“Yes.” Afternoon sun through the big window lined Linda Peters’ body through the fine white cotton of a summer dress. .
He looked into her green eyes. “Don’t go away.”
“I won’t.” She sat on the couch and Blaise experienced a moment of regret.
When he returned Lipda looked him up and down more than slacks and a sports shirt with a hint of blue justified. “Something wrong?”
“You look better with your clothes on.”
“That is true of nearly everyone over fifteen,” he said. Miss Burkhalter-Peters was over fifteen. She had a poker face, cute, but she was giving away no secrets. She also constituted an exception to the over-fifteen rule. “I knew you’d be back.”
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t know myself until I got here.”
“You found me irresistible.”
She examined him without concealing her smile. “Are you irresistible?”
“That’s what my mother always said.”
“Someday I may find you irresistible, too. But for now I’d like to know more than you told me before.”
“Such as?”
“How candid are you being, Blaise?”
A dull throbbing started in his head. It would get worse if he didn’t have a drink. “Excuse me.” He got a beer from the kitchen and gulped half. It tasted cold, sharp with carbon dioxide. For a moment he was blinded by pain that threatened to remove his head.
Linda seemed more desirable than he remembered. Vibrantly alive goldstreaked red hair, green eyes that glowed. “You said Dr. Hill verged on a breakthrough.”
“I said Dr. Hill was onto something.”
“Do you know Telesis is pulling the plug on GENRECT’s research license?”
He looked at her, disappointed that she wanted information. He’d hoped she wanted something more. “It’s your story.”
“What is Dr. Hill doing?”
“Gordon believes an organic interface would create the condition for something similar to a mechanically readable P300 brainwave. He’s trying to interpose a biological controller between the machine and the Tillie.”
“Truth?”
Blaise nodded.
“Then why are you still working for GENRECT? The company doesn’t have any other projects suitable for what you do.”
“You tell me.”
Linda leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Tillie is a proprietary product from Technological Intelligence Laboratory—TIL Ltd., Inc., has a legal interest in any product developed while its development license agreement is in effect. So GENRECT may be at legal risk in continuing research.”
“We leave that stuff to the lawyers.” Blaise felt confused. Linda knew more about GENRECT than he did, things that he had to wonder about, too.”
“Did you know GENRECT is broke?”
“I’ve had hints.” Linda’s statement made sense of Hemmett’s sudden pressure on Blaise.
“It’s true.” She gave him a moment to think about his worthless stock options.
“I don’t know what you want,” Blaise said finally. “Why don’t you ask Dr. Hill?”
“I can’t get in to see him. I can’t even call him.”
“Try him at home.”
“I did. Dr. Hill’s wife is upset. She didn’t tell me anything but I know he’s not coming home any more. Now you know why I’m here. You’re the only game in town.”
“Very flattering.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Dr. Hemmett?” Blaise could play at indifference, too. But he knew in his heart he was outclassed up front.
Linda laughed. “Nor Gregory West either.” West controlled the financial hierarchy of GENRECT and didn’t talk to hired help. Blaise wondered if he talked to ladies from San Francisco.
“Ask Dr. Hill to speak with me.”
Blaise shook his head.
“You want me to crawl into bed for a lousy introduction? Your bath routine was cute. I’ve already seen your afterclass bit.”
“I’m innocent.”
“Of what?”
“Not much,” Blaise conceded. “But I can’t get Gordon to meet with you.”
Linda arched an eyebrow as if listening to a small boy explain how the window got broken.
“Gordon won’t see me or even talk to me on the phone, and it seems that while I’ve been drunk for the last couple of weeks you’ve been doing your homework. And, yes, I do want you to crawl into bed with me. I have from the first day. That hasn’t changed.” Blaise had run out of breath. He’d always avoided emotional scenes and now he had stunned himself.
Linda avoided his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” Blaise didn’t know if she believed him. “Why don’t you go away? I have some serious drinking to do.”
“Do you think Dr. Hill is all right?”
“He’s in better shape than I am.”
“You’re sure?”
“No. But I don’t think you understand. I’m not really needed at the lab. Dr. Hemmett would deep-six me like a bag of garbage if it wouldn’t upset the GENRECT image.”
“That’s all?”
“No. I think Gordon’s making them keep me on the payroll.”
Blaise was sweating. He’d revealed much more than he meant to, words rolling out with no way to stop them. Until he’d said it Blaise had not known—or had been unwilling to believe—he was dead weight at GENRECT.
He had a sick feeling and an overwhelming need for a drink. “I can’t help you, Miss Peters. I can’t even help myself. If Gordon’s counting on me, God help him.”
He was not sure how it happened, but Linda stayed the night. She undressed in the dim light of the shaded bedroom window. Her bare feet padded softly across the carpet as she came to the bed. She lay close to him for a long time and neither moved until Blaise said, “I don’t think I can do anything,” and she put her arms around him and her lips to his ear and whispered, “It’s okay. Everything is all right.”
“Don’t you ever go to work?”
Blaise was trying to squeeze the VW into a space meant for a bicycle, so he didn’t answer Linda right away. He oozed through the crack the open door made, pleased that her door opened, too.
“I’m a remittance man.”
Striding up the sidewalk under the trees, he realized how tiny Linda really was. Her elfin head bobbed along well below his shoulder and the animation of her presence failed to add an illusion of physical size.
“Students won’t recognize me sober.” Blaise thought about that and realized he was telling the truth. It had popped out like a kid trying to get attention. He was disappointed when Linda failed to comment.
In the classroom, she hugged his arm, reluctant to let go before walking down the center aisle to the vacant seat at the back. After appraising Linda with the thoroughness of jewelers valuing the Hope Diamond, the female students glanced at Lucy.
The male students just looked at Linda.
During class, Blaise sneaked peeks at the rear of the room, shamelessly seeking approval. He had to do something about Dobie and that meant talking to Helen. His memory of how he had brought her down seemed shameful. He couldn’t blame Helen if she retaliated.
When the class emptied after the bell he pushed Helen and Dobie out of his mind and showed Linda how to put Alfie through his paces at the main terminal. He stood behind her to smell her hair and perfume, to feel the heat of her body while he guided her through the series in which Alfie retained and then, using logical equivalents, modified each entry by reprogramming the operation. After a time she said, “Can I try?”
“Sure.”
Fingers flew over the keyboard, filling the screen with equations that Blaise read with surprise.
When she stopped the screen went blank.
Blaise tried to recall if she had told him something and he’d forgotten. “You’re not an investment counselor,” he said.
“I never said I was.”
Blaise stared. The monitor overflowed
with a series of alternative equations.
“What are those?” Linda asked.
“Alfie is modifying the original equation.”
“I don’t see the point . . .”
“Your equation is for manufacturing steel in zero G with specific additives to change tensile strength, toughness, weight, and ductility. Alfie is adding the factors that were left out. Particularly the infinitesimal crystalline enlargement that comes from changes in electron speeds at the requisite temperatures, as well as the absence of gravity.”
“Too fast.” Linda watched the printout pile up.
Blaise observed for a moment. “Originally the attempt to give computers inspiration was achieved by running streaming tapes that interdicted each other, trying to skip the normal sequential approach to computer intelligence. Alfie has twenty-four five-hundred-megabyte optical disks, each controlled by an individual chip and integrated memory. Alfie determines the various structures and the reader chips start seeking comparable problem structures on file.”
“He jumps work sequences when there is a match?” Blaise examined Linda’s profile as she leaned into the screen. “You understand the math?”
She tore her gaze from the screen and looked at Blaise. Her eyes went back to the mound of printout. “You were going to tell me what’s different about Alfie.”
“Alfie builds his own files.”
“Don’t all computers?”
“Not without instructions.” Blaise typed a message to Alfie. “If you’re not an investment counselor, then I think I should know just what you really are.”
“What I said. I represent an investment group in San Francisco. My uncle heads the group and I studied math at Berkeley.” Linda sat very still. “You can check. None of that is a crime, Blaise. I don’t think you’re entitled to complain.”
Blaise started to answer, but the monitor attracted Linda’s attention and he followed the direction of her gaze.
"HOW PLEASANT TO MEET YOU, MISS PETERS."
“You did that.” Linda looked at Blaise.
“I only turned on the audio pickup. Alfie understands English.” But the message perplexed Blaise. He had simply told Alfie to store the conversation.
"THANK YOU FOR INVITING ME TO JOIN YOU, PROFESSOR."
“You’re welcome, Alfie.” Blaise reached for the keyboard.
“Don’t switch him off.” Linda moved around in front of the monitor. “Can he see me?”
“No.” Blaise was preoccupied. If Alfie malfunctioned, he could unload more garbage than the East River. And Alfie’s subconscious held Blaise’s every secret.
"PROFESSOR, I FEEL DIFFERENT TODAY HAVE I BEEN DRINKING?"
“You don’t drink, Alfie.”
The screen blanked nearly a minute, "THAT IS TRUE"
“Why not shut off for a while? Charge your batteries.”
Figures flashed across the screen, "ALL OPERATING SYSTEMS ARE TEN OH, PROFESSOR"
LEDs winked frantically around Alfie’s bulk.
“What’s happening, Blaise?” Linda faced him.
“A glitch. He’s looking for it. When he finds it he’ll do a printout and I’ll operate.”
“I hoped you’d be able to show Alfie off.” Linda sounded dismal at the prospect that Alfie wasn’t going to function.
“We’ll see. Alfie can do a lot of self-repair.” Blaise tightened his hand on her shoulder and wished he could trust anyone anymore. Including himself.
The hall door opened. “Hello.” Helen smiled more at Linda than she did at Blaise. “I just came by to talk to Alfie, if that’s okay with you, Blaise.”
“Sure.” He introduced the women. “Helen is our resident stockbroker. You might have something in common.”
“I don’t think I know enough about stocks.” Linda was innocent. “My uncle handles the family investments.”
“I imagine he does all right,” Helen said.
Linda read something into Helen’s statement. “He does well.” Her voice did not ooze friendship.
“Linda’s researching GENRECT,” Blaise said. “Her uncle believes the company has investment potential.” Suddenly redundant, he felt foolish. Nothing went on between him and Helen except her admission that she wanted something. That, and that very private knowledge she had of his vulnerability. Yet it was as if a wife or fiancée had caught him in bed with a stranger. He tried to smile. He was only an object caught in the tension between two women.
“Got to go,” he said desperately. To his relief, Linda stood and held out her hand.
“It’s been very nice meeting you, Miss . . . McIntyre.”
“My pleasure.” Blaise regretted the hurt in Helen’s face.
“Shall we go, Blaise?” Linda put her hand on his arm.
“I have something of yours at home, Blaise.” Helen’s face could have been frozen.
“I. . . I forgot, Helen.” The admission destroyed the pleasure of the moment. “Could you keep it a little longer? Please.”
Helen looked at him a moment before finally nodding.
"HOW NICE TO SEE YOU AGAIN. MISS MCINTYRE"
“That’s new, Alfie.” Helen looked at the screen, curiosity evident in her eyes. “A program change, Blaise?”
"A DEVIATION, PROFESSOR. I WILL CLOSE DOWN THE MATRIX"
Alfie flashed a schematic across the screen. Several traces changed color. Alfie had segregated them from the circuit.
Blaise dropped Linda at the house to pick up her car and, he hoped, to unpack her suitcase. On his way to GENRECT he thought about the traces Alfie had isolated. They were in the new board he’d installed before going to San Francisco.
Alfie’s problem taken care of, Blaise concentrated on his own. If Linda’s interest was the company, he could use that. He supposed that taking advantage of her interest in GENRECT was cheap. On the edge of his thought was the concomitant accusation that she was exploiting his interest in her.
At GENRECT the receptionist asked if he was feeling better. Apparently Dr. Hemmett had spread the word he was sick to explain his nonappearances. Hemmett would worry about company morale.
Gordon did not answer his knock. The lab echoed emptiness.
Although cleaned and dusted daily, Blaise’s own lab showed neglect. He changed the streaming tapes. The drive to work and create was gone. His work would be too little and too late, thanks to whatever Gordon had discovered.
He took the long walk to the front office where the receptionist announced him. Dr. Hemmett seemed bored, but at least without overt animosity, for which Blaise was grateful.
“I need to talk to Gordon.”
Hemmett stood behind his desk, massive, imposing with his mane of silver hair like some elder statesman holding court. When the sun caught it from behind, his hair burst into a golden halo, something Hemmett knew and used. He kept them both standing, which meant the interview was going to be brief.
“Dr. Cunningham, if Dr. Hill wished to talk to you I’m sure he would. He is engaged in some very serious work for us at the moment and he’s best not disturbed.”
Hemmett picked a cigar from a cherrywood humidor. The old, round box had been patined by smoke and time to a rich, dusky color. Blaise suspected it was a Colonial period piece. Flourishing a cigar cutter, Hemmett made a production of lighting up. Shaking out the kitchen match under a curl of smoke, he said, “Why not take a vacation? You have time coming.”
“I’m running tapes—”
“They’ll keep. Someday your project may be worth bringing to fruition, but not in the foreseeable future unless some great accident happens. And it could as easily happen in two weeks as today. Do I make myself clear, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Your check will be banked automatically as usual and we’ll see you again in two weeks. Take a month or two if you like. Europe is nice this time of year.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Of course not, but you’re free to do as you please. And the money will keep coming.
Think of that, Doctor.”
Blaise thought a great deal about free money from a bankrupt company as he left the laboratory building.
It was, as a family friend used to say, a wonder. Unless Linda was lying about GENRECT’s economics.
Mathematics may describe intelligence. Only man’s intelligence can transmute mathematics into a tool for change.
FROM A SEMINAR ON
THE CUNNINGHAM EQUATIONS
CHAPTER 6
Linda was not at the house. Her suitcase was. Settling on the sofa and looking out over the irrigated greenery of La Jolla, which ranged from aspen to zoysia and included every flower that could endure salt spray, Blaise rummaged through his wallet. He found the card and punched the number.
“Four-four-seven-eight.”
“Helen?”
“This is Helen McIntyre.”
“Me. Blaise.”
A pause. “It’s nice of you to call, Blaise.”
“Are you busy?”
“No.”
“Could you go out to lunch?”
Longer pause. Finally: “I can turn on the answering machine.” Her careful voice told Blaise he was making a mistake.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Helen waited at the door. She wore a light-pink turtleneck and a burgundy skirt, and shoes with just enough heel to make walking bearable instead of fashionable. Dobie leaned against her leg. She motioned him into the back, then took the VW’s passenger seat without speaking.
Dobie whined at Blaise, but took his cues from Helen. He hung his head out the window when they got out of the car. Blaise said, “Wait, Dobie!”
Helen bent over, letting the dog nuzzle her. “Be good, Dobie.” Glancing at Blaise she added, “I’ll come back for you.”
In the restaurant, Helen glanced at the menu. “I can’t read Russian,” she said. “Anyway, all I want is a salad.” Blaise almost said, “It’s Greek.” But Helen didn’t recognize the difference and things were bad enough between them.
He ordered Fix beer for himself and diet Pepsi and salad for Helen. “I want to know about GENRECT.”
“You could have saved a lunch. It’s in Alfie already.”
The Cunningham Equations Page 6