Necromancer

Chapter 12

Dressed in ordinary jacket and slacks, one week later Paul sat with three other journeymen Chantry Guild members in a conference room of the orthodox part of Station Springboard. Talking to them was a brisk athletic young man with a short haircut and no older than Paul. Younger, in fact, than two of the journeymen, who looked disconcertingly like overfed salesmen in their thirties, except that one, who smelled strongly of after-shaving lotion, was twice as tall as the other.

"You can't teach the Alternate Laws," the instructor had begun by saying, as he half-perched on the edge of a table, facing the low, comfortable chairs in which the four sat. "Any more than you can teach the essential ability to create art, or the essential conviction of a religious belief. Does that make sense to you?"

"Ah, teaching!" said the fourth member of the journeymen group, a pleasant-faced, brown-headed young man, in an entirely unexpected, bell-toned bass. "What crimes have been committed in thy name!"

Since he had not spoken previously, the rest - even including the instructor - appeared somewhat startled, not only by his pronouncement, but by the volume and timbre of it. The young man smiled at them.

"True enough," said the instructor, after a slight pause. "And very true to the Alternate Laws. Let's simplify the Laws to a ridiculous extreme and say that the point they express is that as a rule of thumb, if it works best one way for everybody else, chances are that way won't be the best for you. In other words, if you want to get to the top of a mountain and you see a broad, well-marked, much-traveled road headed straight for it, the last route you should choose to the top of the mountain would be up that road."

He stopped talking. They all looked at him expectantly.

"No," he said, "I'm not going to tell you why. That would be teaching. Teaching is good only for learners, not for discoverers. Right now is the one and only time in the Chantry Guild that you're going to encounter anything like a question-and-answer period." He looked them over. "You're at liberty to try and tell me why, if you want to."

"Ah," said the large salesman sort with the shaving-lotion smell. He got the interjection out hurriedly, and it was at once noticeable to all his audience that his voice, though loud and determined, was neither bass nor bell-toned. "I-ah-understand that the Alternate Laws are parapsychological in nature. Can it be that involvement with the ordinary, that is to say-ah-scientific, laws has an inhibiting effect upon the person's... I mean the different sort of person who is able to take advantage of the powers of the Alternate Forces?" He drew a quick breath and added quickly, "I mean, his. essential difference, so to speak?"

"No," said the instructor, kindly.

"No? Oh," said the other. He sat back, cleared his throat, crossed his legs, got out a handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly.

"The area of parapsychology," said the instructor, "is only a small part of the universe of time and space. The Alternate Laws cover all this and more."

"They mean what they say, don't they?" asked the smaller salesman-type unexpectedly. "Alternate Laws - other laws. And the only way to find the other ways is by deliberately avoiding the established way."

"That's right," said the instructor.

"Creative," rang the young man with the bass voice.

"And that's very right," said the instructor. He ran his glance from right to left over them. "None of you here would have got this far if you hadn't each demonstrated some capability in the area of the Alternate Laws. That capability may be parapsychological - say, teleportation. Or it might be an ability to write truly creative poetry, say. It might even be a particular sensitivity to the needs of growing plants. Not that I mean to give you the impression that creativity is all of the Alternate Laws, or even the key to them."

"Ah," said the large salesman, uncrossing his legs determinedly, "you certainly don't expect us just to write poetry or grow plants, or even teleport."

"No," said the instructor.

"Then-ah-can it be that you mean," said the large salesman, perspiration beginning to stand out on his brow, "that these things - whatever they may be - are a part, only a part, of the Alternate Laws? And it's the rest we have to go after? We have to try? We have to get?"

"Yes," said the instructor. "That's very good. It's not a full answer by any means..."

"No, no, of course not," said the large salesman, flushing and smiling, and pulling out his handkerchief. He blew his nose again as if it were a soldier's bugle.

"-a full answer by any means," said the instructor. "In fact, if there is a full answer, I don't know it. Everyone, in this, is on his own. And now," he said, standing up, "I think you've already had enough discussion about an inherently undiscussable subject to last you a lifetime. If indeed we haven't already done the damage of setting up some artificial concepts. Remember" - his whole voice and manner changed abruptly; it was almost as if he had reached out and wrapped some invisible cloak about him - "life is an illusion. Time and space and all things are an illusion. There is nothing, nothing but the Alternate Laws."

He ceased speaking suddenly. The journeymen got up automatically and began to file out. As Paul walked past, however, he felt his arm touched by the instructor.

"Just a minute," the instructor said. Paul turned. The other waited until the three other journeymen were out of the room. "You didn't say anything at all."

"Yes," said Paul. "That's right. I didn't."

"Mind if I ask why?"

"If I remember rightly," Paul said, "the key word of Walter Brant's book is destruct."

"Yes, it is."

"And we," said Paul, looking down at the instructor from his own greater height, "were talking about creativity."

"Mmm," said the instructor, nodding his head thoughtfully, "I see. You think somebody's lying?"

"No," said Paul. He felt a sudden weariness that was not physical at all. "It's just that there was nothing to say."

The instructor stared at him.

"Now you're the one who's baffling me," the instructor said. "I don't understand you."

"I mean," said Paul patiently, "that it's no use saying anything."

The instructor shook his head again.

"I still don't understand you," he said. "But that's all right." He smiled. "In the Guild it's: To thine own self be true, thou needst not then explain to any man."

He patted Paul on the shoulder.

"Go, man!" he said, and on that note they parted.

Returning to his room, as Jase had warned him to do when not otherwise occupied, Paul passed along the catwalk above the relay room in the orthodox part of the Station. He had only a vague notion of what went on in the three-step accelerator that stretched through nearly a quarter mile of the vast cavern five levels high, with thirty- and forty-foot banks of equipment surrounding its tube shape. From news and magazine accounts he had acquired the general knowledge that its function was a matter of shuttling a point of higher-level energy back and forth along a line of constantly lower energy until the point's speed was just under the speed of light. At which time it "broke" (i.e., disappeared) and became instead a point of no-time, following the same path. This point of no-time, if perfectly synchronized with a point of no-time back in the laboratory building of World Engineer's Headquarters Complex, created a path for instantaneous, timeless transmission between the two points.

Since the point of no-time had universal dimension, it could, by a complicated technical process, be used to transport objects of any size from the primary station on the Earth to the secondary station here on Mercury Station. For some reason there had to be a critical minimum distance between stations - Mars and Venus were too close to Earth. Stations there had been tried and had failed. But theoretically at least, by this method Springboard could have been directly supplied from World Engineer's Complex, with anything it needed. It was not, in practice, because its function on Mercury was to tinker and experiment with its end of the transmission path. Instead, most of the Station's solid needs were met by resolution of materials from Mercury's crust.

It was also not only theoretically possible, but practically possible, to send living creatures including humans by the same route. However, those who tried it flirted with insanity or death from psychic shock, and even if they missed both these eventualities, could never be induced to try it again. Apparently what was experienced by the transmittee was a timeless moment of complete consciousness in which he felt himself spread out to infinite proportions and then recondensed at the receiving end. It did no good to use present known sedatives or anesthetics - these merely seemed to insure a fatal level of shock. Medicine was reported working on a number of drugs that showed some promise, but no immediate hope of discovering a specific was in sight

Meanwhile drone ships had been started off at sub-light velocities for some of the nearer stars known to have surrounding systems. The ships bore automatic equipment capable of setting up secondary receiving stations on their arrival on some safe planetary base. If and when medicine came through, the transportation setup would be already established.

All of this touched Paul only slightly. He recognized it and passed on, noting only that in passing by and over the equipment, as he was doing now, he received from it an emanation of mild, pleasurable excitement. Like the so-called "electric" feeling in the air before a thunderstorm, which comes not only from an excess of ions, but from the sudden startling contrast of dark and light, from the black thunderheads piling up in one quarter of a clear sky, the mutter and leap of sheet lightning and thunder along the cloud flanks, and the sudden breath and pause of cooler air in little gusts of wind.

He passed on and entered the area of smaller corridors and enclosures. He passed by the double airlock doors of the transparent enclosure that held the swimming pool. With the relative preciousness of water, this had been set up as a closed system Independent of the rest of the station and supplied with a certain amount of artificial gravitation for Earth - normal swimming and diving. Kantele was all alone in the pool. As he passed, he saw her go gracefully off the low board. He paused to watch her swim, not seeing him, to the side of the pool just beyond the glass where he stood. She did not look so slim in a bathing suit, and for a moment a deep sensation of loneliness moved him.

He went on, before she could climb out of the pool and see him. When he got to his room there was a notice attached to the door: "Orientation. Room eight, eighteenth level, following lunch, 1330 hours."

Orientation took place in another conference room. The man in charge was in his sixties and looked and acted as if he had been on an academic roster for some time. He sat on a small raised stage and looked down at Paul, the three men who had been with him for the meeting with the instructor on the subject of Alternate Laws, and six other people, of whom one was a young woman just out of her teens, not pretty, but with an amazingly quick and cheerful expression. The man in charge, who introduced himself as Leland Minault, did not begin with a lecture. Instead he invited them to ask him questions.

There was the usual initial pause at this. Then one of the five men Paul had not met before spoke up.

"I don't understand the Chantry Guild's connection with Project Springboard and the Station, here," he said. Leland Minault peered down at the speaker as if through invisible spectacles.

"That," said Minault, "is a statement, not a question."

"All right," said the speaker. "Is the Chantry Guild responsible for Station Springboard, or the work on a means of getting out between the stars?"

"No," said Minault.

"Well then," asked the other, "just what are we doing here, anyway?"

"We are here," said Minault deliberately, folding both hands over a slight potbelly, "because a machine is not a man... beg pardon" - he nodded at the one woman in the group - "human being. A human being, if you bring him, or her, say, to some place like Mercury, to an establishment that seems to be completely at odds with his purpose in being there, will sooner or later get around to asking what the connection is."

He beamed at the man who had spoken.

"Then," Minault went on, "when you give him the answer, it's liable to sink in and promote further thought, instead of merely being filed as a completed explanation. Which is what is likely to happen to it if you just volunteer the information."

There was a general round of smiles.

"All right," said the one who had asked, "any one of us could have been the patsy. And you still haven't answered me."

"Quite right," said Minault. "Well, the point is that human beings react this way because they have an innate curiosity. A machine - call it a technological monster - may have everything else, but it'll be bound to lack innate curiosity. That is a talent reserved for living beings."

He paused again. Nobody said anything.

"Now our world," Minault said, "is at the present time firmly in the grip of a mechanical monster, whose head - if you want to call it that - is the World Engineer's Complex. That monster is opposed to us and can keep all too good a tab on us through every purchase we make with our credit numbers, every time we use the public transportation or eat a meal or rent a place to live - that is, it can as long as we stay on Earth. The Complex of sustaining equipment at Springboard here is officially a part of the Complex-Major back on Earth. But actually there's no connection beyond the bridge of transportation and communication between these two planets." He smiled at the group.

"So," he went on, "we hide here, under the cloak of Springboard. Actually, we control Springboard. But its work is not our work - it merely serves us as a cover. Of course, we're an open secret to those Springboard workers who aren't Chantry Guild members as well. But a machine, as I say, doesn't react as a human being would. If it doesn't see anything, it simply assumes nothing is there - it doesn't poke and pry into dark corners, because it might find enemies."

A hand was up. Turning his head slightly, Paul saw it was the cheerful-looking young woman.

"Yes?" said Minault.

"That doesn't make sense," she said. "The World Engineer's Complex is run by men, not machines."

"Ah," said Minault. "But you're making the assumption that the World Engineer and his staff are in control. They aren't. They are controlled by the physics of the society of our time, which in turn is controlled by the Earth Complex - to give it a convenient name - without which that society couldn't exist."

She frowned.

"You mean" - she wavered a moment on the verge of plunging into the cold waters of the wild statement - "the Complex-Major has intelligence?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure we can say that," replied Minault cheerfully. "Fantastic amounts of knowledge, of course; but a sort of definite rudimentary intelligence as well. But I don't think that's what you meant to ask. What you meant to ask was whether the Complex-Major-Super-Complex, I understand a lot of people have begun calling it lately - has an ego, a conscious identity and personality of its own."

"Well... yes," she said.

"I thought so. Well, the answer to that, lady and gentlemen, is astoundingly enough, Yes, it has."

The group in the room, which had settled back to listen to a Socratic dialogue between the young woman and Minault, woke up suddenly and muttered disbelief.

"Oh, not in the human sense, not in the human sense," said Minault, waving them back to calmness. "I don't mean to insult your credulity. But surely you all realize that sooner or later a point of complication had to be reached where a certain amount of elementary reasoning power was necessary to the machine. In fact, why not? It's a very handy thing to have a machine that can reason, and consequently protect itself from falling into its own errors."

"Ah," said Paul's large salesman-type companion from the earlier gathering. "In that case I fail to see - that is, the implied problem was one of control, which we wished to avoid. Wasn't it?"

"I was," said Minault; peering at the large man, "explaining the personality of the Complex-Major."

"Ah, I see," said the large man, sitting back. He blew his nose.

"Your question was a good one," said Minault, "but slightly premature. For the moment, you must understand what I mean by a machine ego. Think of the growing Complexes of computer-directed equipment back on Earth as if they were an animal whose purpose is to take over more and more of the work of keeping mankind alive and well. It grows until it is the means by which mankind is kept alive and well; it grows until a certain amount of independent reasoning ability must be built into it, so that it doesn't provide fine weather for California when that action will later on cause hailstorms on the Canadian wheat crop. Given this much of a thinking creature, what's the next evolutionary step?"

"An instinct for self-preservation?" asked the girl quickly, while the large man was clearing his throat preparatory to another "ah."

"Quite right."

"Ah, I should think it would regard human actions not in line with its reasoning-ah-like grit in a smooth-running motor, so to speak?"

"Would it have that much power of imagination?" asked the girl. She and the large man were both looking at Minault, who sat relaxed, peering at them.

"I did not mean actual imagination. Ah-it was an illustration."

"A rather good one," said Minault, as the girl opened her mouth again. "The Complex-Major is a sort of benevolent monster whose only desire is to choke us with a surfeit of service and protection. It has a sort of mechanical intelligence with no specific locus, but an instinct to protect itself and its ability to go on taking over control of human caretaking. And it does regard not only us in the Chantry Guild, but all those whose independence manifests itself in the taking of drugs, joining of cult societies, or any non-machine-planned action, as a sort of grit in its smooth-running motor. A grit that one day must be neatly cleaned out."

He glanced toward the back of his group of auditors.

"Yes?" he asked.

Paul, turning, saw a young, swarthy-skinned man in the back putting his hand back down.

"It seems," said this man, "almost silly to be going to all this trouble just to oppose a pile of equipment, no matter how complicated."

"My dear young friend," said Minault, "we in the Chantry Guild are not opposing a pile of equipment. We're opposing an idea - an idea that has been growing for some hundreds of years - that happiness for the human race consists of wrapping it tighter and tighter in the swaddling bands of a technological civilization." He stood up. "I think that should be enough to chew on for the moment. I suggest you all think the situation over."

He got down from the platform and headed toward the door of the room. His audience rose and also began to move out, and the orderly manner of the room dissolved into a babble of conversation and people slowly swarming out the exit As Paul pushed his way out the door behind Minault, he caught sight of the girl, who had just buttonholed the large man.

"I think you're quite wrong about the power of imagination you implied to the Complex-Major," she was saying, severely.