Vectors

by Charles Sheffield

  "True enough. We're still doing all right. But I'm getting awfully curious, and you suggested you've been going to seed, away from the office. Jack's up to his neck in other things, and I feel there must be—at the least—a valuable business angle."

  "And at a maximum, Tolly, we've been replaced by the successor to Homo sapiens."

  "Now you're getting a bit too fancy for my taste. But I wondered if you, as President Emeritus and Special Consultant to WAWD, would like to have a look and tell us what's going on."

  "You couldn't stop me, Tolly. Is there a bit of hurt ego in it for you, too? I know you can't stand to have anybody get ahead of you on a business deal."

  "Maybe there is, Merle. Getting one-upped by you last year was bad enough. One more thing for you, before you run out of here."

  "Final customers? I've been wondering what an eight-man company would be doing with a mass of equipment."

  "That's right, Merle. We've been talking all the time about the Kirkwood people, but Kirkwood Research has an agreement with Lectron. Kirkwood handles all the surplus auction work, and sells it to Lectron for a fixed percentage commission. Lectron must be delighted with the results—they've saved millions in the past few months."

  Merle Walters levered himself to his feet and picked up the pile of purchasing record cards. "Let me take these away and sleep on the whole thing. I'll drop in on Jack Tukey on the way out and get his comments. See you tomorrow, Tolly. You're a damned nuisance, you know. My evening's going to be ruined."

  He limped out. Suomi smiled slightly—a fraction of an inch elevation of the corners of his mouth. Was it imagination, or was there a little more spring in the old man's step than when he arrived?

  * * *

  "I want to see it for myself, Tolly. And I want to have a bit of equipment made up for me by the machine shop."

  "Fine. Keep it as cheap as you can, Merle. Though I know you'll do that by natural instinct. What is it you need?"

  "A tunable receiver. I still have great faith in the electromagnetic spectrum, and I haven't given up on the idea of two-way radios. I want a detector that will let me run over a big range of frequencies, from about five hundred kilohertz right up to a couple of hundred gigahertz. I want to be able to test for signals in the range from AM up to UHF, so I cover all the usual radio and TV frequencies. I want it strongly directional, so I can point it at the Kirkwood men. I want it small enough to fit in my briefcase; and I want it with controls that I can operate from outside the briefcase, including the displays of the received signals."

  "Made of solid gold, I suppose. Anything else?"

  "Yes, one other thing. I want a tape recorder attached to it, so I can record any signals that I come across. And I need it in time for the next auction, on the seventeenth."

  "That's a couple of thousand dollars, throwing in labor and overhead."

  "I estimated seventeen hundred. Put it on your R&D budget, or knock it off my consulting fees. Now, one final thing, I read the poop that Franny gave me about Kirkwood, but it's not very good. Can you get Vince to put feelers out through the sales staff, and see who knows Kirkwood himself? Where he came from, what he's like. I might need to meet him before we go much further."

  "Consider it done. You know Vince, he could get the details on the Pope's love life if he spent an hour or two on the telephone. Who do you want with you at the auction, when the equipment is ready for you?"

  "Nobody. Jim Spurling should plan to go to one of the other auction rooms, so we can compare notes afterwards. A week from now, we might know a bit more about this thing."

  * * *

  The nearest auction room to the WAWD offices was a big, echoing old warehouse off Maine Avenue. The bidders present were the usual mix of amateurs, looking for some particular amplifier, light table, or sensor for their own use, and professional buyers, who bought widely and never under any circumstances bid against the amateurs. Merle looked over the group with a practiced eye, separating the sheep from the goats. He moved forward at last and stood about six feet behind the Kirkwood rep. A row of heavy steel pillars running the length of the warehouse and set every twenty feet divided the fifty bidders into four smaller groups. Merle held his briefcase in front of him, switched on and began the frequency sweep as the first lot came up for bid. Twin meters set into the top of the briefcase showed signal strength, direction, and frequency.

  The Kirkwood man was standing there in silence, watching the lots as they were produced. Merle began to sweep up the spectrum, beginning at AM frequencies and moving slowly to shorter wavelengths. Each time the receiver showed a significant signal, he turned the briefcase through about thirty degrees. The receiver was strongly directional and it was easy to determine if the man from Kirkwood was the source. It took time. Merle moved steadily through the spectrum, discarding numerous peaks in the power dial indicator when their directionality proved incorrect.

  At last, in the CB band, he found a strong peak in the received signal that fell away sharply in strength as he turned the case away from the man standing in front of him. He moved quietly to his left, turned the case, and looked again. The signal direction had turned with him. The Kirkwood rep was the source of a strong signal. Merle noted the frequency, and went on, painstakingly exploring the higher frequencies for more signals. There were no others with the correct dependence on direction. Merle returned to the frequency he had noted, and switched on the tape recorder.

  He watched closely. There was no sign of a throat mike, and both of the man's hands were in full view. Apart from occasional bids, always delivered clearly and precisely, the man was motionless. It was easy to see what Jim Spurling had been getting at. There was a distant, unfocused look on the man's face, and his body seemed to stand there wooden and unmoving.

  The signals came in bursts. There was about one second of power in every fifteen, then the signal dropped away to zero—or to a level too low to measure. Merle switched detector sensitivity several times, but he still could pick up nothing during the silent periods, even at the most sensitive setting of the receiver. The power peaks came regularly, whether the Kirkwood rep was bidding or not.

  The tape capacity permitted only thirty minutes of continuous recording. When the warning light for tape-end blinked on, Merle switched off and remained watching. The Kirkwood man bought five lots—and broke off bids on three others, almost in mid-word. Unlike the other bidders, hard at work with their calculators, he did not move when a new mixed lot was produced. Finally, although the auction was only two-thirds over, he turned suddenly and walked out of the building. Merle waited for a few seconds, then followed him into the muggy and sweltering August overcast.

  The man walked fifty yards along Maine Avenue, climbed into a blue VW with a tall CB aerial, and drove away. Merle, very thoughtful, didn't bother with a cab. Instead, he limped a few blocks to Hogates, for a seafood lunch and a spell of concentrated head work. What he had seen suggested several possibilities, all of them uncomfortably wild.

  * * *

  "Well, there's your analysis, Merle. I hope it tells you more than it tells me."

  Tolly Suomi pushed the listings across the desk and looked inquiringly at Walters. A tiny crease in the middle of his smooth, unlined forehead testified to his perplexity. "I don't know if you were expecting English language signals to come off that tape, but the lab hasn't been able to get anything like that."

  "I didn't expect any language we'd be able to transcribe." Merle Walters looked at the analysis of the tape recorded signals with every sign of satisfaction. "In fact, after I'd had a couple of martinis at Hogates yesterday, I decided what ought to be on that tape. I'll make a bet that I was right. It's Pulse Code Modulated signals, and it's all digital, right?"

  "That's how it looks to everybody here. It's PCM, Merle, and it proves one thing conclusively: the Kirkwood people have been sending messages from the auctions, just the way that Jim deduced from the bidding patterns."

  "Sending, and receiving too, Tolly
. I didn't get anything on incoming signals, because we were fine-tuned on direction and I was concentrating on the Kirkwood rep. But I'll bet you we'd have picked up incoming signals on the same frequency if I'd done a thorough 360-degree sweep at the auction. There was a two-way transfer of information going on there, or I'm a Dutchman."

  "So it is a system for beating the simultaneous auction system, Merle. And it's a two-way radio system, the way that Jack Tukey suspected. The problem is, how are they doing it?"

  "It's more than that, Tolly, a hell of a lot more. I think we're in at the beginning of something tremendous. Not only that, I think we are the only people who really know what's happening. Did Vince have any luck, getting more background on Kirkwood Research?"

  "A fair amount, but not as much as we'd like. Kirkwood—Charles Kirkwood—started it, and owns it. Until last year, they made electronics specialty equipment on a single-shot, sole-source basis for places like the Naval Research Lab and the Defense Intelligence Agency. Recently, they've cut down on that and offered commission services like the one they give to Lectron."

  "Good reputation?"

  "First-rate, technically. Kirkwood's a bright boy, all right. Biochemistry degree from Stanford, PhD in Information Theory from Princeton, then three years at IBM's Watson Research Center in Yorktown. Fired from there four years ago, then he moved here to set up his own shop in Washington."

  "Fired? By IBM? That's unusual if you're really bright, Tolly. What was he doing, screwing his secretary on company time?"

  "Worse than that. Moonlighting—for the competition. More facts: Kirkwood Research rents about five thousand square feet over in Arlington, and apparently they have a pretty well-equipped lab."

  "How's their financial situation?"

  "Solid. According to one of Vince's friends in DCAA, they've had clean audits and they now do about half a million a year. Growth rate has been good, but not spectacular. There seems to be no interest in selling out, or in going public. No problems in cash flow, and their credit around town is excellent."

  "Pity. Kirkwood Research isn't for sale, but if I'm right, Tolly, we have to try and buy it—even if it means offering ten times what their books would seem to justify.

  "Do you think Vince can get me a meeting with Charles Kirkwood himself? It doesn't matter what the official reason is, but it would be much better if it can be arranged through a mutual acquaintance."

  "I'm sure he can. Where?"

  "At the Kirkwood plant, for preference. But I don't want to do it until I've done a couple of other things in preparation. I need to have another piece of equipment made here, and I need a special simulation done, out in Redondo Beach. I'd like to steal a week of Alex Burns's time, to work on it. It's something different from anything he's tried before, but he should enjoy it."

  Suomi sighed. "Merle, if you weren't naturally stingy—and a major stockholder in WAWD—I'd think you were trying to blow the year's profits. Do you need both things done?"

  "I'm not sure. I hope I'll only need the simulation, but I want the other equipment to be on the safe side."

  "Then what will it cost, Merle? And how much are you saying you want us to offer to buy Kirkwood Research, if it's available? I have to answer to the Board, you know."

  "I know. And I know that we control them between us." Merle Walters leaned forward, his gray eyes alive beneath his bushy brows. "I'll tell you what I think is going on, Tolly. But then if you don't agree with me, and won't back this, I'll go ahead with my own money."

  Tolly Suomi looked at him quizzically across the desk. "That important, is it? Merle, I have to go over to Riggs in two hours and talk lines of credit. If you can't persuade me in half that, you've lost your touch."

  Franny, coming into the office five minutes after, found the two men deep in conversation and tiptoed out again without speaking. Six months before, Merle Walters had retired, an old and tired man under a death sentence from the doctors. There was certainly no sign of it today, judging from the alert voice and incisive gestures.

  * * *

  The offices and plant of Kirkwood Research occupied a two-story brick building in the unfashionable part of Arlington. Double gates led through an archway in the building to an enclosed stone quadrangle and loading bay. Merle Walters limped through the gates, looking around him curiously. The original building had obviously been intended for a quite different type of business. Perhaps for a repair shop or for outside construction work. The quadrangle was completely enclosed, and once inside there was only one way out, back through the archway. The building had no doors that led onto the main street—a good, tight arrangement for industrial security, but one that probably led to considerable hassles with the Building Inspection Department. No signs of emergency exits.

  Five blue VWs were parked in the inner courtyard, each carrying a CB antenna. Two men lounged against one of the automobiles, silent and absorbed. Merle noticed again the dreamy, introspective expressions that had first caught Jim Spurling's attention at the auctions. The men apparently paid no attention to Merle as he walked past them and into the building.

  Charles Kirkwood had much the same look, overlaid on an intense, dark countenance. He was thin, quick in movements, and he shook Merle's hand with a nervous, energetic grip. He looked a lot younger than Merle had expected—still in his twenties. If that was true, he must have been something of a prodigy in his grade school and college years. Merle had hoped for a more mature, older man. He thought of the materials in his briefcase, and suspected that one of them had been a waste of time and money. He sat down heavily in the proffered chair, a small coffee table between him and Kirkwood, and kept his briefcase on his knee.

  "Vince Menoudakis told me that WAWD would like some work done for you on one of your Navy contracts," began Kirkwood. "We've done a lot of specialist electronics work over the past four years, but we've almost given up on that recently. What's the job? If it's really advanced and challenging, we might still be interested."

  "We need some microminiaturized circuitry—logic and storage. What we need has to have 16K or more bytes of storage, be fully programmable, have a fair number of hardware special functions built in, and still weigh less than half an ounce. Does it sound possible?"

  Kirkwood didn't hesitate. "A snip. That's not even state-of-the-art, you can buy it off the shelf. Surely that's not the whole thing?"

  "No. We also want a compact telemetry system, one that can interface with the computer, to let it receive and transmit programs and data in real time. That system should only weigh a couple of ounces too, including the power supply. Still think you can do it?"

  This time there was a perceptible pause. Kirkwood went into deep concentration for a few seconds. When he emerged from it, his expression was guarded and suspicious.

  "Mr. Walters, before we go any further, I'd like to know just what this Navy job of yours is. Who's your customer, and what's the task description?"

  Merle lifted his hand. "Let me finish describing it to you. I admit, what we want goes well beyond the scope of our Navy contract—but I sincerely assure you that we do want to buy from you, and we'll pay a hell of a lot to get it."

  Charles Kirkwood was frowning, his eyes cold and hostile. Merle felt a strengthening of his first impression. One of the things he had brought with him was going to be useless.

  "This is the rest of it," he hurried on. "Here's what we want, and we are willing to pay you five million dollars—in cash—for full rights to it." Merle paused. That had slowed Kirkwood and caught his attention again. Money might be the best lever. "We want all the computer and telemetry capability, just as I described it. But it has to be in a special form. We want it in the form of an implant, that can be surgically placed inside a man's head, and then activated and interrogated directly, by impulses from the central nervous system. Just the way we control our eyes or hands. Now, we know that a primitive input/output system has already been developed, for use in prosthetics. We want something that's a couple of g
enerations beyond that."

  Merle paused, measuring his next words. "Mr. Kirkwood, I believe that you have already done all the development that I've mentioned, and carried it beyond experiment, to operational form. Now, would you care to discuss my offer?"

  Expressions were chasing themselves across Kirkwood's face. Sudden and total introspection, then fury and alarm. Merle looked for greed, but it had been blotted out by other, stronger emotions. He pulled his briefcase a little closer and placed his hand on a metal boss on top of it.

  "Mr. Walters." Kirkwood's voice was cold. "I don't know where you learned all this, or when. But I assure you, I must have that information, and soon."

  Merle heard footsteps on the stairs behind him, and turned as three men moved into the room and blocked the doorway.

  "You are an old man, Mr. Walters, and you are crippled," Kirkwood went on. "From the look of your complexion, your heart isn't in good shape. I think you should be sensible, and tell me all you know about this. I have no liking for violent methods, and I hope we won't have to use them. Just to avoid any silly ideas, I should mention that there are four other men in the courtyard. We are all in total and continuous communication with each other."

  Kirkwood's face was pale, and his hands were trembling. Merle turned again to look at the other men and saw no pity or assistance there. At least it made the next step a little less distasteful. With an inward sigh, he turned the metal boss on his briefcase.

  There was no sound, and no visible result of his action. Except that suddenly Kirkwood shuddered, raised his hands to his head, and sank blindly to his knees with eyes unfocused and mouth gaping. Behind him, Merle heard scraping and gasping, as the other men groped at the wall, hands held in agony against their heads.

  Merle opened his briefcase, took a sealed envelope from it, and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. Unhurriedly, he stood up, picked up his briefcase and walked out of the room, past the blind, immobilized Kirkwood men and on down the stairs. In the courtyard were four others, white-faced and hesitant until Merle came closer to them. Then they too lost all control and held their heads in agony, as Merle passed them and went on across the courtyard. He limped steadily through the archway, heavy shoulders butting through the summer heat, and went on into the street.