Trader's World (26 page)

Jack Lester and Mikal Asparian had been lied to, of course; Daddy-O had correctly predicted Asparian's emotional involvement with Melinda Turak and had been able to estimate his post-mission reaction with high accuracy. There had been deception, but deception was necessary; just as it was necessary to accept this paradox: logic must form the basis for all actions, and in a logical universe there was no need for love; and yet, if Daddy-O's grand design were ever to be achieved, love would be an essential component in that design's fulfillment.

The computer remained locked in introspection for seconds longer.
Patience, patience.
There was progress. Did a computer need to justify its actions? Should a computer be impatient? The swirling dance of electrons had no need to hurry. Daddy-O performed a final summary and added it to the hidden data files. Nerve, ingenuity, humility, love, pain—one by one, critical parameter values within Mikal Asparian were being measured.

CHAPTER 11

By midnight the hospital rehabilitation center was quiet. Lyle Connery sneaked down to the lower wing and turned off the lights in the little room. He sat there in the dark, headphones on.

"Are we safe to talk, Jack? I mean, Daddy-O has input units all over the place."

"I checked. We're safe here. That electronic moron doesn't monitor this area. But look, boyo, if you're so worried, get in the tank with me. Plenty of room, and the life-support system will take care of two as easy as one. What's the worry, anyway?"

Lyle Connery crouched closer to the big tank and lowered his voice. "We've ruined Mike, that's what. And Daddy-O doesn't seem to give a damn."

"Mike's no better?"

"He's worse. I was with him just before I came down here. He doesn't leave his room. He sits there in a blue mope, staring at the wall, and he doesn't take any notice of the incoming Trade reports—and you know how keen he used to be."

Jack Lester whistled.
"Bad as that? He used to come over here and talk to me about' em, every day. He knew more about what was going on around the world than half the Master Traders. What's doing it? Does he still have medical problems?"

"Not physical ones. The medics say he's fine. But psychologically . . ." Connery shook his head, forgetting that Lester was receiving only audio. "It's Melinda, of course. He blames
himself
for her death—even though he wasn't there when it happened, and even though he didn't know about it until months afterward. I knew we should have told him what was going on before the Dreamtown mission, but Daddy-O wouldn't have it. Didn't want to listen."

"Think we're seeing signs of senility? Don't forget how old Daddy-O is—Desirée Hofstadt and Magsman III worked out that basic architecture over half a century ago."

"Daddy-O may be past it—"

"Ancient, practically a damned antique. What happens to old computers? Metal fatigue, I guess—"

"—but that doesn't help Mike. He needs a diversion. If we let him go on sitting there, he's bound to brood and make things worse."

"Too true."
There was an exasperated thump on the wall of the tank.
"Gor, Lyle, if only it was a couple of months from now, I'd be out of here. I'd take him and we'd raise some hell. There's old Mia Culpa, sweet as blackboy syrup, an' I'll bet she's still pining for me down in 'Tiago. She'd do Mike a power of good. What a woman! And what a waste. Hey, can't you do something with Mike, take him off somewhere?"

"I don't think he'd go hell-raising with me. You know how people feel about their instructors."

"Well, you have to try something to bring him out of himself. You
have
to. Unless you think you have a better idea."

"I do."
Jack Lester and Lyle Connery froze at the calm voice in their ears.
"A much better idea. You are quite right, Jack, solitude and rest will not help Mikal Asparian. Nor will trivial diversions. What he needs now is a major challenge. A mission."

"You need a new brain if you think missions will help."
Jack had recovered first.
"You won't cure him with more of the same. And what are you doing, tunnelhead, listening in on a private conversation?"

"I am trying to restore Mikal Asparian to what he was three months ago: a functioning Trader."
Daddy-O had no circuits for embarrassment.
"I agree with you, Jack, no ordinary mission will accomplish that purpose."

"So what can we do?"

"We must give Asparian a mission in which someone else's psychological demands and needs are stronger than his own. I have a candidate. And so, gentlemen, as soon as you are ready . . ."

* * *

Mike was well-trained enough to obey a direct order. He had walked the long spiral up from Rehab to Training and was now sitting alone in Lyle Connery's office. The field display next to him showed a three-dimensional enlarged image of a flying insect, three feet long and twice that across the open wings. After a first incurious glance, Mike ignored it. He sat staring straight ahead for the next ten minutes. When the door to his left opened he did not turn around.

Lyle Connery noted the straight-ahead stare and cursed to himself. The old Mike would have been playing with that hologram, rotating it to take a look at the insect from all angles.

"Hi, Mike."

A nod of acknowledgment, and that was all. Connery went to sit across from him. "You read the preliminary briefing document on the mission?"

"Yes."

"Good. Any questions or comments?"

"It's a two-person mission. I don't want to be
teamed
on a mission, ever again." Mike was gazing down at the desk top, not meeting Connery's eyes.

"We don't have any choice, Mike. The Great Republic insists on a doublet in negotiation. All right?"

A shrug. "If you say so."

"I do. And we have a partner already picked out, one with lots of experience in Yankee negotiations." Now for the tricky bit, Connery thought. Daddy-O, you'd better be right. "You'll be working with an old colleague—Jake Kallario."

Mike looked up, and Connery saw emotion on his face for the first time in months. "
No.
He'll never work with me."

"Jake's a first-rate Trader. He'll work with anyone."

"He may have told you that. But he hates me."

"You haven't seen him for over a year."

"I know, and he hides it well. But he can't stand me."

"People change. And Jake has changed—a lot." Connery pushed a photograph across the desk. "Take a look."

Mike gave it a casual glance, then picked it up and stared hard. The jawline was different, the eyes wider apart. "This is Jake Kallario? I'd never have recognized him."

"He's been through a rough time. He needed reconstructive surgery, and he came out of it less than three weeks ago. You know that Melly Turak was killed in a Smash rescue operation a few months ago in western Yankeeland—but did you know who she was saving?" Connery took the photograph from Mike. "He survived, and she died. Jake won't admit it, but he blames himself for her death. I think you'll find he's a different person from the one you remember."

"I can't work with him."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Because Jake is on the way here. He'll arrive any minute now."

"I have to leave." Mike was standing up.

"You have to stay."
The command tone of training camp appeared in Connery's voice. "Trader Asparian, that is an order. You and Kallario will hear this mission briefing together."

"Yes, sir." Mike sat down and stared again at the desk top. He did not move or speak for the next two minutes, until there was a sound from the open doorway. Then he turned. "Hello, Jake. How are you?"

"I'm doing all right. How about you?"

Connery winced. The voices were equally guarded, equally lifeless. If Daddy-O had thought that a simple meeting would strike sparks from both of them . . .

"Sit down, and let's get on with it." Connery swiveled the display so that both men could see it. "You've read the description of the primary mission. You are to negotiate a contract between the Strines and the Great Republic to permit the use of Strine clone technology. I anticipate no major difficulties with that. The Yankee underpopulation problem is hurting their northlands development, they must have more people, and the Strines think of human cloning as old technology. So both sides want a deal. You should be about two days in Skeleton City, negotiating with Martin Raincloud's staff. He's the top cityboss, pretty much runs the whole region. He's apparently wildly unstable, but I'm sure you'll be able to handle him. So the real interest lies in the second agenda. Trader Asparian, you've had longer to study this image than Kallario. What do you make of it?"

Mike gave the insect shape on the display a first serious inspection. "What's the image scale?"

"There's a scale calibration bar at the bottom. Display magnification is roughly a thousand to one. The real thing is about an eighth of an inch long."

"And it's inorganic, from the look of it."

"It is."

"And those are working wings. So somebody went to the trouble of making a flying gadget smaller than a housefly."

"Correct. Any idea why?"

Jake Kallario was showing signs of interest, leaning forward across Mike to stare at the display. "Surveillance?"

"Damn right. Bugging with a bug." Connery zoomed in on the head, so that the other two could see the eyes. "High-quality lenses, indium antimonide detectors, high-quality audio recording. Diamond crystal lattice brain, nuclear-powered propulsion system, and there's enough capacity for two hundred hours of continuous recording. The whole thing is a beautiful piece of work. It's a triumph of technology."

"Chill manufactured?" Mike asked.

"That would have been my guess, too. But apparently it's not. There's an interesting story to the way we got our hands on this thing." He paused.

Signs of life at last. Both men were looking at him expectantly.

"The fly is a triumph of high technology," he went on. "But its discovery was a triumph of
low
technology. It was found stuck to a flypaper in Rasool Ilunga's palace in Coronation City. It must have landed there accidentally, and it didn't have enough power to get free. Ilunga himself noticed it—he's an entomologist in addition to his other talents. His first thought was probably the same as mine would have been: this is a gadget that the Chills have planted here, to spy on what we're doing. Most people would have destroyed it, or maybe freed it and tried to load it up with false information. But Rasool Ilunga's a tricky character. He decided that the Diamond Fly—that's what he named it,
Musca Adamantis
—could be worth a lot to the Ten Tribes if it was handled right. So he did the last thing most people would have done; he went to the Chills down at the Pole and said he had the Fly in his possession and for a twenty percent interest in anything profitable that resulted, he would give it to them. He reasoned that if they showed no interest in it, that meant they must have planted it themselves. And even if they
had
developed it, they might be willing to pay a lot to have it back. Either way, he had nothing to lose. Well, the Chills were fascinated. They took the Fly away and did their own research—and it drove them crazy. Apparently the logic for the Fly's brain is designed so well that it's not difficult to program. The Chills are keen to find out who did the design, but it's the fact that the brain could ever be built that has them tied up in knots. They say the precision machinery needed is impossibly small, and they're the experts. We're talking of something that can perform fabrication work on single molecules—or smaller. It's so tiny, the Chills say its fabrication is 'below the molecular barrier.' That means it can't be built, not with any tools they can make or imagine. But it
was
built. Contradiction. And then, a couple of weeks ago, the Chills discovered another Diamond Fly, in their own council chamber at Cap City. After that, they found two more, and we turned up three of them here. Look."

Connery picked up a small black cube from the top of his desk, and slid back the top. As the other two men craned forward, he carefully lifted out a tiny blue-black object and placed it in front of them.

"It's recording now. The Chills showed us how to operate the Flies by remote control when they came to us for help. We signed an agreement with them—flat fee plus ten percent royalty—and Daddy-O and Max Dalzell started digging."

Connery paused for effect. That last statement, as it was meant to, had caught the other two's attention. Daddy-O working in direct combination with a top Master Trader made a rare and powerful team.

"The pair of them tracked down the maker of the Fly in just a couple of days. The brain was fabricated by a woman named Sabrina Vandermond, a Yankee. We know that for sure, and the Chills agree. But we still don't understand
how.
The Chills have assembly techniques that operate down almost to molecular levels, but they couldn't begin to put the Fly's brain together. And naturally, that is driving them crazy."

"What do you know about Vandermond?" Jake asked. His reconstructed face did not allow much expression, but Connery thought there was genuine interest in Jake's voice.

"Not much."

"So how will we arrange to see her?"

"That's one of this mission's little mysteries. Call it Agenda Three, if you like. You won't have to seek her out—we hear that she'll be looking for you. We don't know why. She lives in Skeleton City, and she works directly for Raincloud. We don't want to
do
anything to Vandermond, you understand—just pick her brains." Lyle Connery was watching the other two closely. There was no doubt about it, they had that inward, brooding look of a Trader calculating how to tackle a new mission. There were even signs of excitement in Asparian's eyes.

Rule 85: Once you've sold it, stop selling.
Connery stood up. "There are more briefing materials waiting for you in your quarters. You'll be leaving for the Great Republic early tomorrow morning."

CHAPTER 12