“I know that.” For the first time, Omere felt uneasy. “We need weeks to program the electronic circuits so that they will correspond to those in the human cerebrum.”
“But,” said the surgeon, “if we had the essential sections of an actual living human cerebrum, we could complete Rimor within twenty-four hours. Fortunately, considering the time available, we will not need the entire brain. The cerebellum and medulla would be superfluous to our purpose, since they deal primarily with the more primitive functions such as internal organs, blood system, musculature, and skin. Even the cerebrum is not needed in its entirety. The temporal lobe, containing the auditory areas, and the prefrontal lobes, as the seat of intelligence, would of course be retained. But most of the areas in the central fissure responsible for vision, taste, smell, and touch, could be excised with little loss, and with great saving in time.”
There was a long silence. Sweat began to gather on Omere’s face.
The Master Surgeon continued tonelessly. “The surgery involved is simple and painless. The higher centers of consciousness will be anesthetized, of course. The blood flow will be shunted to a cardiac pump, and adequate arterial pressure maintained throughout the procedure, before, during, and after transfer. The neck tissue and spinal chord will be severed. From there, the process is nearly identical to sterile cranial autopsy. I shall start with the usual biparietal incision extending across the cranial vault from the mastoid process. The temporalis muscles are dissected away from the cranial vault and retracted out of the area. A thin-edged biem is used to open the calvaria, and finally, after the dura mater has been divided along the line of the base incision, the brain is removed. The real work then begins, of selecting the needed elements and making the thousands of connections with the program center of the computer. The work is very intricate and time-consuming, and will take two full days. You will regain consciousness on the third day. You will awaken into darkness, a spirit without body, floating. Your only tactile and motor associations with your environment will be your cerebral integration into your outgoing sound circuits and your incoming aural sensors. You will be able to speak, sing, and energize a fully orchestrated multitude of phonic instruments, and you will be able to hear anyone present in the music room. You will find that, instead of conducting orchestra and chorus, you will be piano, violins, brass, one hundred instruments, and forty voices. It will take you the balance of the third day to acquire a measure of proficiency in the use of your new facilities of orchestra and voice. You’ll have the entire music room yourself, with multi-stereo, reverberation … whatever shall please you. Think, Omere! Your disease is incurable, but you can live!”
Omere writhed beneath the straps. “I refuse. I’d rather die.”
“Your refusal is irrelevant.”
The white young face looked up at the hooded figure in unbelieving horror. “You’d use force?”
“Why do you think Huntyr strapped you down?”
“But suppose after I become a computer, I choose not to sing?”
“You will not so choose. You will be a quirinal addict by the third day. If you sulk, you will not get your quirinal. I assure you, dear boy, you will perform, and with zeal.”
The Regent broke in impatiently. “I don’t understand your objections. Look at the advantages. You will be very nearly immortal. A continuing supply of blood will be needed for the excised cerebral segments, of course, but as long as this system is functional, you cannot die.”
Omere could barely speak. “But will I continue to exist as myself, or will I be merely a very complex and talented computer?”
“A most profound metaphysical question, my boy,” said the surgeon. “When the time comes that it may be asked, only you will be able to answer.”
“I can answer now,” whispered Omere. “I curse the goddess Alea and the god Ritornel. I curse you, Regent, and you, Surgeon. Most of all I curse Oberon. And now I die. Begin.”
The surgeon nodded to the nurse waiting with the syringe. Omere’s last thought was that she didn’t even swab the skin, and that the omission was logical: he wouldn’t be needing it further.
“Glad to see you. I’m Don Poroth, Assistant Registrar. Did you come all by yourself?”
Jimmie looked at the keen thoughtful eyes and found himself relaxing a little. “Yes, sir, Don Poroth.”
“Most of the lads are accompanied by one or both of their parents on registration day.” Don Poroth looked at the papers in the file, then back at Jimmie. “I see your mother is dead. Sorry. And I imagine Captain Andrek is with the fleet at the moment?”
“No, sir. My father is dead, too.”
Don Poroth peered across the desk in sudden sympathy. “Nothing here in the file. Must have been quite recent.”
“Yes, sir. I learned only a few weeks ago, when I tried to get in touch with my father through the Naval Bureau to tell him my brother Omere was missing.”
“Not the Omere Andrek, the Laureate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And still missing, so I understand. Shocking. This leaves you altogether without family?”
“Yes, sir.”
Don Poroth arose and began pacing behind his great stone desk. “A pity. What a great pity. And only ten.”
He stopped and leaned over the desk. “Andrek, you will meet new friends here. Count me as one. And then there is the great Academy itself. It has been a sheltering mother to many young men, who have spent their twelve years here, and then have gone forth into the world as dons, judges … yes, one even became an intergalactic arbiter.” He looked into Jimmie’s eyes. “The Academy is now your alma mater. Do you know what that is?”
“No, sir.”
“‘Alma’ means ‘dear’; ‘mater’ means ‘mother.’”
“Oh.”
“We borrowed the words from Terror, long ago. There is a greatness in the ancient Terrovian tongues. Sometimes, they express our thoughts better than our own Ingliz. At least you are not ‘a-mater.’”
“What does that mean?”
“‘Motherless.’ From ‘ab’ and ‘mater.’ But don’t bother about that just now. Plenty of time in the years ahead. So then, run along. The proctor’ll show you your room and tell you whatever you need to know.”
A few minutes later Jimmie dropped his valise in the proctor’s reception cubicle. The proctor glanced at him dubiously. “And where’ll we put you?” He studied the dormitory floor plans on his desk. “I’m afraid we can’t give you a room of your own just yet. It may be another year before the new wing is completed, and we can look into it again then. Meanwhile, we’ll put you in with—hm, yes, Vang. Ajian Vang.” He looked at Jimmie noncommittally, and Jimmie understood that his new roommate might be a problem.
He said, “Yes, sir.”
Some time later he realized that he and Ajian Vang had been selected as roommates because the proctor viewed them both as misfits. Each was imprinted with his own peculiar prime directive that kept him outside the normal social life of the other boys. Jimmie thought only of finding Omere, and Ajian Vang thought only of Alea. They never became closer; at most, Jimmie built up a guarded toleration for the other boy, who seemed to dislike everybody, including Jimmie.
Ajian Vang’s reason for existence was gambling. He did not need the paltry sums he won from the other boys, for his father provided ample spending money. He did it for the sense of power it gave him. Ajian Vang’s problem was that whenever Jimmie was around, he inevitably began to lose. And finally Vang began to tell strange tales about Jimmie. Jimmie was a Ritornellian daimon. He radiated an aura that upset the Alean laws of chance. He was a deadly enemy of Alea. He was bewitched. In the old days the daimoni were strangled without ceremony. It was a serious religious matter that should be reported to the authorities.
None of this really worried Jimmie. Unlike most of the boys, being thought strange did not make him feel a social outcast. But he had never heard of a daimon before, and he was curious. Once he caught Don Poroth on the playgro
und and asked him. The good professor laughed. “A complete myth. Long ago, during the Religious Wars, it was thought the daimoni could cast a spell that strangely altered Alea’s laws of chance—which made them mischievous Ritornellian devils, I suppose. It ran in families, from fathers to sons. With a daimon around, Alea’s will is bent to that of Ritornel in the most unpredictable ways. But it’s not really so—just superstition. Here, let me show you.” He fished a coin from his vest pocket, flipped it in the air, and caught it on the back of his hand. “Heads.” He flipped again. “Heads. Once more. Heads. Hm. And again heads. Well, I don’t know. Shall we? Heads. And again.” He looked at Jimmie curiously. “Peculiar, but I’m sure it’s all well within the laws of chance.” The bell rang. “Not impossible. No, not really. And there’s my class. Good-day, Andrek.”
Jimmie bowed, puzzled but respectful. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
He watched as Poroth walked directly toward the ivy-clad class building. Almost at the archway the professor hesitated in stride and he turned and looked back at Jimmie for the briefest instant.
“And I guess that’s that,” thought Jimmie. “And I still don’t know what a daimon is, except there aren’t supposed to be any.”
Space became available at the end of the year, and Jimmie moved to his own room. It was shortly after this that a great change suddenly came over Ajian. He announced that he intended to enter holy orders, and to become an Alean monk. Even Jimmie was impressed, if mildly incredulous. But from the date of that announcement, Vang gambled no more. He saved his allowance and bought a modest Alean die, a cultured pyrite dodecahedron. The weird thing, to Jimmie, was that the other’s remarkable conversion did not dissipate his dislike of Jimmie; on the contrary, it became worse. It became hatred. Jimmie then gradually got the impression that he was a moving cause of Vang’s conversion, and that Alea had wrought her will on Vang through him, Jimmie. And in this, Vang saw a clear directive from the goddess: Jimmie was a daimon and must ultimately be destroyed.
Jimmie pushed the thought aside; it was illogical, absurd. As the days and weeks went by, Vang was cool, but polite. In front of the other boys, he always said the right things. And he and Jimmie were never alone together anymore. Jimmie finally decided he was all wrong, and gradually stopped thinking about it.
Jimmie made many acquaintances at the Academy, but few friends. He could never really get his mind off Omere long enough to become wholeheartedly involved with his schoolmates as individuals.
He got away from the Academy whenever he could, to look for Omere. He made sure that the post office kept his Academy address on file, and that the doormen at Omere’s favorite nightclubs would be sure to be on the lookout for his lost brother. He spent so much time in Omere’s old haunts that his studies suffered and he was put on report.
Poroth requested review of the complaint himself. This, Jimmie knew, was serious. For Poroth was now Dean of the Academy’s School of Intergalactic Law, and an important man. Appointments had to be made to see him, and people in outer offices had to tell people in inner offices, and finally somebody came out and told you it was all right to go in.
Poroth got right to the point. “Mr. Andrek, I know why you are neglecting your studies. You are still looking for your brother. I can’t really say that I blame you. Perhaps I’m at fault in not telling you that we are looking for him, too.”
“Sir?” said Jimmie, surprised.
“When you first came here—six years ago, wasn’t it?—I, uh, we—hired a private detective agency. They turned up nothing. A couple of years later, I think it was when I became a full professor of charters, we hired a second agency. Last year, we took on a third. Still no results. They all agreed that Omere entered the Great House shortly before the coronation, that he sang his great epic at the ceremony, and that he was never seen to come out again. The reports are here. You’re free to read them, if you’ll promise to leave the detective business to the experts.”
“Yes, sir. I’d be most grateful.” A sudden thought struck him. “These detective agencies … they must cost a lot of money. Was there enough in the account Omere set up here in the beginning?”
The dean cleared his throat. “It, ah, comes out of a different fund. Yes, the, ah, Alumni General Aid Fund.”
Meaning, thought Jimmie, out of your own pocket. He said quietly, “I’d like very much to see the reports, sir. And you can rest assured about my grades in the future.”
That same evening, some fifty kilometers distant from the Academy, a voice in the music room of the Great House called out: “Who’s there?”
“I’m Amatar.”
“Who’s ‘Amatar’?”
“I’m a little girl. Can’t you see me?”
“No, I can’t see anything. I don’t have any eyes. You have a pretty name, Amatar. Who is your father?”
“Oberon.”
“I won’t tell you what I think about your father, Amatar. But I can tell you this: I like you. Do you like to sing?”
“I guess so. But I don’t know many songs.”
“That’s all right. I’ll teach you, and then we can sing together. What color is your hair?”
“It’s yellow, and I have pretty blue eyes.”
“Of course you do! Just as in the song!
Amatar’s a little girl
With golden curls and sparkly cheeks
And bright blue eyes a-darting.
Here she peeks and there she twirls
(’Tis me she seeks)
To tell me she’s my darling.”
The little girl clapped her hands and laughed in high glee. “I didn’t know there was any such song!”
“Oh, I know lots of songs that really aren’t. Suppose we—now who’s that?”
“That’s my friend Kedrys. He’s five, too. He’s a kentaur.”
“A what?”
“A kentaur. You know. He’s a boy, except he’s part horse, and he has wings.”
“Hello, Kedrys.”
“He says to tell you hello, Rimor.”
“Now that’s interesting. Why doesn’t he say hello himself? And how does he know my name?”
“Kedrys doesn’t like to talk the way you and I talk. He talks into my head. And he listens inside my head, and I guess inside yours. That’s how he knows who you are.”
“Well I’ll be… He’s a telepath.”
“I guess so.”
“Can he really fly?”
“He can, but he wants to wait a few years. He’s afraid he might get lost, and not be able to get back.”
“I see. One flap of the wings, and he vanishes into the countryside?”
“No, you don’t see at all. Until he knows exactly how to do it, he’s afraid he’ll land on some completely different place, not Goris-Kard at all. Maybe an awful place, like Terror. And there he’d be, all lost. So he wants to make sure he knows what to do before he flies. Oh, dear!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Kedrys says they are looking for me, and if they find me here, they’ll make me promise not to come again. So I’ll have to go now.”
“But you’ll come again?”
“Yes, whenever they aren’t looking.”
“Wonderful, Amatar. Now, just one little favor before you leave. There’s a row of little black knobs on the wall in front of you. Do you see them?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know which is your right hand?”
“Of course, silly.”
“Good. Now just take hold of the knob on your far right, and turn it several turns.”
“All right. I have it—oh, no!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Kedrys says I’m not to do it.”
“Why not?” The voice from the console was suddenly strained.
“It would do something bad to you. I don’t know the word … so you’d never sing again. And now they’re coming, and we have to go. Good-bye, Rimor.”
“Good-bye, Amatar … Kedrys.” The voice was
toneless, weary.
“As you know, young gentlemen of the graduating class, the next hour represents the last opportunity for you to receive instruction within the Academy.” From the judge’s dais, the cool gray eyes of Dean Poroth swept the “courtroom”—the hall set aside for sessions of the Academy’s practice court.
Tonight there were more visitors than students. The great dean was famed for his surprises in the last-hour sessions of practice court. The entire graduating class, old grads, news reporters, even judges from other planets were there, restless with anticipation.
Poroth continued. “The sole case on the docket tonight is In re Terror. You will note from the summary of facts in your program that Terror, now devoid of life, has been condemned, the fatal shaft has been drilled to her iron core, and a tug has hauled the planet to the Node. This is the final moment, and intergalactic justice requires that if anyone knows of any lawful reason why the destruction of this planet should not proceed, he will be permitted to speak. We here on the dais represent the twelve intergalactic arbiters, who may well have this exact question at some time within the next few years. The form and framework of the question, of course, is an Order to Show Cause. This means simply that we, the arbiters, have put the condemned planet under an order to show cause why she should not be forthwith destroyed in accordance with the terms of her sentence. You will note from your programs that Mr. Vang will defend the planet; which is to say, he will attempt to show cause why her destruction would not be lawful, and wherefore it would be error to execute the order.”
At the mention of his name, Vang arose and bowed to the dais, as was the custom.
“And the rebuttal,” continued Dean Poroth, “is the responsibility of Mr. Andrek, who is charged with the duty of convincing us that Mr. Vang’s petition is without merit, and that no lawful reason exists for not completing the destruction of Terror. Thus it is given in the program.”
The Ring of Ritornel Page 4