Channel eight fell silent, and Shelby stared around, trying to pick out an approaching corry against the backdrop of glowing colors. He saw it at last, a familiar birdcage shape gradually approaching the side of the Harvest Moon. At the same moment his radio crackled again to life.
"Hello?" said a puzzled voice. "Thurgood? I can see you and the corry. But I can't hear you. What channel are you on? Hello? Are you there? Just to be on the safe side, I think I'd better guide you in with an override. And I'll stay right here on this channel."
The corry had been moving slowly and steadily on a direct approach. Now it speeded up and yawed ten degrees. It was still skewed away from the vertical when the open flower of birdcage wires ran into the side of the Harvest Moon.
The sound of the collision did not carry through airless space, but Shelby felt the vibration in his boots through the hull of the ship. He also heard the howl of rage over his suit radio.
"Scrimshander!"
"Right here, Thurgood."
"I've told you a million times, when I'm in the blasted corry you're never to mess with . . ."
Uncle Thurgood and Scrimshander Limes had finally hit the same channel.
Chapter Five
IT WAS late at night and Shelby was exhausted. And yet he could not sleep. His brain paraded before him an endless procession of facts and images. He lay on his bunk and his mind reeled.
Perhaps that was the problem. He was tired out, but all day long he had been on the receiving end of the data flow. Whereas he himself had done absolutely nothing—unless he counted his botched attempt at cooking breakfast.
Finally he gave up, rose from the bunk, and drifted silently through the interior corridor of the ship. He wanted to get his hands again on the food synthesizer when no one else was around and see if he could make it produce something worth eating. He would need no other authority than his own stomach to tell him if he succeeded.
But even here he was balked. He had felt sure that the galley would be deserted, but Lana Trask was sitting alone at the little table. The captain was in many ways the last person on the Harvest Moon that Shelby wanted to see.
He started to retreat, but it was too late. She had spotted him. When she beckoned him in he had no choice but to enter and sit where she indicated.
"How did it go today?" she asked as he dropped into a seat opposite her.
From her manner there was no hint that twenty-four hours earlier she had called him a liar, while at the same time he had tried to order her around in her own ship.
"Lots to learn." Shelby felt obliged to replace that platitude with the truth. "I learned a lot, too. But I also think I annoyed Logan."
Twenty-four hours ago he would have denied that the word "annoyed" could ever apply to the reaction of a machine. Now it was becoming harder and harder to think of Logan as anything but another human, though admittedly an oddly shaped one.
Lana Trask did not seem at all surprised. She merely nodded. "Go on."
"Well, I started to tell Logan about Earth—as an answer to a question. It wasn't my idea. And I said that on Earth I never did see many machines around, but all the ones I knew about were completely primitive compared with Logan. I thought that was a compliment. Only I think somehow I put my foot in it."
"You did. But it was perceptive of you to read the reaction from Logan. I tell Grace and Doobie over and over, listening and reading people is more important than talking. But I don't think it does much good. They blunder on. Anyway, my compliments to you."
Shelby blushed and looked away. A compliment from Lana Trask was the last thing he had expected. "But what did I do? What was it I said that irritated Logan?"
"Nothing that you could control. You just reinforced what Logan already knows to be true." Lana Trask rubbed her eyes, and the remote and uninvolved look that Shelby had seen when he entered returned briefly to her face. It occurred to him that it was the middle of the night. What had she been doing, up so late?
"Earth has a dumbing-down policy toward machines," she went on. "The government won't permit a smart one to be made or imported. Naturally, every self-respecting robot away from Earth resents that fact."
"I don't get it. I've seen what Logan can do. Back on Earth, a machine like that could handle the work of a dozen people. Don't we have the technology on Earth to build something like Logan?"
"Without a doubt. The artificial intelligence know-how has been around for over a century, and it's certainly no secret. Earth has as good access to that knowledge as we do. Earth's problem is different—or the government thinks it is. They ask, if there were smart machines to do the work, what would fourteen billion people do?"
"Have an easier life." Shelby knew how easy his own life had been, but he was beginning to realize that he was an exception. He resisted the urge to say more and compare his lot with that of the average Earthling. Grace might be beginning to believe him, but Captain Lana Trask was a different matter.
"An easier life," she said. "Ah, don't we all want that? You might think so. But people have to feel needed, too. They want to feel like workers, not just drones. Every time they have a referendum on Earth it always comes out the same: no smart robots. You see, it's people who have the vote. Machines don't. And if there's ever a test case in court, who do you think wins? People, who have rights, or machines, that don't have rights? Logan knows that even a short trip to Earth would be forbidden."
"Is Logan really as capable as a human?"
"It depends who you talk to. And what you talk about."
"I mean, can Logan do anything that a human can do?" Shelby knew that he was being vague, and added, "I don't mean physical things, like having children. I mean mental powers."
"For anything that calls for pure logic, Logan will run rings round all of us. But Logan finds it hard to understand that humans don't work from logic."
"Some of us do."
"None of us do. Sure, we can think logically with our conscious minds. But ninety-five percent of your brain is run by your unconscious mind. All our conscious brain does is try to justify, after the fact, whatever half-baked actions we just took. The artificial-intelligence specialists still can't mimic that, because nobody has any idea how it operates. Like what I was doing when you came in. I can't explain it. I just know I can do it."
"I wondered if I was interrupting you."
"Not really. I was just about finished. I'd decided earlier that we ought to move the Harvest Moon. The information that Logan gave me, that the Southern Cross harvester— the one you saw when you were outside—has been hanging around watching us, that was what I needed. When you came in I was working on the final piece."
"But what were you doing?"
"I was deciding where we ought to go. Actually, I was being a transuranic element." She smiled at the look on Shelby's face. "It may sound crazy, but it's true. I was a molecule of a stable transuranic, asfanium or polkium, drifting through the currents of the Cloud. The basic data are here, in the Cloud survey results." She tapped the sheaf of papers on the table in front of her. "But that's just background. I need more. I sense the cross-tug of different fields, gravity and magnetism and the electric force on my ions. I feel particle impacts, and radiation pressure, and vortex shears from the reefs. I feel the weak bonds that tie atom to atom, and my dipole moment, and my internal quadrupole moment. I respond to all of them. And I move."
"You talk as though the molecules are conscious—as though they know what they're doing. But they're not."
"Of course they're not. And I know very well that the molecules are not conscious. They just respond to the total force vector on them. But in terms of what I do, and what the sniffers on the other harvesters do, it makes sense to talk about the way that the molecules might feel. We respond to the feel of the situation. I don't know any other way to describe it. My decision is based on my unconscious conclusion as to what the molecules will do. And that's why Logan, or any machine like Logan, can't direct a harvester. Logan is great, and
invaluable, but there's a piece missing." She sighed. "Not getting through to you, am I?"
"I guess not. Not really." After struggling to see Logan as human, Shelby was being told to throw out the idea.
"Maybe before you leave you'll take a shot at sniffing for yourself. Then you'll understand how it works. Who knows, maybe you'll be a natural? But for the moment let's try a different approach. Suppose it had been Thurgood and Scrimshander out in the corry who spotted you, rather than Logan. Can you see how it might have been different?"
Shelby hesitated. He certainly could, but he didn't want to say unkind things about Grace's uncle and his companion. "They might not have saved me," he muttered at last.
Lana grinned at him, as though she knew exactly what he had really been thinking. "I think they would. But that's not the important piece. They would have done the same calculation as Logan did. They would have decided that they could catch you in the corry—barely. They would then have gone after you, just like Logan. But suppose that you had been going too fast to rendezvous with and intercept. What then?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I do. Logan would have checked the calculation and reached the logical conclusion: Don't even try, because the dynamics of the situation say that recovery is impossible. So Logan wouldn't have tried. Thurgood and Scrim would have agreed with the analysis. But they would have gone after you anyway, and probably blown the corry apart trying to reach you. Logan would say, well, that is proof of the inferior reasoning powers of a human. But I would say that is the proof of a human superiority that we don't yet know how to program into a machine. It's the reason why no crew member will ever agree to report to a robot, no matter how smart the machine might be. Can you see that?"
"I think so." Shelby still wasn't sure which he would have preferred: Uncle Thurgood and little Scrimshander, bumbling after him through space. Or Logan, coolly competent, aware to the minute of how much longer Shelby's air supply would last, and calmly continuing to work on the harvester retrieval system to the last quarter-hour.
But Logan hadn't taken into account that Shelby himself was unaware of the machine's state of knowledge. Shelby had been so sure he was going to die that he was ready to throw himself out of the corry when Logan at last headed for the Harvest Moon.
Lana Trask was right. Given a choice, Shelby would take Scrimshander and Thurgood's randomness over Logan's logic.
Or rather, Shelby would take whatever Uncle Thurgood decided. Scrim wouldn't have much of a say in things. Thurgood Trask always used an impatient and commanding tone on the other man.
It was a familiar tone. Where had Shelby heard it before?
The answer came to him. That was exactly the way that people at the Cheever mansion—himself included—talked all the time to the support staff.
To escape that unwelcome thought, Shelby blurted out what he was thinking but ought not to have said. "You know, Uncle Thurgood drives Scrimshander pretty hard."
"You think so?" Lana Trask's face changed. She seemed suddenly alert and guarded.
"Yes, I do. I've only been here one day, but I've seen it several times. He really bullies Scrim and orders him around."
"You don't think Scrimshander needs it?"
"Maybe. But he doesn't deserve it."
"You'll learn a lot about Thurgood and Scrim," Lana said cryptically. "But not now. Now it's your turn to talk. You know why I was sitting here in the middle of the night. I was planning where to take the Harvest Moon. Why did you come here?"
Shelby gestured toward the food synthesizers.
"You mean, you came here for a meal?"
"No. I came here to learn how to use it, when there was no one else around. What I cooked this morning was—not quite right."
"So I heard." Lana Trask stood up. "Are you tired?"
"Yes. But I couldn't sleep."
"I know all about that." She stood staring at him for a few seconds, her head to one side. "Go ahead. But remember two things. First, any mess you make, you clear up. That's a rule of the galley in any harvester."
Cleaning up anything for himself was an alien thought for Shelby, but he nodded. "I will. What else?"
"A rule of this harvester. Anyone can stay up as late as he or she chooses—but duties start at the regular time tomorrow morning. Now, do you still want to work with the synthesizers?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll get out of here. I hate to have people watch over me when I'm working. I doubt if you are any different."
She nodded and left.
At last. Lana Trask probably had no idea how uncomfortable she made him. Shelby turned with relief to the synthesizer and its front display menu—not a menu for food, but the selection key for a voluminous on-line instruction manual.
He began to study it. He was probably going to feel like hell in the morning; but before he left tonight he was determined to produce something that didn't look like it had already been eaten once.
Shelby learned the hard way that Lana Trask meant what she said. He heard a loud sort of whistle through his cabin terminal, but managed to sleep through it. He was still lying in his bunk when Doobie came bustling in and sat down on his feet.
"All right, Lord Shelby. Let's go. I was sent here to get you."
Shelby groaned and pulled the cover over his face. "I knew I ought to have locked my door."
"Wouldn't have made any difference. These cabins are like sounding boxes—I know. Grace's got me up often enough. I'd have banged 'til you cried for mercy."
"That's what I'm doing now."
"No chance. Come on, out of there. You want to eat? You have ten minutes."
"How can I get up, when you're sitting on me?" But Shelby pushed back the cover and slowly arose. He had collapsed into his bunk, fully dressed, what seemed like ten minutes ago. The clock told him it was actually three hours. He thought about washing, decided not to bother, and followed Doobie to the galley.
It was deserted. More than that, it—in particular the table—was empty. Shelby stared.
"What happened?"
"Happened to what?"
"I made breakfast rolls. Really good ones, ten dozen of them. They were on the table."
"I know. I ate eight or nine myself. You're right, they were great."
"But a hundred and twenty."
"Ah. That's Uncle Thurgood. Him and Jilter."
"I thought everybody made their own breakfast."
"That's the theory. But Uncle Thurgood, he has a different theory: What's yours is his, and what's his is his own. You're lucky, though." Doobie went across to an oven, low down, and opened it. "I don't get it with Gracie. I think she must be sweet on you. Anyway, she saved this before Thurgood and Jilter could get near it, and she made me promise not to eat it and not to tell."
It was a sizable enough plate of food, if you ignored the fact that only a miserable two breakfast rolls sat with the rest of the meal. Shelby pondered while he ate. Eight for Doobie, two for him, that left a hundred and ten—and who else was there to eat them?
Grace, Lana, and Thurgood Trask, plus Scrimshander Limes, and the mysterious Jilter Clute. If those five all ate an equal number, which was doubtful, that made twenty-two per person.
"Nah," said Doobie scornfully, when Shelby put the question to him. "I told you, it's Jilter and Uncle Thurgood. You're lucky. If they'd got here first, you'd not have seen a single roll."
Shelby felt like saying he had come close. Instead he asked, "Where's Jilter, and who's Jilter? I think he's the only other person associated with the Harvest Moon that I haven't met."
"You'll see him later today. But what you say's not true."
"There are others here?"
"No. But you've never met Dad."
Odd as it seemed, it had never occurred to Shelby that Grace and Doobie must have a male parent. Also, he could not imagine what sort of man might be married to Captain Lana Trask. "You mean your father?"
" 'Course I mean my father. Mungo Trask. Uncle Thurgood's h
is brother. Who else would I be calling Dad?"
"And he's on board?"
"Never said that. You said associated with the Harvest Moon. Dad's certainly that. He and Muv bought this ship together, and they share ownership."
"So where is he?"
"Coming to that. Muv's the sniffer. Dad admits he can't compete. But Dad's the expert on markets and prices for what we find. Most trips he stays Sol-side—he's there now— and does his own market analysis. Soon as we get home to the Belt and he sees what we have, he knows exactly the right sort of deal to put together so we can sell at top price." Doobie stared at Shelby with a new curiosity. "Hey, Shel, isn't that what you say your dad does? Makes deals?"
The Billion Dollar Boy Page 7