The Kalifs War

One

Year of The Prophet 4721

Kalif Gorsu Areknosaamos sat in the shade of a gnarled old voorwa tree, reading briefs. It was somewhat warm and the Kalif was fat. He wore loose shorts that reached his knees, and a crisp, sheer, scarlet shirt. His exposed arms and legs were thick with curly black hair; his beard, scalp, and brows were also curly, and grizzled.

Several of his hairy fingers bore rings, and a ruby had been set in the center of his nobility mark, a 3/8-inch polychrome star on his forehead. Bracelets of gold filigree dangled loosely on one furry wrist, and a slender gold chain hung from his neck, holding a jeweled medallion in the form of a sextant. The Prophet, the Blessed Flenyaagor, had been a navigator first of ships and later of souls.

A serving girl stood by the Kalif, a girl perhaps fourteen years old. Now and then she would lift the lid of a refrigerated bowl, take a cube of melon from it with small fingers, and hold it to the Kalif's lips. His mouth would accept it absently, and occasionally he stroked the girl's well-draped buttocks with a chubby hand, appreciating their concealed curvature. His potency had left him years before, but he enjoyed the aesthetics of sight and touch.

Another person, an aide, stood silently a few yards off, waiting for whatever order might come.

The Kalif's full lips smiled sardonically as he read. Now and then he chuckled. When he finished a sheet, he'd toss it aside on the grass, from which a ten-year-old page boy picked it up and added it neatly to a stack on a small table.

The pendant on the Kalif's fat neck concealed a watch. It began to peep at him like a baby bird, and grunting, he handed the rest of the brief to the page. The serving girl picked up his sandals and put them on his hairy feet, then braced herself and helped him stand. Smiling, he fondled her buttocks again. The aide picked up the stack of paper on the table.

Then, with the aide at his right, the page at his left-both half a step back-the Kalif started across the private inner garden to his apartment, the girl following.

At first he didn't notice the three men waiting for him there, watching his approach from the edge of curtains that partly draped the open sliding doors. His contact opticals were effective, but he was occupied with thoughts. It was the page's small voice that alerted him. "Your Reverence-"

The echo was baritone: "Your Reverence." The Kalif's scowling glance took them in: two officers of his personal guard, and a rather tall prelate, still young, in a light tunic with a miniature sextant, unjeweled, on his chest.

"What is your business?" The words rumbled from the Kalif's thick chest.

The young prelate held up an envelope. "The message is urgent and confidential. About R."

Still scowling, the Kalif held out an open hand and the young prelate stepped forward, handing the envelope to him. As the Kalif took it, the young man grasped the fat wrist, the elbow, twisted and thrust, jerking the thick hand behind the Kalif's back. Held it there with his left hand while the right swiftly drew a syringe from an open belt pouch. Meanwhile one of the guard officers had shoved the muzzle of a pistol under the aide's chin. The Kalif's grunt alerted the two inner door guards, but the syringe had moved to his jowl, where it chuffed sharply. The door guards stopped in mid-stride, confused by the sight of another automatic pistol, pointing at them in the fist of a familiar guard captain.

"He is already dead," the captain told them. "It's too late to save him." The words sounded strangely casual in the quiet room.

Within seconds the Kalif's weight sagged, but the young prelate kept him upright for seconds more, to be certain, before letting the heavy body collapse to the floor.

The assassin, the young prelate, looked across the room at the two shocked door guards. "You will not be punished for failing to protect him," he said. "The deed was done at the order of the College of Exarchs, with the knowledge of your commander."

He turned to the aide. The guard lieutenant had removed his pistol from the man's throat. "I believe you know why this was necessary."

Dough-pale, the aide nodded.

"Stay here for now. Until someone comes for the body." The assassin turned to the girl and the page. The boy seemed paralyzed; the girl was shaking visibly. "You stay here, too," the prelate said gently. "Both of you. A sister of the Faith will come for you later. Everything will be all right."

Then the young prelate and the two guard officers strode from the room, their weapons back at their belts, passing the door guards, inner and outer, without a look. A gray-haired exarch, white robed, waited for them in the corridor, and they left together.

The College of Exarchs waited restlessly in their conference chamber, around the large oval table there. The exarch that entered with the assassin was the eighteenth, completing their number. The Kalif's throne stood unoccupied at one end of the table, an ornately jeweled crown sitting in front of it. A Guard squad stood lined up along the wall behind it, an affectation of the late Kalif.

The young prelate, the assassin, stopped a few feet from the table, and with a slight bow addressed the secretary of the College. "Alb Deloora," he said, "the Kalif is dead. As you ordered."

The assassin's glance took in who was surprised and who was not. Roughly a dozen of the eighteen were startled and shocked. Of the four senior members, however, clearly all had known in advance, and this particular squad of guards showed no surprise. It took several seconds before the unwarned exarchs began to yammer, several at once, demandingly. The secretary raised his hands and spoke, stilling them.

"You know what the Kalif had become. And we have evidence, unequivocal, that he had been plotting the most enormous of heresies. He planned to publish and present what he would call The Book of Kargh! To add to and 'correct' The Book of The Prophet, which the Blessed Flenyaagor gave to mankind millennia ago. He then planned to set himself up as a holy despot. He'd have caused not just insurrection but outright revolution, and quite possibly the fall of the kalifate and College."

He waited for a moment, and when the hubbub persisted, barked them to silence. "We decided against a bill of impeachment," he went on. "Unavoidably we'd have had to make the whole thing public, with details that would have disgraced and weakened the kalifate for years to come."

He didn't give another, even more compelling reason: successful impeachment would have required fifteen votes in favor, fifteen of eighteen. And it was impolitic to point out that the Kalif had five of them in his pocket-could have depended on their votes regardless of his heresy.

"Thus some of us decided it should be done-the way we did it."

A casual hand gestured toward the assassin. "We were fortunate to have someone on staff who has served in the military, as an officer of imperial marines. You all know him, Coso Biilathkamoro; he has served us well in more ordinary ways. A man of decision and action. Not only did he subvert the Guard command, the most difficult job of all, and on short notice. He also performed the execution with his own hand. Without him we could hardly have succeeded; he has earned our deep appreciation."

The secretary glanced around the table, then settled his eyes on the prelate-assassin and beckoned to the guards. "Unfortunately, someone must die for this act of violence against the Successor to the Prophet. Someone must be sacrificed." He pointed at the assassin, and his voice took a tone of command. "Unfortunately, the one by whose hand the Kalif died. Guards, shoot this man!"

The guards made no move; two or three grinned nervously.

"Alb Deloora," the assassin said dryly, "it's not I who shall die." Quickly then he strode to the secretary, who found himself trapped between heavy chair and massive table. A body blow half paralyzed him, a strong hand grasped his hair and forced his head back. "It was your idea that the Kalif be killed. Even this syringe was your idea!" It darted, chuffed as before. "I agreed with you that the act was necessary. I also knew you would turn on me. So I made arrangements with the marshal, who chose and briefed these men for duty today."

He let go the secretary, who sagged onto his chair to dangle limply over an arm. Then the young prelate moved to the senior remaining exarch. "Alb Ikomo, I believe you knew of our late secretary's plan to sacrifice me. Would you care to follow him to the judgment of Kargh?"

The gray head shook a negative. The young man pointed at the throne. "Then crown me Kalif."

"But you are not a member of the College! The Kalif is always sel-"

Coso Biilathkamoro moved swiftly. Ikomo Iiakasomo's eyes bulged with shock as a hand grasped his hair, too, and the syringe flashed again. The gaunt exarch had just time to squawk before he sagged. The young prelate turned to the next in rank. "You too knew our secretary's intention toward me. Crown me!"

One of the others spoke, a fat man relatively pale among brown. "Teethkar, put the crown on his head! You know what's happening to the empire. It occupies our thoughts more than anything else; more than that mad heretic he just killed. We need someone like Coso Biilathkamoro on the throne now. He can be the strongest Kalif since Papa Sambak." The speaker turned his clean-shaven face toward the killer. "If he proves ruinous, we can rid ourselves of him later."

A few nervous laughs flashed and died, and after a moment's suspension, the exarchs relaxed a bit. "Crown him!" said another, then others yet. Still others nodded. The exarch ordered by the young prelate stepped to the throne and picked up the crown. The one who'd spoken, the fat one, spoke again.

"Our new Kalif must be formally elected. Those in favor of Chodrisei Biilathkamoro as Kalif, say 'aye!' "

Half a dozen said aye almost at once, then another, two more, two more again. More than half.

"Opposed 'nay!' "

Three said "nay," defiantly. Several said nothing.

The speaker looked at the exarch holding the crown, one of those who'd abstained. "As always, abstentions are not counted. The ayes prevail. Crown him!"

The man carried the crown to the young prelate, who half knelt, and placed it gingerly on his soldierly, short-cropped hair. When Chodrisei "Coso" Biilathkamoro stood again, he was the Successor to The Prophet, and the new ruler of the Karghanik Empire.

Wearing the red cape of his office, the new Kalif stood in his hearing room before the mustered senior officers of the Kalifal Guard: its marshal, the marshal's aide, the executive officer, and the three battalion commanders.

"I have called you together for two main reasons," the Kalif said. "First there are rewards to make. Your concern for the welfare of the empire, your understanding of the urgent need to remove a degenerate ruler, your willingness to allow and even assist in that removal, have earned the gratitude of the College of Exarchs and myself. Therefore, the empire will reward the Guard, every man in it, with a bonus of 100 gold sovereigns. Each commissioned officer shall receive 300, each of you here 500." He turned to the marshal. "And you," he added, "have earned 1,000. Also, the two officers who accompanied me when I performed the deed shall receive an additional 500."

He stepped closer to the marshal now, looking him over calmly. "As for the second matter," he went on, "I am told by a reliable informant that you have bragged that the Guard now determines who sits on the throne. Do you deny saying it?"

The marshal managed no words, merely stood flustered. In that moment his saber, not a syringe, hissed from beneath the Kalif's red cape, and though the marshal went for his pistol, he moved too late. The sword took his gun arm below the elbow, shearing muscle from bone, then thrust upward beneath the ribs. Blood poured. The Kalif stepped back, drew a large kerchief and wiped clean his blade.

That done, his eyes locked onto the shocked executive officer's. "Major," he said, "I have seen only good reports on you. If you are willing, I am prepared to promote you to colonel and appoint you marshal."

Somehow his gaze calmed the major, who pulled himself together. "Your Reverence, I am willing."

"Good. Then marshal you are. As for me-I intend to be the Kalif this empire has needed for so long. And one of the things I demand is your absolute loyalty, yours and that of the entire Guard. There may be disorders as a result of this day's work, and I will be too busy to protect myself. It will be up to you.

"Now, as the late marshal did not live to draw his bonus, I will have it divided equally among the six of you."

For a moment his eyes held on the new marshal's again, then he nodded slightly as if to himself, in approval. "I will review your regiment on the parade ground tomorrow morning at nine, to let your men know me. And-I do not plan any more surprises. I much prefer to operate in a regular and orderly manner."

The Kalif turned his back to them then, and strode from the room.

Two

The cruiser and its troopship companion had generated hyperspace and disappeared from the Karnovir System a ship's week earlier, programmed as accurately as possible to return to its home system, nearly three years away.

They took no victory with them, little booty, and on]y one prisoner, female. One badly damaged prisoner, thought Lieutenant Commander Bavi Ralankoor, He stepped from a lift tube into the Services Section, A-Deck, strode down a gray, uncarpeted corridor to Utility Compartment A-S 04, and opening the door, stepped inside. With all but one table folded into the walls, it seemed almost spacious by ship's standards. Two young women were there. The short one, swarthy like himself, was in charge. She glanced questioningly at the officer.

He gestured to continue, and they did, exchanging simple sentences-simple comments and questions by the specialist, simple replies by the prisoner. The language program could install vocabulary and grammar in a mind, but not all at once. And with each installment, it was necessary to exercise the new knowledge before another acquisition.

Ralankoor stood by the door, listening.

"What is the name of the planet from which this ship came?" asked the dark young technician.

The prisoner was long-legged, remarkably so, and taller than Ralankoor, with hair the color of pale honey, and violet-blue eyes. Even newly captured, confused, and frightened, she'd been beautiful-exotic, interesting, exciting to look at.

"The name of the planet from which this ship came is Klestron," she answered.

The sentences and pronunciations were stilted, the delivery awkward.

"Good. And what is the name of the Imperial Planet?"

"The name of the Imperial Planet is Varatos."

"Good. Please name the other planets in the empire."

"Maolaari, Ikthvoktos, Kathvoktos, Niithvoktos, Kolthvoktos, Saathvoktos, Naathvoktos, Chithvoktos, Veethvoktos."

"Very good." The tech turned to Ralankoor. He was frowning. "Sir?" she said.

"Continue. I will listen."

"Thank you, sir." While he took a seat to one side, she turned back to the prisoner. "If you will count to ten for me, I will then tell you a story."

The prisoner's face took on a childlike expression of pleasure. "Ik, ka, nii, kol, saa, naa, chik, vee, gaa, tee," she counted.

"Very good. Now I will tell you something about The Prophet, the Blessed Flenyaagor. You remember that it was he who gave us the words of Kargh the all-master, the all-seeing…"

Ralankoor was tempted to cut her off. The commodore had ordered him specifically to minimize the information the prisoner was exposed to, consistent with getting her reasonably fluent in Imperial. And Ralankoor had gone to considerable trouble to edit instructional material to comply with that order. The technician was going beyond it.

But just now he let her continue.

"The Blessed Flenyaagor was born more than 4,700 years ago-imperial years. He was a sailor, a man who traveled on a small ship that went upon the sea, driven by the wind. He owned that small ship, and at night, on the sea, he would watch the stars, and wonder about them. He also wondered about many other things. In time, Kargh spoke to the Blessed Flenyaagor, answering many of his questions. And began to tell him how men should live on the world, and how they should treat one another.

"He also told Flenyaagor to write it down. And then to go forth upon the land and tell the people all that Kargh had told him…"

When the specialist had finished her little story, Ralankoor spoke. "Specialist Zoranjee," he said mildly, "wait in the corridor. After I have spoken privately to our guest for a few minutes I will speak with you."

The tech nodded. "Yes, Commander," she said, and rising, left. Ralankoor sat down opposite the prisoner, the seat warm from the specialist's body.

"Specialist Zoranjee told me yesterday that she found you dancing. And that you dance very nicely."

The prisoner answered in Imperial. "Yes, sir."

"Do you remember ever dancing before? Before you were brought on board this ship?"

The violet eyes slid away, and she shook her head. "No, sir."

"Well. Perhaps you will dance for me sometime."

The eyes brightened. "I will dance for you now, if you'd like."

Childlike, thought Ralankoor. According to the chief medical officer, amnesiacs were not ordinarily childlike. In fact, her symptoms did not match anything that DAAS had on amnesia, except of course that she could not remember. And his instruments had assured him that she wasn't faking.

He nodded. She stood and began dancing, humming the music. It was not at all like any dancing he'd seen before. Her movements were larger, fuller, more athletic, requiring greater flexibility and balance, their appeal more purely artistic than sensual. It seemed to him that musicians would add greatly to both performance and appreciation.

After a minute or two she stopped, sweat sheening her forehead. A smile parted her lips.

"That was very nice, Tain," he said. "I'm going to leave now, to talk with Specialist Zoranjee. We won't be long. Then she'll come back in and continue your lessons."

With that he left, stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him. He wondered if she'd begin dancing again.

"Specialist," he said, and his voice was stern, "do not tell her further stories about The Prophet."

The specialist's face registered brief surprise, then indignation, though of course she said nothing. Ralankoor knew her problem: It was written that the believer had a duty to inform the non-believer about The Prophet and his words. When one could find a non-believer.

"Use only the material I've specified in DAAS," he continued. "Nothing more. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." The words came stiffly.

"Good. And something else: Why were you drilling her on the names of the planets?"

"Because they, most of them, are based on the ordinal numbers, which she had just learned."

"Mmm. I see. Specialist, I had you assigned to this duty because I felt sure you were the best person for it. You are intelligent, responsible, and considerate. I will not put you on report this time, but there must not be another." He repeated an earlier lecture now. "The commodore wants her to know no more about Klestron and the empire than necessary to complete the language drills. Then we'll put her in stasis till we arrive home. She'll be interrogated by SUMBAA there, and her answers must be as little influenced as possible by knowledge of our ways and beliefs." His voice softened for a moment. "After she has talked with SUMBAA then she'll be taught about The Prophet, and Kargh, and no doubt many other things."

Once more he made a stern face. "Do not deviate from this policy again."

Specialist Zoranjee nodded, contritely now. "Yes, sir."

"But encourage her to dance," Ralankoor went on. "It's good for her, physically and probably spiritually."

He turned and started for his office. Tain. Tain Faronya. Even the name was lovely. It was all they'd learned from her before the foreign artifact had stripped her of her memory and almost her life.

It occurred to him that she might have lost more than memories and attitudes. She might have lost some reasoning capacity, leaving her like a child, a lovely, agreeable child. Spiritually. Physically she was no child. She was undoubtedly the loveliest woman he'd ever seen, especially dancing. And the most desirable.

He wondered what would be done with her on Klestron when SUMBAA had finished questioning her. She'd be without family there, a woman without family to shield her. Even if she wasn't noble, which wasn't proven, gentry had the same values, the same sensibilities, and it had been wrong not to release her before they left. There were those on Klestron-even on this ship-who'd take advantage of her, given half a chance. And on Klestron those who'd make the chance, who'd be in a position to. He was tempted to himself, though he wouldn't. Certainly not with the morality and threat of the commodore in the background.

But he'd allow himself to fantasize occasionally.

Three

The new Kalif sat scanning rapidly through a bound packet of printouts, then slowed, frowned, and turned backward a page. "What is this?" he muttered, then looked up at his secretary. "Industrial riots at Chingarook on Saathvoktos, this coming Veethkar." (Veethkar is the eighth month in the imperial calendar.) Mid Veethkar! Partiil, how can SUMBAA come up with a prediction like this? With such seeming precision?"

His secretary blinked nervously. "It's what he was designed to do, Your Reverence. To know."

The Kalif snapped his reply: "That's no answer! Obviously he was designed to do it. But how does he do it? Useful prediction requires data, at least for a computer. In matters like this it also requires an improbable knowledge of complex, constantly changing relationships."

He paused, frowned thoughtfully. "How good are SUMBAA's predictions?"

"Quite good, I believe, Your Reverence."

The Kalif grunted. "That's been my impression, but I've never seen actual data on it." He gestured with the report. "Go. And call Alb Jilsomo. Tell him I want to see him. Right away, unless it will cause him problems."

"At once, Your Reverence." The secretary, a small wiry man, hurried from the room as if glad to be leaving. Then, leaning forearms on his desk, the Kalif continued to read. After several minutes, his secretary's voice spoke from the desk speaker.

"Alb Jilsomo is here to see you, Your Reverence."

"Send him in."

The Kalif leaned back in his chair. A large man entered-the exarch who'd urged his crowning, and the only exarch without the mark of nobility on his forehead. He was rather tall and very fat, his white robe tentlike. "You wanted to see me, Your Reverence?"

"Right." The Kalif held up the report he'd been reading. "SUMBAA's monthly summary report on industrial conditions. There's a prediction I want you to see. Here."

Alb Jilsomo Savbatso walked over to him and took the bound packet of printouts, his eyes settling on the place the Kalif indicated. He read quickly. "Yes, Your Reverence?"

"Industrial riots at Chingarook! Six months from now!" The obsidian eyes found the exarch's, demanding. "How does SUMBAA compute this? Think of all the interacting factors involved! Do such predictions generally come to pass?"

"Your Reverence, I know little-actually nothing-of how SUMBAA or any computer functions. But it's been my experience that SUMBAA's predictions are usually quite accurate."

The Kalif got to his feet. "I'm going to the House of SUMBAA and talk to the director. Gopalasentu, isn't it?"

"Dr. Chisop Gopalasentu. He's worked with SUMBAA for years-twenty-eight years, I believe."

"Umh." The Kalif was thinking how little some people learned in twenty-eight years. Including some with doctor in front of their name. Well, he'd see.

After a call to alert the director, it was a short walk across the beautifully landscaped grounds of the quadrangle to the House of SUMBAA-a building almost tiny by government standards, its low dome and slender circling pillars marble, its walls of some dark brick: glazed, rough-textured, purplish near-black. The new Kalif had been introduced to it earlier that week. Its large central room was the Chamber of SUMBAA, containing SUMBAA's numerous modules interconnecting without symmetry around a large central unit. Adjacent to the chamber were workshops and storage rooms, some of them also large; several modest offices; a conference room; and a comfortable apartment for the director.

The director met them at the entrance. "Your Reverence!" he said bowing. "A rare pleasure."

You hope, thought the Kalif. "It's too soon to know how rare my visits might be," he replied dryly, and held the report out, opened to the prediction that had taken his attention. "Read this."

The director took it and read. When he'd finished, he looked up puzzled at the Kalif. "Sir, it is a prediction. Of labor problems on Saathvoktos. At Chingarook. With a recommended action. The Saathvoktu Industrial Ministry will no doubt follow the recommendation, assuming that the SUMBAA there has come to the same conclusion ours has. But if Your Reverence wishes to send a counter recommendation… That sort of thing is sometimes done."

Tight-lipped with apparent exasperation, the Kalif took the report from the director's hands, then walked past him through the small lobby and down a length of corridor to the door of SUMBAA's Chamber, the director scurrying alongside him. Opening the door, the Kalif stepped inside.

It was quiet, with what felt to him like a living presence. Thoughtfully he looked SUMBAA over. "I'm not interested in the recommendation," he said. "I want to know how SUMBAA made the prediction."

"Sir? You mean you-want to know how-SUMBAA made the prediction?" Clearly the man was dismayed.

The hard, marine-colonel eyes held him thoughtfully for a long moment. "Can you explain it?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"Your Reverence, it is impossible."

"Damn it! That's no answer! Why is it impossible?"

The man was almost shaking. "Sir, SUMBAA is far too complex. The permutations of possible data sources and tracks…"

"You can't call up the data and the computations made in computing this particular prediction?"

The director stood unmoving, lips parted, as if frozen.

"Director Gopalasentu," said Alb Jilsomo gently, "I believe the Kalif is interested simply in knowing how SUMBAA draws his conclusions. Apparently you don't know."

The director's face resembled a child's who'd been found out by a teacher. "No, sir, I don't. SUMBAA is enormously complex. No one knows very much about his operating processes."

The Kalif frowned. "Then how do you maintain and repair it?"

The director was beginning to recover a bit. "SUMBAA does those things for himself, Your Reverence."

"For him, uh, for its self?"

"He informs me when some part or material is needed. With a schematic if necessary. If what he wants is not on the shelf, I have it prepared."

"So you simply install it then."

Again the man averted his face. "Yes, Your Reverence."

"What is it you're not telling me?"

The face snapped up, but the eyes still evaded. "Sometimes I install the part, I or one of my assistants. But more often…"

"Yes?"

The director shrugged. "Rather often, Your Reverence, SUMBAA simply asks for materials. Chemicals, you understand. In fact, certain chemicals are provided him periodically. He then uses them-as he sees fit."

The hard kalifal lips pursed. "Are you telling me that SUMBAA metabolizes them?"

"Possibly. In a manner of speaking, sir." Possibly. In a manner of speaking. The Kalif's eyes withdrew their hard focus, his attention shifting inward for the moment. Then they fixed on the director again. "Does anyone know more about SUMBAA than you do?"

"No, sir. Certainly not about this SUMBAA. There are eleven SUMBAAs, one on each inhabited world, each with its director and staff. Their original designs were the same, but they have evolved over the centuries, altering and enlarging themselves. They've redesigned themselves to a large degree. Thus they probably differ from one another, more or less."

"Umh! Has SUMBAA always been so-independent?"

"Somewhat. But apparently not as much at the beginning."

"Apparently? Then you don't actually know."

"I believe I do, yes. SUMBAA was not nearly so large at the beginning. It was intended that he grow in capacity, abilities, and size. From his own experience. At that time there was a field of study known as quasi-organics, not well developed but felt to have promise for computers. When SUMBAA was built, he was provided with a central processing unit of the usual semi-conductor microchips programmed to begin the progressive, self-directed development of storage and processing capacity of a so-called 'tank' of quasi-organic gel. SUMBAA's reorganization and expansion of the tank seems to have been the heart of his growth, but much of the increase in space has been for various servo-units, some of them mechanical. In time he grew far beyond the designs of his creators."

Grew! Again the Kalif's attention turned inward, as if he communed with himself. "Is it possible for me to, ah, communicate personally with SUMBAA? More freely than through office terminals?"

"Yes, sir, if you'd like. Here in this chamber."

"Good. Do what's necessary for me to do that."

The director turned and walked toward an instrument panel. A few lights glowed there, but nothing seemed to be happening. Quizzically, the Kalif wondered what SUMBAA did when it wasn't in use. Besides receive and store the constant inflow of data, which presumably it did as automatically as a human being received and stored perceptual inflow from its environment. Did SUMBAA nap? Dream? Or was it always computing, perhaps on esoteric questions of its own making? Presumably it at least indexed and collated the inflow.

The director pressed a single key. "SUMBAA," he said, "the Kalif would like to speak with you."

SUMBAA spoke. "Good morning, Chodrisei Biilathkamoro, Your Reverence. I am prepared to reply."

The voice was neutral, genderless but somehow natural. With the director's consistent reference to SUMBAA as he, the Kalif had expected it to sound distinctly male.

"I-am interested in how you function, and in your growth since your initial construction. And-in your degree of autonomy."

There was a second-long pause before SUMBAA replied, simulating a typical human pause. "I will reply succinctly. I now store and process data using changes in complex quasi-organic molecules. Initially my functioning was totally inorganic. My designers provided me with the necessary data, and certain programs, templates you might say, to begin my own transformation. From that point I designed and redesigned myself over a long period of time. If you will look in my number one printout tray, I have just provided you with simplified schematics of my initial and current designs. And benchmark intermediate designs. Simplified because anything more explicit would not be intelligible to anyone today, and would simply obscure. I will provide more explicitly complete schematics if you want them.

"As for my independence: I answer whatever questions are asked of me, to the best of my ability. Except as forbidden by the basic canon imposed on me by my original designers. And of course by your laws on the invasion of privacy."

The Kalif's gaze seemed to probe the machine in front of him. "What is this basic canon? What constraints are there on your function? Besides those implicit in your data and understanding?"

"I am designed to serve the welfare of humankind. That is the First Law, the basic canon, the sole absolute from which I am not free to deviate. All of my operations must conform to it. Other operating principles have grown out of that, but none of them are absolute. When any of them produce results at variance with the First Law, the principles are modified to compatibility with the First Law, or cancelled entirely. Then the problem whose previous solution was unacceptable is computed anew."

The room was quiet. Alb Jilsomo stepped to a tray and removed a thin sheaf of sheets without opening them. The Kalif's frown was thoughtful.

"SUMBAA, do you regard yourself as infallible?"

"No. I am totally logical, within the constraints of the First Law. But while my data base is enormous, and undergoes constant updating and evaluation, I am not infallible. On the other hand, my accuracy is high. Occasionally I provide an analysis that is severely in error. Sometimes I do this without any internal warning of possible trouble. But that happens infrequently."

"How do you express mathematically your confidence in a computation?"

"There are no mathematics in which I can explain that to you meaningfully."

"Well then, how do you evaluate for yourself mathematically? In order to, ah, guide successive computations."

"Mathematics can be described as the rigorous use of defined and logical relationships expressed in rigorously defined symbols. My mathematics are not describable in terms that mean anything to humans."

"Try me. Print out a description of your mathematics."

"As you wish. They are now printing out, and can be found in tray number one."

The Kalif's eyes glimpsed sheets feeding swiftly and silently from a slot. "Starting from scratch," he said, "could human beings at present design a new SUMBAA comparable in abilities to the original