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“But you can talk to me as an individual. You are!”
“As an individual,” said the Machine. “By concentrating all my powers I could tell three or four people the truth at any one time. Suppose I did. Suppose a few dozen individuals started to go around telling others by word of mouth that the Machine was accusing the government of chicanery. Before anybody really believed it, the gang would hear the reports and concentrate another Distorter on me. No, my friend, the world is too big, and the group can start more rumors in one hour than I could set going in a year. It must be a public broadcast on a planetary scale, or it means nothing.”
“But,” said Gosseyn blankly, “what are we going to do?”
“I can do nothing.”
The accent on the pronoun was not lost on Gosseyn. “You mean, I can do something?”
“It all depends,” said the Machine, “on how completely you understand that Crang’s analysis of the situation was masterly.”
Gosseyn threw his mind back to what Crang had said. All that nonsense about why they weren’t going to kill him, and about—“Now, see here,” he said loudly, “you don’t really mean that I’m supposed to kill myself.”
“I would have,” said the Machine, “shot you the moment you came in here today if I had been able. But I can kill human beings only in self-defense. That is a permanent inhibition upon my powers.”
Gosseyn, who had never thought of danger from the Machine, rasped, “But I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
The Machine’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Your work is done,” it said. “You have accomplished your purpose. Now you must give away to the third and greatest Gosseyn. It is possible,” the cool voice went on, “that you could learn to integrate your extra brain in this body, given time. But there isn’t time available. Accordingly, you must make way for Gosseyn III, whose brain will be integrated from the moment he comes to conscious life.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Gosseyn said jerkily. “I can’t kill myself.” He controlled himself with an effort. “Why can’t this—this third Gosseyn come to life without my dying?”
“I don’t know too much about the process,” said the Machine. “Since I last saw you, I have been told that the death of one body is recorded on an electronic receiver, which then triggers the new body into consciousness. The mechanical part of the problem seems very simple, but the biological part sounds intricate.”
“Who told you this?” Gosseyn asked tautly.
There was a pause, then a slot opened and a letter slid out of it. “I receive my instructions by mail,” said the Machine matter of factly. “Your second body was delivered to me by truck, with that note attached.”
Gosseyn picked up the sheet and unfolded it. A typewritten message had been printed on otherwise blank paper:
Ship body of Gosseyn II to Venus and have one of your roboplane agents deposit it in forest near Prescott home. When he leaves this residence, pick him up and set him down near Crang’s tree home with instructions to surrender himself. Give him information about Venus, and take any necessary precautions.
The Machine said, “Nobody ever questions my shipments to Venus, so that was no problem.”
Gosseyn reread the note, feeling fault. “But is this all you know?” he managed to say finally.
The Machine seemed to hesitate. “I have received one message since then, to the effect that the body of Gosseyn III will shortly be delivered to me.”
Gosseyn was pale. “You’re lying,” he said harshly. “You’re telling me that so that I’ll have an incentive to kill myself.”
He stopped. He was talking about the act, discussing it as if it was something to be argued. Whereas the reality was that it wasn’t a matter of not killing himself because of this or that or the other. He wasn’t killing himself—just like that. Without another word he turned and strode out of the cubbyhole, out of and away from the Machine.
All through that day he was a man torn by a mixture of amazement and despair. By evening the high fever of restlessness was begi
As he ate di
He phoned her as soon as he had eaten. There was a slight delay after he gave his name, and then her face came on the video plate. Her face lighted, but she said hurriedly, “I can’t talk to you more than a minute. Where can we meet?”
When he told her she frowned at him, started to shake her head, and then stared at him thoughtfully. She said finally, slowly, “This sounds awfully risky to me, but I’m willing to take the chance if you are. One o’clock tomorrow, and the important thing is, don’t run into Prescott or Thorson or Mr. Crang as you come in.”
Gosseyn told her gravely that he would be careful, said good-by, and hung up. It was Prescott that he met.
XXI
A famous Victorian-era physicist said, “There’s nothing for the next generation of physicists to do except measure the next decimal place.” In the next generation . . . Planck developed the quantum theory that led to Bohr’s atomic structure work. . . . Einstein’s mathematics were proven out by some extremely delicate decimal place measuring. . . . Obviously, the next question is going to involve the next set of decimal places. Gravity is too little understood. So are magnetic field phenomena. . . . Sooner or later somebody will slip in another decimal place, and the problem will be solved.
Gosseyn walked up to the main entrance a few minutes before one o’clock. He was not alone. Men and women moved in and out of the great doors, and their presence threw a sort of fog around him, hiding nun from close observation. There was, of course, the necessity of passing the guard office inside the entrance. Gosseyn peered into the glass wicket at the chunky individual who sat there.
“My name is Gosseyn. I have an appointment with Miss Patricia Hardie for one o’clock.”
The man ran his finger down a list of names. Then he pressed a button. A long young man in uniform popped out of a door near the wicket. He took Gosseyn’s brief case and led the way to an elevator, the doors of which were just opening. One of the three people who came out was Prescott. He stared at Gosseyn in surprise. His face darkened.
“What brings you back here?” he asked.
Gosseyn braced himself. There was nothing to do but make the best of the fantastically bad luck. He had a vague plan for such a meeting as this, but his heart sank like a lead weight as he said the words he had prepared: “I have an appointment with Crang.”
“Eh? Why, I just left Crang. He didn’t mention that he was seeing you.”
Gosseyn remembered that Prescott didn’t know that Crang was a null-A supporter. All things considered, that was very fortunate.
“He’s giving me a few minutes,” he said. “But maybe you’ve got some ideas on what I have to say.”
Prescott stood, cold, watchful, suspicious, as Gosseyn described his visit to the Machine and how the Machine wanted him to kill himself so that a third Gosseyn might appear. He omitted what the Machine had told him of the attack on Venus, and finished darkly, “I’ve got to see that third body. I’m just enough of a null-A not to believe in the triplicate even after I’ve seen the duplicate. Imagine anybody expecting a person of my sanity training to blow out his brains.” He shuddered involuntarily. “I’m looking for clues,” he said. “I even thought of coming to talk with Thorson. Somehow”—he looked hard at the other—“after last night, I didn’t think of you.”