The Turing Option

39 December 20, 2024

The scenery flowed by while they ate breakfast in the dining car. Small villages, jungle and mountains, an occasional glimpse of ocean as they skirted the Sea of Cortez. While they were finishing their coffee a phone rang and Brian saw one of the other diners take it from his jacket pocket and answer it.

“I’m being stupid,” he said. “I should have thought of it before this. Do you have your phone with you?”

“Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not me, not now. You know that you can receive a phone call no matter where you are. Did you ever think of the mechanism involved?”

“Not really. It’s one of those things you take for granted.”

“It was so new to me that I looked into it. There are fiber-optic and microwave links everywhere now, cellular nets right around the world. When you want to make a call you just punch it in and the nearest station accepts it and passes it on. What you might not realize is that your phone is always on, always on standby. And it logs in automatically when you move between cells by sending your present location to the memory bank of your home exchange. So when someone dials your number the national or international telephone system always knows where to find you and pass on the incoming call.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean it knows where I am now? That anyone with the authority could obtain this information?”

“Absolutely. Like General Schorcht for instance.”

She gasped. “Then we have to get rid of it! Throw it off the train—”

“No. If a phone goes out of commission a signal is sent to the repair service. You don’t want to draw any attention to yourself. We can be fairly sure that no one is looking for you yet. But when they find that I’m missing and the search begins, they will be sure to contact everyone who worked with me. Let’s go back to the compartment — I have an idea.”

There was a panel under the window that looked perfect. Brian pointed to it.

“Sven, do you think you can take those screws out?”

Sven swiveled his eyes to look. “An easy task.”

The MI formed a screwdriver head with its manipulators and quickly took out the screws that held the plastic panel in place. There were two pipes and an electric cable passing through the space there behind the panel. Brian pointed.

“We’ll just put your telephone in here. The plastic panel won’t block any signals. If the military call and you don’t answer they are going to have a busy time tracking the signal while it’s moving around Mexico. By the time they sort it out we will be long gone.”

The train pulled out of Tepic at lunchtime and turned inland towards Guadalajara, reaching Mexico City exactly on time. Sven was packed safely away and ready for the porter who came for their luggage. He led the way to the Depósito de Equipajes, where they checked everything in. Brian pointed to the bank next to it.

“The first thing we do is get some pesos. We don’t want a repetition of Mexicali.”

“And then?”

“We find a travel agency.”

Outside of the Buenavista railroad station, Mexico City was cold and wet; the smog hurt their eyes. They ignored the cab rank and walked out through the crowds and along Insurgentes Norte until they came to the first travel agency. It was a large one and a placard in the window said english spoken, a very hopeful sign. They turned in.

“We would like to fly to Ireland,” Brian told the man behind the large desk. “As soon as is possible.”

“I’m afraid that there are no direct flights from here,” the agent said as he turned to his computer and brought up the tables of departing flights. “There is an American flight that connects daily through New York City — and a Delta flight through Atlanta.”

“What about non-American carriers?” Shelly asked, and Brian nodded agreement. Safely out of the States they were in no hurry to return, however briefly. In the end they settled for MexAir to Havana, Cuba, with an Aeroflot Tupelov leaving three hours later for Shannon. The tickets were priced in pesos, but the agent called the bank for the current rate of exchange.

“Let’s hold on to the cash,” Shelly said. “We’re going to need it. Use my credit card instead.”

“They’ll track you down.”

“Like the phone — I’ll be long gone.”

“Cash or credit card, both okay,” the agent said, and pulled over the booking form. “American passports?”

“One. The other is Irish.”

“That will be fine. This will only take a few moments.” The computer link checked the credit card account, booked the seats and printed the tickets. “I hope you enjoy your flight.”

“I hope so too,” Brian said when they were back in the street. The query about their passports was a depressing reminder that they were going to have to pass through customs. The travel books had been quite clear about this and he knew he faced trouble. He hoped he could avoid it by what was called the mordida. He would soon find out.

“I’m cold and wet,” Shelly said. “Do we have time to buy a raincoat — maybe a sweater?”

He looked at his watch. “A good idea. More than enough time before we have to be at the airport. Let’s try that department store.”

He bought two more shirts, underwear, a light jacket as well as the raincoat. Just the basic items that would fit into the carry-on bag. Shelly did far better than that, shopping so well that she had to buy another small suitcase. Back in the train station Brian dug out the stub, retrieved Sven and their bags, then took a cab to the airport.

There were no problems at the check-in counter. They watched Shelly’s bag and the crated MI move slowly away on the belt as the airline clerk tore out sheets from their tickets and stapled them to the boarding cards.

“Might I see your passports, please?”

This first hurdle was easy enough to get over. All she wanted to do was look at the first page to see if the passports were current and had not expired. She smiled and passed them back. Shelly went through security first. He followed, clutching his passport and boarding pass, putting his bag on the belt of the X-ray machine before he stepped through the archway next to it. The machine bleeped and the security guard turned to him with a dark and suspicious look.

He took the coins from his pocket, even undipped and removed his brass belt buckle and put that on the tray as well. Stepped back through the arch, which bleeped again.

Then Brian realized what was happening. The magnetic field detected metal — and electronic circuitry.

“My head,” he said, pointing at his ear. “An accident, an operation.” Not a computer — keep it simple. “I have a metal plate in my skull.”

The guard was most interested in this. He used the magnetic field hand detector, which only bleeped when it was near Brian’s head. No weapon there; he was waved through. Everyone was just doing their job.

Including the customs officer. He was a dark-skinned man with an elegant mustache. When Brian gave him his passport he flipped the pages slowly, went back and repeated the action. Looked up and frowned.

“I do not see the visa entry showing where you entered Mexico.”

“Are you sure? Can I see the passport again?” He pretended to look through it and, with the great fear that he was making a total fool of himself, slipped a hundred-dollar bill between the pages. It is one thing to read about bribes — another to really attempt bribery. He was sure he would be under arrest within moments.

“I didn’t know I needed one. We crossed the border by car. I didn’t know about a visa.”

He pushed the passport back and watched with horror as the officer opened it.

“These things happen,” the officer said. “Mistakes can be made. But you will need two visa stamps. One to enter the country, one to leave. If the lady is with you she will need two stamps as well.”

The man looked bored as he returned the passport unstamped. Brian flipped through its empty pages — empty of money as well as visas — then realized what was happening.

“Of course. Two stamps, not one. I understand.”

They both understood. Three more hundred-dollar bills went the way of the first; there were two thuds and he had the passport back. Shelly’s was treated in the same way. They were through and on their way!

“Did I see what I thought I saw?” Shelly hissed in his ear. “You are a crook, Brian Delaney.”

“I am as surprised as you are. Let’s find our gate and sit down. This kind of thing is not easy on the nerves.”

The plane was only an hour late in leaving; the rest of the trip passed in a blur. They could only manage to doze on the plane and fatigue was beginning to tell. Havana was just a dimly lit transit lounge with hard plastic seats. The Aeroflot flight left two hours late this time. They ate some of the tasteless airline food, drank some Georgian champagne and finally fell asleep.

It was just after dawn in Shannon. The plane dropped down through the cloud-filled sky, came in low over cows grazing in green fields as they approached the runway. Brian pulled on his coat and took down his bag from the overhead rack. They left the plane in silence along with the rest of the weary travelers. Another transatlantic flight had arrived at the same time, so they were a long time shuffling along in the line of unshaven men, bleary-eyed women, whimpering and wailing children. Shelly went through first, had a visa stamped in her passport, turned to wait for him.

“Welcome home, Mr. Byrne,” the wide-awake and sprightly customs man said. “Been away on a holiday?”

Brian had been prepared for this moment and his accent was purest Wicklow without a trace of American. “You might say so — thousands wouldn’t. The food’s a shock and they seem to think that overcharging is a way of life.”

“That’s very interesting.” The man had the rubber stamp in his hand but he was not using it. Instead he raised cold blue eyes to Brian.

“Your current address?”

“Number 20 Kilmagig. In Tara.”

“A nice little village. Main Street with the primary school just across from the church.”

“Not unless they’ve jacked it up and moved it a half mile down the road, it isn’t.”

“True, true, I must have gotten it confused with someplace else. But there is still one little problem. That you are Irish I don’t doubt, Mr. Byrne, and I wouldn’t be one to deny a man access to the land of his birth. But the law is the law.” He signed to a garda, who nodded and strolled their way.

“I don’t understand. You’ve checked my passport—”

“I have indeed, most intriguing as well as puzzling it is. The date of issue is perfectly correct and all the visas appear to be in order. But I find one thing difficult to understand — which is why I am asking you to proceed with this garda to the office. You see this style passport has been replaced by the new Europas. This particular style passport hasn’t been issued for over ten years. Now don’t you find that interesting?”

“You better wait here for me,” Brian said weakly to Shelly as the big man in blue uniform led him away.

The interrogation room was windowless and damp. There was nothing on the drab walls except some water stains; a table and two chairs stood in the center of the worn wooden floor. Brian sat on one of them. His carry-on bag was on top of the box in the corner. A large policeman stood next to the door staring patiently into space.

Brian was depressed, chilled, and probably catching a cold. He rubbed his itching nose, pulled out his handkerchief and sneezed loudly into it.

“God bless,” the garda said, glancing at him then back to the wall again. The door opened and another big man came in. No uniform, but the dark suit and heavy boots were uniform enough. He sat down on the outer side of the table and put Brian’s passport down before him.

“I am Lieutenant Fennelly. Now, is this your passport, Mr. Byrne?”

“Yes, it is.”

“There are certain irregularities about it. Are you aware of that?”

Brian had had more than enough time to think about what he was going to say. Had decided on the truth, everything except the fact that he had been imprisoned by the military. He would keep to a highly simplified version of what had actually happened.

“Yes. The passport was out of date. I had some important business appointments, couldn’t wait to get a new one. So I made a few slight changes myself to bring it up to date.”

“Slight changes! Mr. Byrne, this passport has been so excellently altered that I sincerely doubt that it would have been detected had it not been the old model. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m an electronic engineer.”

“Well you could make a grand living as a forger should you wish to continue your criminal career.”

“I’m no criminal!”

“Aren’t you now? Did you not just admit to forgery?”

“I did not. A passport is only a piece of identification, nothing more. I have just brought my passport up to date — which is the same thing that the passport office would have done had I the time to apply for a new one.”

“That’s a pretty Jesuitical argument for a criminal to use.”

Brian was angry, even though he realized the detective had angered him on purpose. A sneeze saved him; by the time he had dug out his handkerchief and wiped his nose he had the anger under control. Attack was the best defense. He hoped.

“Are you charging me with some kind of crime, Lieutenant Fennelly?”

“I will make my report. I would like some details first.” He opened a large notebook on the table, took out a pen. “Place and date of birth.”

“Is all that needed? I have been living in the United States, but I was born in Tara, County Wicklow. My mother died when I was young. She was not married. I was adopted by my father, Patrick Delaney who took me to live in the States where he was then working. It’s all in the record. You can have names, dates, places if you must. It will all check out.”

The Lieutenant did want the facts, all of them, and slowly and carefully transcribed them in his book. Brian held nothing back, just terminated the record before he began to work at Megalobe, before the theft and the killings that happened.

“Would you open your luggage now?”

Brian had been waiting for this, had planned ahead. He knew that Sven was listening to everything that was being said, hoped that the MI would understand as well.

“The small bag, here, contains personal items. The large box is a sample.”

“A sample of what?”

“A robot. This is a machine I have developed that I plan to show to some private investors.”

“Their names?”

“I cannot reveal that. A confidential business matter.”

Fennelly made another note while Brian unlocked the box and opened the lid. “This is a basic model of an industrial robot. It can answer simple questions and take verbal input. That is how it is controlled.”

Even the garda by the door was interested in this, turning his head to look. The detective gazed down at the unassembled parts with a baffled expression.

“Shall I turn it on?” Brian asked. “It can talk — but not very well.” Sven would love that. He reached down and pressed one of the latches. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes — I can — hear — you.”

A great job of ham acting, scratchy and monotone like a cheap toy. At least it caught the attention of the lawmen.

“What are you?”

“I am — an industrial — robot. I follow — instructions.”

“If that is enough, Lieutenant, I will turn it off.”

“Just a moment, if you please. What is that?” He pointed to the hollow plastic head.

“To make the demonstration more interesting I occasionally mount that on the robot. It draws attention. If you don’t mind I’ll turn if off, the battery you know.” He pressed the latch again and closed the lid.

“What is this machine worth?” Fennelly asked.

Worth? The molecular memory alone had cost millions to build. “I would say about two thousand dollars,” Brian said innocently.

“Do you have an import license?”

“I am not importing it. It is a sample and not for sale.”

“You will have to talk to the customs officer about that.” He closed the book and stood up. “I am making a report on this matter. You will remain within the airport premises if you don’t mind.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“At the present moment, no.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“That decision is up to you.”

Shelly was sitting over a cold cup of tea, jumped to her feet when he came up.

“What happened? I was so worried—”

“Don’t be. It is all going to work out all right. Have another cup of tea while I make a phone call.”

The classified directory had a half page of solicitors in Limerick. The cashier sold him a phone card — this must be the only country in the world that still uses them. With his third call Brian talked to a Fergus Duffy, who would be happy to drive out to the airport at once and take on his case. But it was an Irish at-once, so it was afternoon, and a number of cups of tea and some very dry cheese sandwiches later, before his new solicitor managed to make any alteration in his status. Fergus Duffy was a cheerful young man with red tufts of hair protruding from his ears and nose, which he tugged on from time to time when excited.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” he said, sitting down and taking a file from his briefcase. “I must say that this is an unusual and interesting affair and no one seems to be able to work out that no crime has been committed, you have merely altered your own expired passport, which certainly can’t be considered a crime. In the end the powers that be have come to a decision to pass the problem on to a higher authority. You are free to go but you must give your address so you can be contacted. If needs be.”

“What about my baggage?”

“You can pick it up now. Your machine will be released as soon as you have a customs broker complete the forms and have paid duty and VAT and such. No problem there.”

“Then I am free to go?”

“Yes — but not far. I would suggest the airport hotel for the time being. I’ll push these papers through as fast as I can, but you must realize that fast in Ireland is a relative term. You know, like the story about the Irish linguist. You’ve heard it?”

“I don’t believe—”

“You’ll greatly enjoy it. You see it happens at a congress of international linguists and the Spanish linguist asks the Irish linguist if there is a word in Irish with the same meaning as the Spanish manana. Well your man thinks for a bit and says, why yes, sure enough there is — but it doesn’t have the same sense of terrible urgency.” Fergus slapped his knees and laughed enough for all three of them.

He helped them collect Brian’s bag and the sample robot now released from customs. On the short drive to the hotel they heard three more of what he referred to as Kerryman stories. They could all be clearly recognized as familiar Polish or Irish jokes. Brian wondered which minority or subhuman race might be named as the subject of these same jokes when they were told in Kerry.

Fergus Duffy dropped them in front of the hotel, promised to call in the morning. While they were talking Shelly checked them in, came back with two keys and an ancient porter with a trolley.

“You share with Sven,” she said as they followed the septuagenarian toward the elevator. “I have no desire at all to catch your cold. I’m going to unpack and freshen up. I’ll be over as soon as I feel a little more human.”

“Is there any reason for me to remain in this box?” Sven asked when Brian opened it. “I would enjoy a little mobility.”

“Enjoy.” Brian sneezed thunderously, then attached Sven’s right arm and unpacked his toilet kit.

“What is the electricity supply in Ireland?” Sven asked as it fitted the other arm into position.

“Two hundred and twenty volts, fifty cycles.”

“Easy enough to adjust for. I’m going to recharge my batteries. Use them until we can obtain more fuel for the cell.”

Brian found a tube of antihistamine tablets in his toilet kit and washed one down with a glass of water. Sat back in the chair and realized that, for the first time in what — two days? — he had finally stopped running. The telephone was on the table beside him and it reminded him of the mysterious number that Sven-2 had uncovered. Could it possibly be a phone number in Switzerland? Hidden there by the vanished Dr. Bociort? He still didn’t think much of the theory, but he ought to at least try to place the call before he started running all over Europe. There was only one way to find out if Sven-2’s theory made any sense. He reached out for the phone — and stopped.

Could the phone be tapped? Or was he just being paranoid after General Schorcht’s constant surveillance? He was the subject of a police investigation here so there might be a long chance that it was. He pulled his hand back, took the phone card from his pocket. Five pounds it said and he must have used only a small part of that. More than enough left to call Switzerland. He went and looked out of the window. The sun had come out but the streets were still wet from the rain. And down the block was a brown building with the name “Paddy Murphy” over the curtained windows. A pub — the perfect place. He could have a jar and make his call. He dozed in the chair until Shelly’s knock jumped him awake. She was wearing a sweater with a bold Aztec design.

“You look great,” he said.

“I’m glad one of us does. You look like you have been dragged through a knothole.”

“That’s exactly how I feel. I’ll have a wash and shave, then we’ll go out to the pub.”

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping rather than drinking?”

“Probably,” he called back through the open door. “But I want to make that phone call first, to that number that Sven-2 thinks he discovered.”

“What number? What on earth are you talking about?”

“It’s a long shot but one worth trying.”

“We’re being mysterious, aren’t we?”

“Not really. I’ll try to make the call first. Then there really might be something to talk about. Sven, I never wrote the number down. What was it?”

“41 336709.”

Brian scribbled it on the back of the stub from his boarding pass. “Great. I’ll be out in a minute.” He closed the door and began to undress.

The bartender was chatting with a solitary drinker at the far end of the bar, looked up and came over to mem when they entered and sat down at a table near the open fire.

“What will you have, Shelly?” Brian asked.

“Wine of the country, of course.”

“Right. Two pints of Guinness, if you please.”

“Going to rain again,” the barman said gloomily as he slowly and patiently filled the glasses, placed them on the bar to settle.

“Doesn’t it always. Good for the farmers and bad for the tourists.”

“Get away with you — the tourists love it. They wouldn’t recognize the country if it wasn’t raining stair rods.”

“There is that. You have a phone here?”

“In back, by the door to the lounge.” He topped up the glasses and brought them over.

Brian sipped at the creamy head of the jet black liquid.

“This is delicious,” Shelly said.

“Nutritious as well. And enough of it will get you drunk. I bet it cures colds too. I’m going to make that call now.”

He took another sip and went to find the phone. Inserted the card and dialed the Swiss number. As soon as he got past the first four digits there was a high-pitched interrupt and a computer-generated voice spoke.

“You have dialed Switzerland from Ireland. The exchange you have entered does not exist. This message will be repeated in German and French…”

Brian crumpled up the slip of paper, threw it into the ashtray next to the phone, went back to the table and drained his pint and signaled for another one.

“You look glum,” Shelly said.

“I should be. It doesn’t work. The number was not a phone number. Sven-2 found the sequence buried in one of the stolen AI programs and seemed to think that it was. It wasn’t. The chances are it was just a line of code that I wrote myself for the original AI. Let’s forget the whole thing.”

“Cheer up. You’re a free man in a free world and that should mean something.”

“It does — but not much at the present moment. Must be the cold getting me down. Let’s finish these and get back to the hotel. I think some sleep is in order now. With the pills and the pints I should be able to sleep around the clock.”