. "How's that, now? Tell me about it."
"Almost all human disputes and misunderstandings are easily settled as matters of routine. The conditions of sale of an airline ticket; who pays for the broken part; whether these bank charges are in order—clerks and counter assistants take care of it, according to the rules."
Eric nodded. "Very well."
"The cases that aren't quite so clear get referred upward to management, and the problems that don't get solved at some level or other there are relatively few. Those few are the ones you call in specialist help over—say, by turning it over to the legal department. And it's only the instances where the lawyers can't work out a solution—which again are the exceptions—that ever get near a courtroom at all."
"Okay. That makes sense. I agree. And? . . ."
"When the courts can't decide, it goes upward again, until finally you reach the summit for a ruling: the ultimate law of the land; the Supreme Court, the Pope, the British House of Lords . . . I don't
know what they have in Germany. Whatever."
"Yes?"
Michelle shrugged, as if the rest ought to have been obvious. "That's it. That's the big secret."
Eric shifted his eyes from side to side as if fearing eavesdroppers, then whispered, "What is?"
"The issues that make it to that kind of level for a decision are inherently undecidable. They can't be resolved by any system rules or reason that humans are capable of devising. If they could they would have been already—somewhere lower down the hierarchy where the requisite technical expertise exists. They're beyond all that."
"So what do we do?"
"What we do is use robes and ritual to solemnly camouflage the truth that the most illustrious in whom we place our ultimate trust might as well flip a coin for all the sense they're going to be able to make of it now. But the people go away happy that great wisdom has been dispensed and justice done, and the important business of life carries on."
Eric seemed fascinated. "And what's the important business of life?" he asked.
Michelle shrugged. "Feeding kids; making shoes; painting fences. Things like that."
They paused as the wines arrived.
"But isn't someone going to notice sooner or later that the coin can come down heads one time and tails another?" Eric said.
Michelle nodded. "Yes, precisely—so you have to make sure that doesn't happen. When the Oracle is asked the same question, it needs to deliver the same answer. Hence the legal obsession with precedents."
Eric sipped his drink and thought about that. "Yes, you're right. Most of what's called science works the same way. Bad data is defined as any result that doesn't fit the theory."
Michelle looked surprised in her turn. "So what happened to all this business we hear about rigorous proof by experiment?" she queried. "Doesn't it work that way? I mean, if your theory's not right, your plane won't fly. Isn't it so? How can a bad theory in science survive?"
Eric beamed, evidently having expected just that. "Easily. Because science that works stops being science and becomes engineering. So you could almost say that science doesn't really exist. It's a bit like the present instant that separates future from past—an infinitesimally thin dividing line between unproven speculations and planned obsolescence."
Bug Park Page 18