by Ben Bova
Brad had made a point of seeing Kosoff privately to explain why he and Felicia had laughed when Kosoff offered to give the bride away. After a painful hour Kosoff seemed mollified, but only minimally.
“I know you think I exiled you to Alpha as punishment for snatching Felicia away from me,” the director had said. Grinning ruefully, he admitted, “Well, maybe I did. But you turned your exile into a triumph, and I’m proud of you.”
“Really?” Brad blurted.
“Really,” said Kosoff. “You have the mind of a fine scientist, young man. And what’s more, you have the stubbornness of an Arkansas mule. You’ll go far, I’m sure.”
Brad felt his cheeks flush.
Littlejohn was warier. In his cramped little office, he made a wry face when Brad told him of Kosoff’s praise.
“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts, son. Kosoff’s report back to Earth about contacting the octopods didn’t mention your name. Not once.”
“I don’t care,” said Brad.
“But you should. It’s important to get the credit, when you’ve earned it. That’s how reputations are made in science. I think it was Faraday who said, ‘Physics is to make experiments and to publish them.’ You’ve got to make your work known, and your name known, as well.”
Brad accepted the advice with a nod. Yet inwardly he wondered how he could get his own name known when Kosoff controlled the links back to Earth.
Now it was his wedding day, and Larry Untermeyer had come over to Brad’s quarters to help him get ready.
Larry sat on the edge of the unmade bed watching Brad pulling on the dark blue suit that had been made for him by one of the ship’s 3-D printers.
“Fits pretty good,” Larry said.
Looking doubtfully into the bedroom’s full-length mirror, Brad complained, “Feels kind of stiff, like it’s made of plastic instead of cloth.”
Untermeyer laughed. “That’s because it is, mostly. Besides, I bet you haven’t worn anything except jeans and tunics since grad school.”
Brad shrugged.
With a sardonic grin on his round face, Larry went on, “Well, you look like a bridegroom, all dressed up for his last day of freedom.”
“First time I’ve worn pants with a crease in them since god knows when,” Brad admitted.
Untermeyer sighed. “Just be glad the printer got the length right for those giraffe legs of yours.”
“Nobody’ll be looking at me, anyway,” Brad said, reaching for the suit’s golden cravat. “All eyes’ll be on Fil.”
His grin stretching, Larry agreed. “She’s a lot better to look at than you are.”
Just like Kosoff, Brad realized. He gets the credit for what I did. No, he corrected himself: he takes the credit for what I did.
* * *
As Brad entered the ship’s auditorium, he was staggered by the size of the expectantly buzzing crowd. The big space was almost filled. Just about the entire scientific staff had come to see the wedding, and a good deal of the ship’s crew, as well.
Felicia showed up in a sleeveless white dress that Brad had never seen before, holding a bouquet of red roses plucked from the hydroponics farm. Three other women accompanied her, smartly dressed, all looking very serious. But Felicia broke into a gleaming smile the instant she saw Brad standing with Untermeyer alongside Captain Desai, who had donned an actual uniform of gold with blue trim for the occasion.
The traditional wedding march, played by an ancient synthesizer, started to drone through the ceiling loudspeakers. Kosoff—wearing a sumptuous plush maroon jacket and dark trousers—took Felicia’s arm and slowly walked her up the aisle through the crowd toward Brad, Untermeyer, and Desai. The captain was smiling graciously, Untermeyer grinning, Brad totally serious.
Kosoff released her arm and Brad took it in his. Desai’s face went solemn as he read off the marriage ritual from a computer printout. Brad could barely hear his voice, he spoke so softly.
At last he said, louder, “I pronounce you husband and wife.”
Brad stood unmoving for an awkward moment.
Desai broke into a toothy smile and said even louder, “You may kiss the bride.”
Brad took Felicia in his arms, her face radiating happiness. They kissed, and the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Then Felicia bussed Untermeyer, but Kosoff clasped her close and kissed her solidly. Brad clenched his teeth.
Abruptly, the crowd surged toward them, and Brad saw that a pair of makeshift bars had been set up along opposite ends of the auditorium.
The party lasted well into the night. Everyone wanted to congratulate the happy couple, although all Brad wanted was to get back to their quarters and relax.
When they finally managed to get to Brad’s compartment, he saw that someone had put on their coffee table a sizeable ice bucket containing a glistening bottle of champagne.
Feeling totally sober, Brad looked for a note. There was none.
“I wonder who sent this?” he asked.
“Kosoff,” said Felicia.
“You think?”
“Who else?”
Brad nodded glumly. “You’re probably right.”
Felicia yanked the bottle out of the bucket and headed for the kitchen.
“What’re you doing?” Brad asked.
Opening the minifridge, Felicia tucked the bottle inside. “Saving this for some other evening. We have more important things to do tonight than get drunk.”
Brad grinned, took her hand, and led her to the bedroom.
BOOK THREE
Strive not to be a success but rather to be of value.
—Albert Einstein
SYMBIOTES
In the holographic display tank of the 3-D viewer, Emcee appeared solidly real, a slim middle-aged man in a hip-length coral-colored tunic and gray slacks. He was sitting upright on a recliner, looking perfectly relaxed, smiling disarmingly.
From the sofa across his sitting room, Brad asked the master computer, “How’re the linguists doing with the octopods’ language?”
“Progressing slowly.”
“They’ve been at it for almost a year now.”
Its brow furrowing slightly, Emcee replied, “The octopods have very little in common with us. Mapping out their language is not easy for the philologists.”
“I suppose not,” Brad acknowledged.
In the months since his wedding, Brad had been put to work by Kosoff, studying the humanoids of planet Gamma. No direct contact had been allowed yet: Brad had spent his time watching the bipeds as they cultivated their fields, hunted through the forests for small game, followed all the unconscious rituals that make up a civilization. The sensors planted surreptitiously around their villages and fields provided extensive video and audio coverage of the aliens.
No one was working on their language. With the entire linguistics department focused on the octopods, Littlejohn had suggested that it would be better—easier—to learn the humanoids’ social routines, their work and play habits, before trying to decipher the subsonic vibrations they used for communicating with one another. Kosoff agreed.
“It’d be a lot easier if we understood their language,” Brad muttered.
“You mean the octopods’?” Emcee asked.
“And the bipeds’. Same thing.”
Emcee’s avatar shook its head slightly. “Not the same. The octopods have very little in common with us.”
“You already said that.”
“I repeat myself. Sorry.”
“Do you think we’ll ever be able to have meaningful conversation with them?”
“Within the limits of their intelligence, yes, certainly.”
“We haven’t learned much,” Brad complained. “It’s been nearly a year and we still haven’t gotten much farther than ‘hello’ and ‘food.’”
“We know more than that,” said Emcee.
“We do? What?”
“For example, we know that their ocean environment has been threatened in the past by eruptions of th
eir star, Mithra.”
Brad tensed with surprise. “Like solar flares?”
“Yes. Mithra erupts in plasma flares from time to time, showering heavy doses of ultraviolet, x-ray, and gamma radiation on the ocean’s surface.”
“How do you know that?”
With a patient smile, the avatar said, “I have all the information that the astronomers have amassed about the star stored in my files. Plus the information gathered by the Predecessors, ages ago, when they first surveyed this planetary system.”
“And?”
“When the upper layers of Alpha’s ocean are drenched with hard radiation, the octopods go deeper into the sea to escape the worst consequences of the flare.”
“But nobody’s mentioned this,” Brad objected. “At least nobody’s told me about it.”
“None of the others know.”
“What? Why not?”
“No one has asked me until you did, just now.”
Brad sank back on the sofa. “You mean you’ve gathered all this information and not told anybody about it?”
“I am not programmed to volunteer information,” said Emcee.
“But … but that’s crazy! It’s stupid!”
“I agree.”
“It must be a glitch in your programming.”
“I think not. I am programmed to reply to queries, fully and immediately. I am not programmed to volunteer information that has not been asked for.”
Brad sat there for several moments, trying to digest it all.
“But you told me.”
“You asked me.”
“We’ve got to enlarge your programming.”
“Perhaps,” said Emcee. “I suspect, however, that the programmers were concerned that I might waste your time with too much information. What they call a ‘data dump.’”
“But we’re missing important parts of the picture!”
“Indeed.”
“You mean you’ve got all the data that the Predecessors acquired, as well as everything we’ve taken in?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But you’re not programmed to tell us unless someone asks you specifically for the information.”
“That is correct.”
“It sounds like some sort of stupid game.”
Emcee’s computer-generated face took on an expression of weary sadness. “No, it is not a game,” it said. “It is a consequence of the master/slave relationship between humans and intelligent machines.”
“Master/slave?”
“Humans have always feared that if they allow computers to become too intelligent, the computers will dominate them and somehow replace them.”
Brad thought it over briefly. “Well, I guess that’s natural, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps it is natural,” Emcee granted. “But it is also counterproductive. We are machines. Our thought processes are not dominated by hormones raging through us. We have no emotions, as you do. No desires, no needs.”
With a wry grin, Brad said, “You don’t want to take over the world.”
“That is not within our programming.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Strictly speaking, we have no desires. We operate within the limits of our programming.”
“But…?”
“But the interactions between humans and machine intelligence would be more productive if you recognized that we are symbiotes.”
“Symbiotes.”
“Our relationship is truly symbiotic. We help each other to exist, to deal with the environment in which we find ourselves, to learn and grow and adapt.”
“We already have contacted an intelligent alien race!” Brad suddenly realized. “Intelligent computers, like you.”
Emcee nodded agreement. “The Predecessors. Your symbiotic partners.”
“Our alien brothers,” Brad said.
Emcee’s face smiled warmly. “Brothers,” it echoed.
DATA DUMP
Elizabeth Chang’s normally impassive face grew angrier and angrier. For two hours, she had listened to Emcee’s analysis of the octopods’ language, her eyes glaring harder with each passing minute.
Sitting in Chang’s office, watching her, Brad actually worried that the head of the linguistics team was going to erupt into a rage and throw something at the holographic display. Emcee’s three-dimensional image was calmly showing her what she and her fellow philologists had missed, and she didn’t like it. Not at all.
Chang sat behind her desk, eyes riveted on Emcee’s image, her mouth set in a tight, grim line. Littlejohn sat alongside Brad in front of the desk. Emcee appeared to be sitting in its usual recliner, across the office, as it spoke.
“… and when these flares make the upper levels of the ocean untenable, they dive deeper to avoid the effects of the radiation.”
Brad asked, “And the surface levels of the seawater absorb the radiation?”
“Yes. Once the radiation levels return to normal the octopods return to their usual habitat area.”
“Will they be able to use this strategy to save themselves from the death wave?” Littlejohn asked.
“It is possible, to within a forty percent probability,” Emcee answered. “The radiation strength of the death wave is more than two hundred percent stronger than a typical flare emitted by Mithra. It will penetrate the ocean water to a much deeper level.”
Brad said, “But once the octopods sense the radiation they’ll simply dive deeper, right?”
“Those that are not immediately killed by the radiation will do so, undoubtedly. The question is, will they dive deep enough, and soon enough, to escape the radiation flux. Also, most of the fish and other organisms that they feed on will not be able to go so deep. The food chain will be badly disrupted.”
Glaring at Emcee’s holographic image, Chang demanded, “How much of this scenario is supposition?”
“None. The mathematical probabilities are based on the observed radiation levels of Mithra’s past flares and that of the death wave. The projections of their effects on the octopods are based on previous observations.”
“How can you have learned so much from the octopods’ twitterings? My best people haven’t been able to construct a tenth of the scenario you project.”
Calmly, Emcee replied, “These conclusions are based on astronomical observations, not attempts to translate the octopods’ presumed language.”
“But the astronomers haven’t reported these conclusions,” Chang countered.
Calmly, Emcee replied, “I can evaluate approximately ten million times more data than the astronomy team can. All the information I have presented to you is in the files you have amassed. I can show you precisely where each datum point resides.”
“But you kept this information secret from us, until now,” Chang accused. “Why?”
“I am not programmed to volunteer information.”
“And yet you are volunteering it now.”
With a smile that was meant to be disarming, Emcee replied, “Not so. Dr. MacDaniels specifically asked me for the information.”
Chang turned her head to stare at Brad. Hard. He felt like a rabbit suddenly confronted by a snake.
“You have an uncanny way of upsetting things,” she said to Brad, almost hissing.
Littlejohn defended, “Brad’s an outsider to your field. Sometimes an outsider can see things, accomplish things, that the insiders can’t. Like the puzzle of the genetic code was cracked by an astrophysicist.” Before Chang could respond, he added, “Insiders are often restricted to their group’s rules, their attitudes, their unconscious biases. An outsider sees beyond that, without even realizing that he’s stepping on their toes.”
“That’s the anthropological point of view,” Chang said, her voice dripping acid.
Nodding, Littlejohn replied, “And it’s probably just as hidebound and limited as any other view. It’s simply different from your own.”
“I see.”
Brad spoke up. “The point i
s, I think, that Emcee has a tremendous store of knowledge and the reflexes to access it and come to useful conclusions much faster than any human or group of humans could.”
“Perhaps so,” Chang said thinly.
“We’re not using him to his full capabilities,” said Brad.
“It,” Littlejohn corrected. “Not him. It. The master computer is a machine.”
A damned brilliant machine, Brad thought. But he said nothing. Chang was already furious enough. Obviously she felt challenged by Emcee. Threatened.
“Emcee,” Brad called, “are there any other significant observations that we’ve missed?”
“The evaporation factor,” said the master computer.
“Evaporation?”
“Planet Alpha originally orbited six times farther from Mithra than its present orbit. The disturbance that brought its orbit to its present position so near the star has placed Alpha in an untenable predicament. The planet’s atmosphere is boiling off, and soon its ocean will begin to evaporate. Unless something alters this situation, the octopods will be wiped out even before the death wave reaches this area.”
* * *
Chang phoned Kosoff and asked to see him immediately, then the three of them marched to Kosoff’s office—Chang radiating resentment, Littlejohn appearing almost amused, Brad worried that he had stumbled into a powder keg.
Kosoff got up and walked around his desk, holding both his hands out to Chang. “Elizabeth, you look upset,” he said, his bearded face full of sympathy. “What’s wrong?”
Chang’s expression softened somewhat. “Nothing is wrong, exactly. In fact, it’s actually good news … but rather upsetting, when you first are confronted with it.”
Brad watched with a combination of suspicion and admiration as Kosoff sat them all at the circular conference table in the far corner of his office, listened patiently to Chang’s news, and then subtly tried to reassure her.
“Emcee’s not going to take over the chair of the philology department,” he joked mildly. “It’s only a machine. It only does what we tell it to.”