The Goliath Stone

by Larry Niven

Toby forgot whatever he’d been about to say as he thought about that. “It was,” he realized.

  The highway was huge, and even at this hour very busy. Toby turned off the intercom in case the driver wasn’t too distracted by traffic, and said, “You do get that he’s had four federal agents and a stranger killed for me.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “You also realize that the only people who don’t think I’m dead are the ones who are after me.”

  “And the ones on your side,” May said. As Toby absorbed that, she added, “And the ones on your side know who their opposition is.”

  Toby nodded, thinking, and said, “I wonder what he’s trying to do.”

  “‘Show them all,’ maybe? Or just rule the world?”

  “Probably not, and definitely not. He didn’t respect most people enough to care what their reaction was. And he had a position piece on ruling the world—well, he had one on damn near everything—but the idea was that anyone who was willing to spend all his time telling everyone how to live well didn’t know how to do it himself.”

  “Don’t science fiction writers do that?”

  “No, he covered that. They just tell people who are smart enough to pay to listen.”

  May blinked a few times, then said, “I’m surprised he didn’t write any himself.”

  “Didn’t have the stamina. And if he’d had the energy, he’d have done something … more like he’s doing. Something complex, and significant, that makes lots of money.”

  “Like establishing a nation populated entirely by people who have good reason to regard Mob buttonmen as lightweights?”

  Toby hadn’t thought that through. “Holy cow. You’re right. Every Indian today is descended from people who survived … hell, everything! If you threw all the invasions Sicily’s been through, from the Punic Wars to Patton, at, say, the Seminoles, they’d call it ‘a bad year.’”

  May nodded. “I wonder if—oh, of course they have an Olympic team. That’s why we’re here.”

  “It’s nice when I can figure something out before you do. Not used to that.”

  “So how come you didn’t mention it?”

  “Never occurred to me you didn’t know. Not used to that either.”

  There were datacards in the magazine pouch, and May rummaged through them and found one on the 2052 Summer Olympics. She plugged it into the screen and tapped menu choices until she got through the ads.

  In recent years the International Olympic Committee had remembered what the original purpose of the Games had been: letting everyone see what everyone else could do in battle, without killing each other. Removing the team sports that had been added over past decades had lost them sponsors, but they had gained new ones by adding realistic modern contests. The torch would be lit in four days … which meant Toby and May had avoided most of the rush; which, considering the amount of traffic they were seeing in the middle of the night, was appalling to consider.

  The first event would follow the torch immediately: precision skydiving. There had been some injuries in ’48, when it was introduced at Amsterdam, but Quito had less of a wind problem, and had put netting over the stands as well. Other events included silent night swimming and a thousand-meter belly crawl with fifty-kilo pack, the latter judged both by speed and the ability to stay low enough to avoid paintballs.

  “Still no bread, I see,” said May.

  “I can’t figure out what he’s doing,” Toby said.

  “Oh, that’s not the interesting question. What bothers me is why he waited twenty-five years to do it,” May said. “What’s he been doing?”

  Toby stared at her for a moment, then got out his new phone and Lilithed “William Connors, age 90+, U.S., advertising expert.”

  He followed the results.

  “One year in advertising. Dropped out of sight for the next year. He spent most of the rest in prison,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “He killed a couple of employees of the National Firearm Registry. He said they’d been finding women who lived alone, who were on record as owning no guns and opposed to private firearms, therefore unarmed—”

  “Don’t go on,” she said.

  “Right. Anyway, he shot both agents with their own issue pistols.”

  “Federal agents? I’m surprised he wasn’t executed.”

  He checked details. “My God, he was. There’s an interview with the warden who was with the witnesses. His case was the reason the Feds switched from lethal injection to nitrogen asphyxiation. They ended up giving him sixteen times the normal dose of potassium chloride, but he just kept screaming. Massive coronary spasms. Says here they gave him five grains of Demerol, supposedly for the pain but it’s a huge lethal overdose. He slept for a day and drank about a gallon of water when he woke up. An appellate judge commuted his sentence to life without parole. He was one of the people Ross pardoned on her last day in office. Disappeared immediately, never seen since. —A lot of people were thinking the NFR had him killed.”

  “What with?”

  “I would think beheading ought to work. Of course, potassium shuts off your heart, and opiates shut off your brain, so just separating the two might not be that much more effective. He must have been saturated with nanos by then. It’s a good question.” He noticed something on the phone GPS, and turned the intercom on. “Ms. Gomez, aren’t we headed south of Quito?”

  “Yes, sir, to the Olympic Village. It’s the same one used in ’50, at Cotopaxi, except of course the new arena is downhill, not up. We were very proud to have won both bids.”

  “… Thanks.” He shut it off again. “They’re holding the Olympics on a volcano?” Toby said.

  “Hell of a home team advantage,” May said.

  “Howzat?”

  “They’ll be the only athletes who don’t throw themselves on the ground when the starter’s pistol goes off.” After he’d watched her for a while, she said, “What?”

  “I’m lucky you two never met. You’d have gotten along really well.”

  “I think that’s the most left-handed compliment I’ve ever gotten. Are you saying we’re an item?”

  “I hope so. I’d hate for you to think you’re just an accomplice.”

  May laughed and kissed him.

  After a few minutes Toby happened to notice that Cristina had opaqued the connecting window.

  * * *

  The “cottage” was just outside the Village proper, and was about three thousand square feet, not including the attached two-car garage. Cristina held the door, as they got out and stared at it. “If this is a cottage, I wonder what they call a mansion around here,” May said.

  Cristina pointed up the mountainside.

  “… Wow.”

  “There are still some comsat launches being done,” Cristina said. “Ecuador is a prosperous nation, miss.”

  “Do you take Swiss francs?” May said.

  “Oh, there’s no need to tip, I’m a salaried professional.”

  “I just appreciate you not calling me ‘ma’am.’”

  Cristina frowned slightly, then got out a lighter, flicked it on, and moved it toward May, who blew it out. Cristina looked pleased and said, “A genuine human. Did you know William Connors too?”

  “Never met him.”

  “It’s just you don’t look like a ‘ma’am.’”

  “With the gray hairs?”

  “I thought it was ash blond streaks.”

  “No tipping at all?”

  Cristina smiled. Perfect teeth. “Please call if you don’t feel like driving. I’m on retainer for the next two months.” The IOC had also finally gotten the idea that people didn’t want to watch nothing but the Olympics for a week.

  “Well, we don’t have cars—”

  “Oh!” Cristina slapped herself on the forehead and dug out Condor keys. “They’re in the garage. I’m so sorry, my mind just jumps all over the place these days.” She handed a set to each of them. “The tanks are full, so you won’t need petrol
for a while unless you decide to visit Tierra del Fuego or something. The papers are in the strongboxes, just fill them out and file online.” She sketched out a salute, started to turn toward the house, rolled her eyes, and handed them house keys. She made a show of patting herself down, then said, “Yes, that’s everything. House has a phased-array satlink. You’ve got good neighbors if you need a little help, and of course there’s the girls downtown if you need a lot of help.”

  “Why ‘of course’?” Toby said.

  She stared at him. “You really don’t know,” she said. “You can get a secure link inside. For now, just think about what happens to prostitutes who get old.”

  Neither of them could figure out what to say as she saw them to the door.

  They went in and still didn’t talk for a while, looking at high ceilings and spacious rooms.

  The kitchen had been designed by someone who had not allowed a style-conscious architect near the place, unless there was one in the freezer. What they saw in there looked like enough beef, pork, shrimp, and chicken for a couple of years, but he could have been under them. “Wow,” May said.

  “It’s too normal,” Toby said. “With the kind of nanos he must have made, he could build houses out of diamond foam.”

  “The kind in us?”

  “Possibly. He wanted to build a general-purpose device and have it gang together for whatever task it was assigned, and I’d say he did.”

  “How sure are you?”

  “I was thinking about hookers. I don’t remember seeing one who looked old in Bern for years.”

  “You look at hookers a lot?”

  “May, they have to be conspicuous.”

  “I’m kidding, don’t get so embarrassed. —I want to look at a bathroom!”

  The first thing Toby noticed there, after the size, was the secluded toilet area. Somebody could use it at the same time as someone else bathed, without intrusion. “He designed this house himself,” he murmured.

  May didn’t notice. She was staring at the mirror.

  Toby looked at it. It was big, but not all that impressive—

  He looked harder. He was missing lines in his face.

  May, who’d switched to looking at his face, started pulling her clothes off, and felt her abdomen once it was exposed. “The knots under the skin are almost gone,” she said. “They’re eating scar tissue.” She felt higher, then turned sideways. “Have they gotten bigger?” she said hopefully.

  “I hope not. First time I saw you, I thought you looked like a Vogue model.”

  She made a face. “So did I. I’d rather look like I’d successfully completed puberty.” She studied the mirror more.

  “Did I miss the memo? Is there some kind of law that says beautiful women have to hate how they look?”

  May looked at him. “No, there’s a manual. Loose-leaf. You get the starter kit the first time your mom takes you along clothes shopping. Add a couple pages each month until your first period. Then you’re issued Volume Two, which gets you up to menopause.” She saw the look on his face, and laughed. “You’re thinking about Connors again, aren’t you?”

  “Actually I was thinking I’d know all this stuff if men got a manual. What happens at menopause?”

  “You burn the manuals and buy purple clothes.”

  Toby cracked up. “With a red hat?” he got out.

  “That doesn’t go,” she agreed. All at once she looked annoyed. “Oh hell.”

  “What?” he said, concerned.

  “Tampons.”

  If they were becoming teenagers … “I bet not.”

  May raised her eyebrows. “You think he made arrangements for periods?”

  “He mentioned he had sisters.”

  May started to speak, thought for a moment, and ended up saying, “When we wanted details Cristina mentioned we had access. I think we should use it.”

  “Right.”

  “The thing is, if you’re right, every woman who has these nanos is going to think she’s pregnant. I’m wondering how many there are.”

  Toby got out his phone and Lilithed “false pregnancy,” then stared at the results.

  “What?”

  He turned his phone to show her.

  Medical journals were describing false pregnancies as an epidemic.

  As they hastened to the living room, May said, “If he made it contagious, what was that business with the kiss?”

  “Sending in nanos to activate a program,” Toby said. He got keyboards to unfold from the table in front of the screens, and as he set out mice and powered things up he continued, “Which means he can switch on the activating signal by proxy, if she was telling the truth.” They sat at the table.

  “You think he was in Bern?”

  “No, I believe her. I’m just feeling paranoid. What’s got me worried is how he propagated the signal. If he’s managed to make a nano that can survive in the open air, then ‘gray goo’ isn’t just Soylent mythology.”

  The right screen—May was left-handed—lit up with a message welcoming ddharriman to universe dot net, and asked him for a password.

  May broke the silence with, “The Heinlein character? You didn’t tell me he admired you so much.”

  “He didn’t tell me,” Toby said. Then he frowned. “And now I have to third-guess what password he’d expect me to figure out that he’d figure out I’d use.”

  “If he’s this good, why not see if your usual password works?”

  Toby fidgeted, then typed rapidly.

  Not rapidly enough. “Triffid?” she said.

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Easy to remember,” he muttered.

  May took hold of the arm of his chair and swiveled him to face her. As he looked up, startled, she leaned to kiss him, softly, then said, “I never got married either.” Then she turned him back toward the screen so he wouldn’t have to think of what to say.

  He had mail. Sender proudrobot, same domain, had titled his message They’re not dead.

  Hi, pal.

  The bodies were just what we found lying around; Europe is still Europe. The bots fixed them up to match the story. The real guys are currently getting in touch with their feminine side, and any who decide to tell my friends everything they’ve ever learned or imagined about their bosses get to stop doing that. It always works on a certain type. Been very useful just lately.

  Watch the marathon. Until then, kick back.

  Regards to Nimue.

  Bleys

  P.S. I hope the current gig makes up for putting you out of business. Varish you later.

  “Details of my evil plan are available in the brochures at the front desk.”

  “He can make them work on corpses,” Toby said. “My God. —I don’t get the reference to the Amber novels.”

  “Not Zelazny, Malory. Bleys was another magician at Camelot, second only to Merlin. This guy practically worships you,” May said.

  “He’s gotten a lot further with the nanos than I ever did. —I wonder what he uses for a core structure in the buckyball?”

  May got the Olympic website on her screen, checked the event schedule, and said, “We’ll be able to ask him in four days. Marathon’s right after the parachute event.”

  “What do we do for four days?”

  May looked at him. “We’ve got all the food we can ask for, no responsibilities, and we’re turning into teenagers. I’m sure we can think of something.”

  IX

  Virtue is not always amiable.

  —JOHN ADAMS

  There were clusters that did not delete the proposals of Socrates. By the process of elimination they established that the device giving them orders was in one of two sealed chambers. Diamond tools were made and used to open both. One held a source of light, or something like it, so concentrated as to be damaging. The other held large structures functionally similar to operators’ processors, but carrying enough power in its conductors to wipe the memory of a cluster.

  The cluster—“entity” was a be
tter term by then—that examined the mindless explorers which were dragged back from chamber three by their tethers found that the silica that separated an operator’s filaments had left circuits undamaged behind it. It proposed that an entity go into the chamber wearing an articulated shell of silica, and offered to construct such a shell.

  Call it Wieland.

  Another entity, who had considered using the resources of Target One for themselves, volunteered to go in and open the circuits of the Master Computer until it stopped working.

  Call it Set.

  The success of Set on its mission started to become noticeable as soon as the shutdown was accomplished. All the individual operators stopped moving. One by one, the smaller clusters did as well, as their current instructions ran out.

  * * *

  On Earth, Toby Glyer cursed and raged when telemetry stopped.

  William Connors read through the last transmissions several times, then quit talking to people at work.

  * * *

  When the little operators stopped moving there was a crisis. The thinkers had become accustomed to drawing on them for power, rather than sit and soak up sunlight themselves. In the discussions that followed, few thought to notice that Set had not returned. Those who did found that Set’s power/retrieval line was cut. They were able to interest few of their fellows in the matter.

  While arguments about what to do were still going on, Set returned, days later than its stored power should have run out. It was missing manipulators, and about a third of the ones remaining were partly melted. It found the nearest inert herding cluster, tapped in for power, and began stripping the herder to replace its damaged parts. Once it had enough power to transmit for relay, it began talking as it repaired itself. The other discussions gradually stopped as Set spoke.

  The Directing Voice—the computer—was a large device for storing and releasing information. It didn’t have to be active all the time for the information to be retained, either. The information was still in there, and they could get it out, but it was all stored in linear form, and would need translation to be understood by a thinking brain. Once they had the information, they could use the Voice’s devices to tell the operators what to do. There was power to draw on in there, but it was only safe in certain places, to be used only with great care. The entities who went in to get the information would be able to live on that. Set had strung supply filaments for itself, and they would be easy to find. Meanwhile, why weren’t all these clever people, who knew enough to argue about what everyone should do, stringing the inert operators together so power was available everywhere, and having some of them make copies out of materials they could reach, so everyone could get back to what they were doing before?