by David Palmer
Kim returned Just In Time—Lisa screaming, clothes off, man just at Point of No Return.
"I don't know how I did it." Amazement showed in voice. "Other than the War, and then losing Jason, I had led the most tranquil existence you could imagine up to that point; I never even had to raise my voice as a child! This guy was a foot taller than I and outweighed me by a good hundred pounds. But I saw what was happening and I grabbed him by the hair and threw him across the room—literally!
"He jumped up—I've never seen such an expression on a human face—and charged me. It was obvious that his intentions were the same; he'd just found a new victim—first victim . . . !
"I sidestepped his rush without thinking. And while he was turning around, I picked up a poker from the fireplace and hit him over the head with it. He fell and I kept hitting him until he was dead. It took a week to get the mess out of the carpet."
Kim completely untroubled by lingering doubts. Eminently satisfied with cause, result of her killing. Wished own case so clear-cut. Told her so. Then related incident.
Kim listened quietly, thoughtfully, sympathetically to facts. But cut off subsequent breast-beating soliloquy: "Stop that—stop it right now! You have nothing—nothing!—to feel guilty about! With your training you could have done nothing else—
"But . . . !" Blue eyes flashed impatiently. "If you could have—if you had it to do over again and the only way you could save Terry was by killing Rollo—or someone else you knew no better—and you had time to plan every single action in advance, what would you do?"
Mouth opened, then closed without reply. Whole universe shifted on moorings. Most disturbing perspective, but question in that form completely self-answering, of course: Yes!—in hot millisecond would kill to save baby brother—dozen times over . . .!
"You don't have to shout," Kim remonstrated, smiling. "You're only three feet away."
Felt so much better! Killing weighed on me, even though had rationalized intellectually with Adam's help. But Kim, with unerring instinct for bottom line, spotted flawed reasoning underlying residual guilt; skewered with single question; fixed it on gut level, where really counts.
Future resolve unaffected, however: Intend to do level best never to kill again. Still working to eliminate lethal automatic responses from combat computer. Rough stuff still available if circumstances mandate, but want use contingent upon conscious evaluation, decision. No more accidental discharges.
Kim disagrees. Stated emphatically, upon adding her (Lisa, too) to training schedule, wants entire arsenal, undiluted. Feels minuscule accident risk inadequate justification for blocking instant access to most potent techniques. Haven't argued; teaching them same program I learned originally, as requested. Even Lisa working on baby drills targeted (once acquires sufficient mass, strength, coordination) at unthinkingly lethal potential.
But I'm not.
Wish party included animal behaviorist. Perhaps could furnish simple, reasonable explanation; thereby preserve my sanity: Terry's vocabulary still expanding in exponential increments: words, phrases, sentences—paragraphs—few of which could have heard often enough to implant in memory. Don't know what to make of it. Always been good talker, of course (for Hyacinthine Macaw; not best-talking psittacines, just one of most loyal, loving, intelligent). And recent performance nothing short of phenomenal, no question. Maybe even anomalous.
But hardly justifies Adam's present reaction: Has convinced himself is in on ground floor of major Unnatural Happening (as distinct from minor Unnatural Happening?).
Latest speculation: Terry and I mind-linked—"It's the only possible explanation; he says almost everything you do half a breath before you get it out."
Nonsense began day Terry spouted relevant new word string as I checked Adam's splint. Observed patient's awed expression then, but failed to recognize significance. If had, would have nipped in bud. Explanation obvious, reasonable, logical—mundane:
Of course anticipates me regularly: Been with me almost every waking moment since egg: developed sophisticated conditioned-reflex matrix based on my behavior. Picks up clues too subtle for observer lacking long-term close association; achieves fair degree of accuracy guessing what I'll do, say next.
But missed boat; no letup since.
And driving me mad. . . .
At least Adam more at ease with Kim now. Signs unmistakable.
This morning she related experience with gasoline generator upon utilities' collapse: Located, hooked up to house wiring; enjoyed benefits for two weeks—until failed. Checked, noticed oxidization buildup on commutator surfaces; attempted to clean with alcohol to no avail.
"Of course not," Adam interrupted; "no generator will work after being doused with alcohol."
Kim looked puzzled; advice clearly at odds with training. "Why not?"
"Because," he pontificated, "a potched watt never toils."
Kim joined me in retaliatory tickle attack without moment's hesitation.
We (Kim and Lisa, too; somehow inclusion into party never in doubt) proceeded to Pasadena, located AA address from Palomar Cal-Tech directory. Site examination produced sketchy clues pointing to Jet Propulsion Laboratory.
Adjourned to thence, invested several days searching. Results ambiguous. Fairly recent activity evident, certain areas only: Footprints in deep dust contain shallow dust; elsewhere coating undisturbed. Plus Kim says much equipment she saw during recent touristy-style visit missing.
Oddly enough, only relevant information found by Lisa. Scrap of paper crumpled on office floor: Apparently someone's crib notes of meeting at secret (ah-hah!) AA facility sometime after attack—meeting attended by all available AAs, families.
Attack no surprise to AA community. Knew how would be conducted but not when. Informed Defense Department to no avail. Though knew mechanism possible (Daddy's research), and Other Side undoubtedly possessed technology, officialdom judged probability of use—and attendant implication that goal was worldwide elimination of everyone not within own ranks—incredible: "That's not war; that's insane! We can't base policy on that—nobody would do that . . . !"
AAs living out of suitcases for weeks prior to attack; irreplaceable belongings either already in shelters comparable to Daddy's, boxed, ready to load, or lined up in orderly fashion, ready to snatch-and-run on moment's notice. Instant missile phase ended, all on way to retreat—
(All but self . . . ! Daddy never hinted—other than How-Bad-Things-Are lecture, shelter checkout shortly before went to Washington. Likewise, Teacher knew attack would find me home alone—wonder why let me rot in shelter, and months afterward. Surely could have told someone, left message. . . .)
Per usual, nothing in document suggested location of AAs' retreat. Apparently putting in writing contrapolicy. Frustrating, but makes sense: Is secret, after all. . . .
Contents little more than summary of regretful broodings about events leading to that point; checklist of writer's immediate duties in data-, equipment-gathering expedition to certain installations about Cal-Tech campus, outlying research facilities, collecting stuff hidden When Balloon Went Up (to protect from random looting and/or vandalism). Plus intimation that booty awfully useful when things quieted down after "poor old H. sap" gone, and certainly critical during "instant emergency."
But not a clue concerning how useful. Or where.
Adam still at it: Watches Terry like Rhine Institute test monitor—or first-time séance attendee. Anytime baby brother utters anything unexpected, relevant, clever, complicated—whatever—Adam pounces immediately, blows all out of proportion. Has everybody else doing it now, too—i.e., Kim.
But Lisa to blame for current intensity of Terry-watching fever: All sitting around living room one evening, chatting about nothing in particular. More particularly, Kim and I ragged Adam as attempted to spin improbable yarn about past. Terry observed antics beatifically from stand while Tora-chan drowsed in Adam's lap. Lisa ostensibly paying no attention, reading book.
". . .
was the loneliest summer of my life. If I worked for him, Father would allow me to solo occasionally or play with the orchestra during concerts. I got paid for performing, but not for the office work. I didn't mind too much: As a performer, I was known; and most of the young ladies in the vicinity could be considered my groupies."
Kim rolled eyes heavenward; Terry offered raspberry just as about to myself. Lisa giggled.
Adam continued unperturbed: "Unfortunately, I was assigned to conduct an inventory of the physical properties belonging to the orchestra—everything in the building. A lot of legwork was involved, but I had access to the computer so it didn't look too difficult to list, categorize, and account for everything."
"Have you read any good books lately?" Kim asked sweetly.
"NOOO-nooo-no-nonono . . . !" yelled Terry, bobbing head delightedly.
"Good stories are hard to come by," I replied, controlling expression firmly: Intended beginning own response with "no."
Lisa giggled again.
"After counting everything," Adam continued, eyeing us severely, "and inputting the whole monumental collection into the computer, I started up the analysis and cataloging program. The system processed it; then suddenly erased all the data."
"Gaw-awl-ly . . . !" quoth Terry. I blinked, closed mouth: Beaten to punch again.
Noted Lisa trying not to giggle.
"I called service; they came right out. The hardware man checked and pronounced everything healthy. The programmer analyzed the system's behavior, reloaded the software, rechecked everything, and assured me that all was well."
"Well, well, well . . ." intoned bird. Didn't attempt to conceal reaction this time: Glared at featherhead; prefer to kibitz for myself.
Lisa engrossed in elaborate study of fingernail.
"I reinput the inventory, started the program—and exactly the same thing happened again!"
"How 'bout that . . . !" offered Terry. Adam, ostensibly staring preoccupiedly at ceiling, now watching bird out of corner of eye. Kim paying attention, too. All of which very funny: Terry's reply that time his own for sure; hadn't intended to comment.
"I called the service people back, and they did exactly what they had done previously, then left. I re-reinput the inventory and—"
"The same thing happened again!" Kim and I chorused—again half a breath behind Terry.
Kim's, Adam's eyes met momentarily. Lisa giggled again. I affected indifference.
"It happened six times in a row," Adam continued distractedly, attention now wholly fixed on bird. "And I was getting pretty tired of it. But finally the analyst announced he'd identified the problem.
"Our system was running on their third-generation software, which apparently contained a glitch that only surfaced under certain conditions. Our inventory provided them.
"They'd just finished writing their fourth-generation software, and they decided to try it on our system. After loading it, they hung around and watched while I input the inventory one last time—I hoped."
"Then what?" Chorus this time included only Foster twins, Terry still half a breath in lead. Kim sat this one out, watching.
Adam's hesitation visible; almost lost track of story. Almost.
"That did it—or very nearly. It processed the inventory electronically and didn't erase it, but wouldn't print it.
"The programmer displayed an incomprehensible screen full of numbers and symbols, studied it for a few moments, then nodded.
" 'That's it,' he gloated. 'You see'—he highlighted a section—This is assembly language, our fourth-generation software, and here's the print program.'
"He went back into the third-generation program briefly and displayed the sort section. 'Here,' he said proudly, 'is where that glitch resides that's been wiping your library. It's this command right here.' He pointed to a single symbol.
" 'We intended to use that command, updated to fourth-generation, to order send-to-printer. But somehow we left it out when we actually wrote the program.' "
Adam radiated air of malicious anticipation. "I'm sure by now you've all figured out what the problem was."
Had, embarrassed to confess. Kim hadn't, though; result of gentle upbringing: Basically nice person; thought processes unaccustomed to such depravity.
Adam smiled cherubically, savoring moment; then began: "We needed the . . ."
"—heir of the byte that dogged us!" shrieked Terry, as I opened mouth. I glared as bird exploded in manic laughter, head bobbing gleefully, dancing back and forth on perch.
Adam's expression went from wicked delight to outraged disappointment—then genuine startlement. Kim's eyes grew round, as well. Both stared at bird as if suddenly had started ticking. Lisa passed "giggle"; went straight to "belly laugh."
"That didn't come from memory," Adam stated flatly.
"Nor from random word-string assembly," Kim added apologetically.
"You guessed the punch line," Adam continued darkly. "He got it from you."
"He has been taking the words right out of your mouth a lot lately," Kim offered uncomfortably.
Adam pressed on resolutely: "It hasn't happened with me or Kim; you're the only one he anticipates—or speaks in stereo with, often as not. That bird is reading your mind!"
"He is not," I protested, probably somewhat peevishly. Explained again how years of close association had given baby brother private insight into clues pointing to imminent actions, words.
Adam began scathing retort; Kim placed hand over mouth. "But even if he had heard it before," she said gently, "doesn't it strike you as unlikely that he would pick just that moment to say it?"
Opened mouth to reply; then closed thoughtfully. Kim asks hard questions! "That's kind of difficult to explain, I'll admit," I began. "But I'm sure . . ."
"This is silly," interrupted Lisa, hands on hips, expression radiating undisguised impatience with stupid grown-ups. "Everybody knows Terry knows what Candy thinks. And if Candy thought about it, she'd know what Terry thinks, too."
Palpable silence descended, broken, finally, by Terry's comment: "How 'bout that."
Adam now staring at Lisa: " 'Too' . . .?"
Lisa snickered; suddenly lost interest.
" 'Too' . . . ?" repeated Adam. Glanced at Kim, whose expression showed sudden disapproval of new conversational direction. "You don't suppose . . ."
"No, I don't," she responded firmly. Tone suggested wisdom of dropping subject.
But Adam on scent now; not deflected by subtlety: "She is a double-hominem child." Paused dramatically; then continued in hushed tones: "Who knows what talents might be lurking behind those huge, fathomless black eyes....
Lisa glanced up, sighed, returned attention to book. Kim snorted inelegantly.
"That's dumb," observed Terry—as I opened mouth to say that very thing.
Well, trail's end: Treasure hunt fun while lasted. Nothing left for short term but fall back to Plan A: Resume address-by-address examination of AA homes, work settings.
Between Kim, Adam, self, have dreamed up bunches of alternative approaches for locating AA headquarters in long run: For instance, Adam and Kim putting heads together over trailer's electronic wall innards; plan to hoodwink some innocent component into serving as band-searching beacon. Device to dial endlessly up, down spectrum, pausing briefly to spout message beseeching reply on specific wavelength, to which, of course, receiver tuned, with relay-actuated recorder poised in case nobody listening when response comes in. Are confident of success. Lack only couple more transistors, chips, whatnots.
But immediate options exhausted.
Have decided, following discussion, to follow AA trail up West Coast, loop over northern end of Rockies, touch base throughout Midwest, finally concluding initial search back home . . .
Shucks, by this time, after posting all those leaflets, lovely little town, surrounding area, probably completely repopulated—with AAs themselves, likely as not, having stumbled across advertisements. On arrival will surely find thriving, ind
ustrious, cheerful little farming community—all wondering what's keeping me. . . .
Here we are in Fresno—what's left of it—and here we seem to be stuck. Despite distance from San Andreas Fault, earthquake must have been humdinger: Roads—even open country!—impassable north and west. Terrain broken, fissured, stepped, generally messed up something awful. Unless backtrack, loop all the way around Rockies, seems to be no way to get from here to San Francisco, Sacramento, etc., next AA addresses.
Kim keeps looking around, Giving Thanks lived no closer to epicenter—ride was quite rough enough 300 miles away in Riverside. Assuming managed to survive immediate tectonic violence (slim odds, judging by conditions hereabouts), unlikely would have had place to live. Not much left standing.
We poked up every road on USGS map, even set out across open country, cutting fences as necessary—got nowhere. Repeatedly. Every road and/or off-road compass bearing blocked by fault damage. Major displacements involved, too: Haven't found passage for even van alone, never mind with trailer. Rock shelves just 50, 100 feet high; bottomless fissures gape 100 yards wide or more—both running miles across terrain, usually intersecting with others to form impassable barriers, culs-de-sac.
Adam started grumbling about finding bulldozer, making own road; quit when couldn't find one sufficiently intact to operate.
All of which finally led ("O bliss!") to scouting by air. Just returned from second survey flight. News to west, north, all gloom: Simply no way through. Devastation astonishing. Would be difficult even afoot. Tomorrow will head east; perhaps find logging/fire road around mess through Sierra Nevadas.
This is Kim reporting: Candy is missing. She was close to eighty miles out, having traced a series of apparently usable fire trails well into Sequoia National Park, when she reported that her engine had lost power and she was losing altitude. She triangulated her location for us as well as she could by taking compass bearings on landmarks in the few moments before intervening mountains cut off her signal. Adam managed to get a bearing on her, as well, during that time, using the RDF processor incorporated into that amazing electronics wall of his, so we have a fairly good fix on her location.