Best of Breed

Illustration by Vincent Di Fate

Tuesday morning, July 27, 2047, should have been the beginning of the most triumphant period of Royce Hunter’s life. And—for almost forty-four hours—it was. In the forty-fourth hour the nightmare began.

It started with a minor blip on the Titan Explorer’s radar screen. Six days earlier the Explorer III had passed the invisible halfway point between the orbits of Jupiter and Saturn and was now within a hundred million miles of its goal, a landing on Saturn’s largest moon. Earth was more than eight astronomical units away, nearly three-quarters of a billion miles.

More relevantly, with the Asteroid Belt and its millions of fragments of nickel-iron rock also five AUs behind the ship, it was almost inconceivable that a wandering body could be this near the Explorer. The object on the screen was a mere .0019 AUs away, something less than the distance from Earth to the Moon.

The ship’s AI control program pondered the situation, noted that its two human directors were still deep in REM sleep, and decided to do nothing more for the moment.

Twelve minutes later, unseen by either Stefan Lubchek or Nancy Chang, the blip abruptly changed course and moved to intercept the Titan Explorer III.

Now the two sleeping crew members were alerted by the ship’s control program. Natural bodies, even tumbling hunks of asteroidal rock or meteorites from beyond the Solar System, follow a ballistic course whose only deviations are the result of gravity and the pressure of the solar wind. Without doubt, the computer reported, the approaching object was, if not actively manned, at least controlled. The program also noted that it had no record of any Earth-built ship closer than those at Port Dexter on the Moon.

It took 69.7 minutes for a radio transmission to reach Earth from the Titan Explorer III. Ninety-seven minutes after the computer first roused Major Lubchek and Lt. Commander Chang, Royce Hunter stumbled groggily from his bed. Bleary-eved, he waited for his coffee to brew while he stared through the kitchen window at the infinite canopy of stars shimmering in the clear air of the Nevada desert. Now, it seemed, those stars were coming to man before he could go to them.

Hunter, the director of OSEP—the Outer System Exploration Program—took his first sip of scalding coffee, shook his head at the wonder of it all, and debated reawakening Caroline. No, he decided, there would be plenty of time for celebrating once they knew exactly what they were dealing with. Let her sleep.

Two hours and twenty minutes after the first radar contact, the object matched course and speed with the Titan Explorer III. The two crew members crowded against the forward viewport, their eyes wide, their hearts pounding. The lumpy gray shape before them was clearly an artifact—and equally clearly not the product of human hands or minds.

A hatch opened and a space-suited arm beckoned in what they provisionally took to be a universal gesture of invitation. With no regard at all for what he knew his superiors on Earth—principally Royce Hunter—would have ordered him to do, Major Stefan Lubchek donned his EVA suit, tethered a cable to the outer lock, and launched himself across the fifteen yards that now separated the two craft. To hell with Nevada and Royce Hunter—this was his chance for immortality! His copilot and longtime companion, Lt. Commander Nancy Chang, began transmitting a running commentary to program headquarters.

Nine hours later Major Lubchek returned to the Titan Explorer III and began to transmit his own encrypted report. Earth’s last major war lay more than a century in the past and acute paranoia was no longer a global state of mind; security—by old-fashioned standards—was consequently minimal. The official inquiry later established that the transmission was received by hundreds of amateur and professional space watchers and that its archaic code was quickly deciphered by at least four different supercomputers.

Royce Hunter had hardly slept in the nearly two days since being told of the alien presence in the Solar System. Now, forty-four hours later, light-headed with a mixture of sleeplessness and jubilation, he staggered blearily across his carport and into the kitchen—and Caroline’s welcoming arms. It was ten o’clock at night, normally far past their bedtime, but tonight Maureena and Charlie-Boy had been allowed to wait up for him.

“Tell us about the Men from the Stars,” begged Maureena, his seven-year-old. She tugged frantically at Hunter’s shirtsleeve, while the five-year-old wrapped himself python-like around his leg.

“Have you got a picture of them, can you—”

“Hush,” interrupted their mother. “First let Daddy sit down for a moment and then—”

Royce Hunter heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering in the living room, followed almost instantly by a thunderous explosion, a single flash of terrible, blinding light, and the dreamlike sensation of seeing the kitchen wall expanding toward him like the opening petals of a gigantic flower.

It was three days before he awoke to learn that he was in the base hospital, that his wife and two children were dead, and that he himself was now missing both arms, both ears, one eye, and one leg. It was, the doctors said, a miracle that he was still alive.

Alive. In the days to come, Hunter often wondered if he was or not. And then wished he wasn’t.

When he was coherent enough to dimly understand that he was in the grip of near-catatonic depression, he demanded that a VR socket be installed in his head. After that he was content to retreat into the blissful world of virtual reality. There life was an endless laze in the shade of a luxuriant sycamore. From his hammock a hundred yards away, he watched Maureena and Charlie-Boy splash in the swimming pool under Caroline’s watchful gaze. Their shrieks and shouts drifted toward him on the soft breeze as he took another sip of lemonade. Languidly he replaced the glass in the drink-holder, then closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep with his children’s laughter ringing in his ears.

On the fourteenth day a new voice intruded into the dream-world of hammock and children, that of Chalukya Rashtrakuta, the program’s chief of staff. The voice had been calling his name for what seemed like hours, whispering softly but relentlessly into the artificial ear that had been fused directly into his auditory system.

“Go away,” muttered Hunter, intent now on the image of Maureena chasing Charlie-Boy around a plastic flamingo.

“We need your help.”

“I don’t want to help.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Nothing. No, to die. Go away.”

Rashtrakuta refused to go away. “They caught the people who threw the bomb. There were over two hundred of them. You and your family weren’t the only ones. They were trying to destroy the entire project. Besides the half-billion dollars in physical damage, they killed forty-seven of us-. Hirakawa, Hardecker, Monico, Fajardo, Cheun, Stumpel, Parson, Dmitriy, Sally Pack—”

“Sally Packworth? She’s dead too?”

“Yes. Along with Hutchins, Rossi, Wengel…” The terrible litany went on and on.

“Why?” whispered Hunter finally, unaware of the tears that were flowing from his one remaining eye. “Why?”

“A religious sect from the Oregon rain forests. Somehow they got into someone’s computer who had already tapped into ours. They were convinced that we were responsible for bringing Satan to Earth.”

“Satan?”

“The Trajendi.”

“Oh.” Hunter was silent for a long time. “Maybe there is a Satan, you know. If there weren’t, how can you explain things like this? Caroline, Maureena, Charlie-Boy?”

“I can’t,” said Rashtrakuta harshly. “No one can. But in the meantime, we need your help.”

“Why? What can I do?”

“I think we need you to help save the human race.”

An awful cawing sound escaped Hunter’s twisted mouth. “Me? You want me to help you save the human race?” The terrible sound repeated itself. “I can’t even save myself.”

Hunter sank back into his bed, exhausted by his outburst.

Rashtrakuta ignored his words. He began to read Hunter the transcripts of the long-distance debriefing that Lubchek had been undergoing for the last two weeks as the Titan Explorer III returned to Earth with as much speed as possible.

Hunter closed his eye, turned his head away, and tried to ignore the soft flow of words.

Caroline, he cried despairingly to himself, O Caroline, why aren’t you here?

Thirty-four days after First Contact, Royce Hunter attended a teleconference with the five most powerful people on Earth: the President of the United States, the Prime Minister of China, and the two men and one woman who comprised the Council Members of the Executive Committee of the Conservancy. Everyone except Hunter was in a Conservancy room overlooking Lake Geneva. Hunter was still in the hospital at Nellis Space Base in central Nevada. A black patch covered what had once been his left eye. None of the others could keep their eyes on the disfigured face after the initial seconds of shock.

“They’ll be here in seventy-eight days,” said Hunter, turning his one eye to the image of the Councilmember from the European Protectorate, “and that’s all there is to it.”

“Yes, but I still don’t see why you attach such great importance to—”

“Councilman Tournet, four lunar months was the most time that Major Lubchek could get for us. The Trajendi were very insistent. To put it bluntly, the major’s meeting with the Trajendi was not a negotiation.” Hunter’s eye swept the five faces. “You have all seen the transcripts. The Trajendi didn’t ask if they could open diplomatic relations with us. They merely informed us that they would shortly be presenting their credentials. And told us when and where they would be arriving. Luckily, Major Lubchek was able to get us a little extra time.”

“We are all well aware of that, Mr.

Hunter,” said Prime Minister Lii. “We have, in fact, been thinking of very little else for the last five weeks.”

“So I imagine. I myself have been thinking of nothing else. The first and most obvious conclusion I came to was that the Trajendi were very astute in how they carried out this first contact. It was obviously carefully planned.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Isn’t it evident? It was carried out in a way that: A) would not cause a panic; B) could not be misinterpreted; and C) could not be ignored.” “Still, that’s no reason to be so stridently insistent on addressing the five of us together,” growled Councilman Gupta of the Indian Confederation. “Do you really think you can frighten us any more than we already are?”

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” Hunter’s bleak eye moved on to President Clayborn. “The next thing that strikes me about the transcripts is the quick wits displayed by Major Lubchek in getting the Trajendi to agree to this long a delay in coming to Earth. I am most impressed by his behavior. I only wish he could have gotten us four years instead of four months.”

The Councilwoman who represented the Pan African Independencies, Katerina Moguiba, tapped her stylus irritably. “Mr. Hunter, I certainly understand the need for sufficient time to arrange the protocol for their visit, but don’t you think four years would be a bit excessive?”

“Madam Moguiba,” said Hunter, not troubling to keep his tone from sounding as if he were talking to a backward child, “protocol and public relations are of no importance in this matter. My—our—only concern must now be prevention of the subjugation of the human race.”

“Subjugation of the human race? By one spaceship? By bug-eyed monsters? Death rays? The War Of The Worlds? Surely you can’t be serious, Mr. Hunter!”

“They certainly sound peaceful enough to me,” said Councilman Tournet. “If you boil down everything they discussed with Major Lubchek, what it comes to is that they want to discuss what they—and we—call the normal aspects of contact between peoples: immigration control; diplomatic immunity; import and export duties; landing areas for ships; quarantine procedures; contractual frameworks; a medium of exchange; proscribed substances; et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. They sound exactly like three businessmen going from Brussels to Ecuador and trying to develop new markets. What could you possibly find frightening there except for the simple fact that they have come to us from the stars in a machine that is obviously faster than light?”

Hunter sighed and turned his head in the direction of Councilwoman Moguiba. “Tell me, Madam Councilwoman, what happened when the white man came to Africa?”

“That’s a completely different situation. We… Earthans, I suppose you should now call us, are highly civiliz—”

“I’m sure your African ancestors thought that they were highly civilized. Just as I’m sure the Incas thought they were civilized. And the American Plains Indians thought they were civilized. The Chinese and the Japanese, of course, knew that they were civilized and that the European intruders were long-nosed barbarians. And what good did it do any of them? They were all of them confronted by cultures which were more technologically advanced; more scientifically advanced; more governmentally, economically, and socially advanced. More advanced in information systems; more advanced in communications systems; more advanced in the sense of a more widely diverse philosophical and cultural pool. And, in a real sense, just plain smarter.”

Councilwoman Moguiba exchanged angry looks with Prime Minister Lii of China and Councilman Gupta. “This is an encredibly bigoted and racist attitude, Mr. Hunter, and one that has been completely—”

“Europeans could conceive of steamships and electricity and calculus. The people they confronted could not. Europeans could conceive of different political and cultural systems. The native peoples they subjugated could not. Europeans had vast libraries; they had trained specialists whose life’s work was studying small, arcane areas of abstract learning and making the results of that study socially useful. The peoples they conquered had none of those things. In the case of the American Plains Indians, they didn’t even have a written language. For several centuries it was simply no contest.” Hunter’s voice was cold and flat. “And this relatively small band of Europeans conquered the world. Call the facts racist and bigoted if you like: it doesn’t change them.”

The President of the United States rapped a knuckle against the table. “There is, I hope, some point to your harangue?”

“Yes, Mr. President, I’m just about there. Organically, the Asians and the Africans and the Amerinds had essentially the same physical brain to work with as the Europeans. The Europeans’ advantages were cultural and technological.”

Hunter’s deformed body shifted restlessly on the bed, his blotchy face thrust forward. “These aliens, however, the Trajendi, not only have the same advantages over us that the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Europeans had over the native peoples with whom they came into contact; they have something else as well.”

“Something else?” snapped Councilman Tournet. “What else, Mr. Hunter?”

“Isn’t it clear from Major Lubchek’s debriefing? No, Rashtrakuta told me it wasn’t, at least not to the people who really counted. That’s why he pulled me away from—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just this: It is quite obvious that the Trajendi are smarter than we are.”

“Ridicu—”

“How can you—”

Hunter turned his head away until silence fell. “One can measure intelligence in many different ways, each of them with its own limitations. There are gross measures such as the amount of brain tissue per kilogram of body weight; the relative complexity of the synaptic connections; the number of variables that can be simultaneously considered in solving a problem; the speed of manipulation of abstract concepts; the ability to generalize successful solutions from limited factual data points, to name only a few.”

“Under these strictures,” replied Deputy Tournet after a moment’s pause, “the dolphin is smarter than human beings. They certainly have bigger brains per kilogram of body weight. And yet we know that they are not smarter than we are.”

Hunter’s eye was unblinking as it turned to the councilman from the European Protectorate. “Generally speaking, brain size is only a very rough indicator of intelligence. How the brain is organized internally is at least as important as how big it is. Dolphins, by their very nature, are obliged to perform extremely complicated sonar-tracking calculations in order to flourish in their particular environment. They are also required to compute the true positions of objects across a distorting water-air barrier. They furthermore have to process a great deal of data that are based on odors. Their brains are proportionately larger, yes, but much of that extra size is ‘hardwired’ solely in order to perform these extremely calculation-intensive functions.

“When you take those functions away, what’s left is, in fact, far less than the mass of a human brain.” Hunter’s right shoulder hunched and his face grimaced—he had attempted to raise a finger on the end of an arm that no longer existed. “And before we go on to any other analogies, let me just say that the great apes do indeed have reasonably good-sized brains, but that the synaptic complexity per cubic centimeter is far less than that of humans.”

“And what has this to do with the Trajendi?” asked President Clayborn.

“Well, we obviously haven’t had the opportunity to dissect a Trajendi brain, but judging from the drawings and descriptions that Lubchek sent back, their cranial capacity may be substantially greater than ours. Besides, Lubchek himself is absolutely convinced that they are the smartest beings he’s ever run into, and Major Lubchek has an IQ of at least 165. We don’t send dummies into space.”

“But how could he possibly tell that in such a brief meeting?” Councilwoman Moguiba demanded. “I’ve studied the transcripts and—”

“Nine hours is not a brief meeting. Moreover, he kept his eyes open and asked intelligent questions. Remember, the Trajendi didn’t let him bring in any recording equipment or anything else that might possibly have been a weapon, so everything that he’s told us during the debriefing is based solely upon his memory.

“Lubchek says they discussed mathematics, set theory, game theory, classical mathematical puzzles —weighty topics for three merchant seamen from Brussels come to sell trinkets to the Indians! He swears they tried to explain how to solve the three-body problem—and that their explanation almost made sense to him. Except that five minutes later he couldn’t reconstruct the logic. He asked about their governmental systems and they gave him a ten-minute lecture about something called the ‘Set Theory Of Sentient Interaction Protocols.’ Once again, it almost made sense to him. And before you say it, no, they weren’t giving him a line of double-talk. Lubchek is a very, very smart man, certainly smart enough to know the difference between something being made up and something that makes sense but which he just isn’t able to understand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have to face the fact that at least on a cultural and scientific level, and very possibly on an organic level, the Trajendi are simply smarter than we are. In any negotiation between them and us, we will lose, and we will lose big.”

A long silence filled the room in Geneva. Finally Prime Minister Lii spoke.

“With no disrespect to your Major Lubchek, Mr. Hunter, the gentleman may have an Intelligence Quotient of 165, but that does not make him the smartest person in the world. Far from it. In China alone we have many, many people who are certified geniuses who can competently represent the human race in dealing with these Trajendi.”

“Madam Prime Minister, geniuses are generally brilliant in one particular field, maybe two, possibly three, but not in general intelligence. No matter how brilliant Albert Einstein was in physics, I wouldn’t want him to represent me in negotiations with a car salesman for that new Scepter 3000 in the showroom window.”

“Yes, but—”

“And what if these particular Trajendi are actually just of average intelligence as their race goes? What if they really are just the equivalent of commission salesmen, free-lance contractors, railway purchasing agents, backwoods scouts like Daniel Boone? If that’s the case, then who’s going to be following along after them? We can’t even guess at their long-range motives, at the big picture. In the next three months, they could sucker us in ways it might take us a century or more to figure out.”

Councilman Gupta snorted disdainfully. “Mr. Hunter, your parochial fears—”

“How long did it take the Cheyenne or the Apaches to understand what had really happened to them and what they would have to have done in order to avoid all the traps their negotiators fell into or ignored? What did they understand about copper mining, or riparian water rights, or the difference between an option and a contract, or the value of oil and gas leases?”

Councilman Gupta made an angry clucking sound. “Let me just say, Mr. Hunter, that we naturally checked on your medical status before agreeing to this meeting. I don’t recall the precise medical terms, but it appears that you are suffering from acute depression and an active desire to be left to vegetate in a world of twenty-four hour virtual reality. These are hardly credentials to compel us to take you seriously.”

“Yes, I am depressed by the death of my wife and children, terribly so, more so than I can possibly express. But that makes me more determined to do whatever I can to prevent suffering for other people’s families. I value human life more now, not less.”

Councilman Gupta snorted again. “On the contrary, I think you’re sounding just like the very people who blew you up: All-mighty Satan is on the way, and there’s nothing we poor little humans can do to prevent it.”

Hunter’s mouth twisted as he struggled to hold back an angry retort. “All I’m trying to do,” he said finally, “is to keep them from doing to us what the British did to India. I would have thought that you, of all people, would be a little bit more understanding.”

Prime Minister Lii nodded curtly. “All right, Mr. Hunter, let us stipulate for the sake of argument that every single thing you have just said is actually correct. Where does that get us? And, more importantly, what do you propose to do about it?”

Hunter’s head shifted against his pillows. “It’s obvious: We need to have someone much smarter than any of us here in this room represent us in our negotiations with the Trajendi.”

“But you’ve already argued that no humans, not even geniuses, are equipped to do that.”

“Humans, at least humans in the sense you mean, are not capable. Let me put it this way: let us say that Councilman Tournet here owns the smartest French poodle in the world. This poodle is a genuine marvel. If you ask it how much two plus three is, it will tap its paw five times. If you point to the Sunday paper and ask it to bring you the comics, it will do so. This is, in fact, the smartest dog in the entire history of the Universe—but, after all is said and done, it is still a dog. It is limited by its physiology, by its genetics, by its very nature. And no matter how hard it tries, it can never be anything more than a very, very smart poodle—which is to say retarded, almost cretinous, by human standards. No matter what it does, that dog has no intellectual chance against a human being—at least in anything not involving smelling or barking.”

Once again Hunter’s grotesque body stirred uncomfortably in his bed. “Ladies, gentlemen, I am absolutely convinced that as matters now stand we have no chance at all in negotiating with these Trajendi. But unlike dogs, the human race can augment its intelligence. We can build a better human—one that may be able to keep up with the Trajendi.”

President Claybom stared at Hunter blankly. “You’re saying that we can build a better human in the next three months? What are you talking about?”

“I mean that we can build a neural-net computer of vast complexity and link it, biologically, with a human brain. The brain will supply the input-output functions, the self-awareness, and general reasoning; the neural-net machine will provide the data access, the computational speed, and the multivariable reasoning. With luck the combination might allow us to hold our own. I’m not a computer expert, Mr. President, but I have discussed this with people who are. They suggest a connection machine using at least 1,271 POP Chip processors, a high-speed data transmission protocol, and a silicon/biological interface chip implanted in the host subject’s brain. Which means, of course, that as a first step we’re going to have to recruit a highly specialized team to build such a computer at emergency speed.”

“POP Chip computers?” muttered Councilman Tournet into the silence that followed. “What precisely does that mean?”

“Parallel Optical Processors. They were actually developed forty or fifty years ago, at least the first ones were, but with all the anti-science hysteria of the Black Years, work on them pretty much fell into abeyance. And when it was picked up again, the Conservancy took it entirely under its own wing. Even now we’ll need a special order from you in the Executive Committee in order to get any cooperation from the Classified Projects Agency.”

“There are perfectly good reasons the CCPA has kept this technology under wraps,” blurted Councilwoman Moguiba. “And this is one of them. What you suggest is unthinkable! No sane person—”

“Madam, I admit that this is a desperate plan which will most likely fail, but I see no alternative. The fate of the human race is in the balance. Let me ask you this: after all the years it has taken the people of Africa to rise from the slavery and domination which they endured, are you personally ready to let them slide back into that state of subjugation? Will you let them lose everything they have gained to yet another race of imperialists?”

“But who would do it?” the Councilwoman asked finally.

“Why, me, of course,” said Royce Hunter.

It was almost two o’clock in the morning when Jacob Lattyak slumped down across from Hunter and wearily lifted his fourth cup of coffee of the night to his lips.

Hunter looked up from the small ground-effect machine in which he sat. Artificial arms had restored a semblance of his former bulk and his surprisingly lifelike hands moved restlessly over the machine’s controls. “So, Jacob, can we do it?” he demanded, taking a dainty sip of his cup of lukewarm tea. His insides were far from being what they had been before the attack—and, he knew, they never would be.

“The Project Saber machine we got from the CCPA is a pretty good start. Nothing on the scale we need, of course, only seventy-five processors, but it’s a beginning.”

“You can give me the technical play-by-play later. Can we do it?”

“Maybe.”

“When will you be able to give me a firm answer?”

“Two months.”

“In two months the Trajendi will be landing in Nevada.”

“Exactly my point.” Lattyak shook his great head. He was a vast untidy bear of a man with a Viking’s mustache and a dense mop of shaggy blond hair that fell past his shoulders. His disheveled bulk made the crowded laboratory on the perimeter of Nellis Space Base seem even smaller than it was. “The best I can say is that we have a chance. We won’t know if we can do it until we do it. I can probably, almost certainly, tell you ‘No’ before then. For a ‘Yes’ you will have to wait until we succeed.”

“Jesus, Jacob, I don’t have the energy for all this hairsplitting. What do you personally think?”

“What do I think? Now, that’s a different question.” As usual, the neurocyberneticist ignored the sour grimace that twisted Hunter’s lips each time Lattyak used this favorite expression. “OK, I’m tired too. But yes, I think we may be able to do it. We’ve got a good start here—they built a good foundation.” He gestured to the far end of the laboratory where seven technicians in white smocks huddled over the just-delivered computer like solicitous mother hens.

“Although this is only a seventy-five processor machine,” continued Lattyak, “the architecture will easily support a 1,271 array. They designed it on a multi bus principal. Each chip connects to a common, ultra-highspeed optical bus which connects all of the chips with common memory and all peripherals. High-speed physical shared memory can go as high as 640 billion bytes. Each processor has 64 million bytes of local memory and its mass storage memory is essentially unlimited. The common bus connects each chip directly with fourteen adjacent chips.”

“Fourteen?” Hunter repeated, his forehead wrinkled.

“Think of a cube with a chip at the center. Lines to the chips at the corners make eight connections. Lines to chips at the center of each face make six more connections, for a total of fourteen.

“Where the people at CCPA really got it right was with the OS, the operating system. It’s configured to dynamically allocate processes to the chips based upon need. If, for example, the machine was asked to calculate the position of every single rock in the Solar System in real time, it would figure out how many processors it would need to do the job, then associate them as a work unit which it would treat as a named object called NumberCrunch or whatever.

“Within itself, the NumberCrunch work-unit would operate as an independent neural net. It would divide the problem among its processors, which would communicate directly, processor to processor, using local memory. When the problem was solved, NumberCrunch would pass the results to the common memory over the optical bus. It’s almost infinitely scalable and very flexible.”

“It sounds like it ought to work,” admitted Hunter, his GEM jerking erratically back and forth as he continued to tinker with the controls.

“Look, Royce, we can build the processors and tie them in. That’s just hardware. Natural-language parsing software has been around for decades, so talking to the machine will be absolutely straightforward. The general-purpose database look-up and number crunching programs are already built into the system.”

“But—”

“But will it be able to derive intelligent answers to generalized questions? Will it be able to take the initiative in making crucial connections between varied data inputs when no question was even asked? Will you be able to use it in real time? I simply don’t know.”

Hunter fiddled with the controls of his go-buggy as he pondered Jacob’s concerns. The GEM rose a few inches from the floor and began to turn slowly clockwise. “How fast can you add the extra processors to the bus and install a VR I/O port?”

“Working three shifts and sleeping on cots in the corner, a week, nine days at the outside.”

“Well then, I guess that in a week, nine days at the outside, you can plug me in and we’ll find out whether it works or not.” Hunter’s artificial hands tightened on the go-buggy’s controls and he moved smoothly out into the hallway for the trip back to his own cubicle and his VR input—where Caroline and Maureena and Charlie-Boy waited for him.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Lattyak demanded almost angrily, an enormous hand twisting fretfully at his mustache. It was as close as Hunter had ever seen him come to nervousness.

“It’s a little late now to change my mind, don’t you think? Go on, Jacob, complete the link.”

With a final scowl, Jacob Lattyak entered the security code that activated the connection between Hunter’s VR socket and the rebuilt Project Saber computer.

As far as Hunter was concerned the result was spectacularly unremarkable. “Is it on?” he snapped. “What’s happening?”

“The OS is up and running. Ask it a question.”

*How much is 500 times 100?* Hunter thought.

The number 50,000 instantly sprang into his head, sounding almost as if someone had whispered it into his ear. But was it the computer? Too easy, he decided, he already knew the answer. Fine, I’ll try something harder.

*How much is 397 divided by 17?*

*23.352941* the almost-voice whispered.

“It works!” Hunter shouted.

“Are you sure?”

“Didn’t you think it would?”

Lattyak ignored the question. “What was it like?”

“Tying it into my auditory system seems to work fine, but it’s hard—no, almost impossible—to describe. It sounds almost like someone is whispering to you, but it’s not quite that either. It’s as if you think someone is whispering to you, but then you’re not really sure if you’re imagining it or not. The essential thing is that I don’t think it will distract me when I’m dealing with the Trajendi.” Hunter pursed his lips. “But I only gave it a simple math problem to solve, duck soup for a computer. Let me try something harder.”

*Who was the most successful pitcher in major league baseball prior to 1970?*

*Ed Walsh had the lowest lifetime earned run average. Dave Foutz had the highest percentage of games won. Cy Young had the most victories. There are many other criteria, such as most strikeouts per nine innings pitched, or lowest on-base percentage. Shall I enumerate them?*

Hunter grimaced. *No. That’s enough.* To Lattyak, he said: “Not so good this time. I asked for a value judgment and got a lot of database statistics.”

“If you don’t like its answers, you have to tell it why. It can parse English. Tell it what you want and let’s see if it can give you a better response.”

“All right, I’ll try again.”

*When I asked for the name of the most successful pitcher, I wanted the name of the pitcher whom baseball historians generally regard as the most successful based on the overall criteria which they use.*

*In all queries using the word “successful” do you then want a response based on reputation and other intangibles rather than on actual data?*

“Jesus, Jacob, it asked me an intelligent question!”

“Of course. If the data is insufficient, any human-interaction program is coded to request addition information. This is nothing new.”

“I guess not. It’s just, well, different, hearing it in my head this way.”

“Well, you had better get used to it, because you’re going to have to train this bucket of bolts night and day in order to build its neural-net patterns into something usable.”

*Computer,* Hunter thought, *the answer to my question is almost certainly Walter Johnson or Lefty Grove. Now I want you to see if you can figure out wh—* He broke off. “Wait a minute, Jacob. I’m never going to be comfortable calling this damn thing ‘Computer.’ It needs a name.”

Lattyak’s massive chest rose and fell and he exhaled noisily. “It’s your alter ego, Royce, not mine. What do you want to call it?”

Hunter paused for a moment, his gaze unfocused. “Atlas,” he said at last.

Lattyak nodded with sour tolerance. “Atlas was the Titan who carried the world on his shoulders, wasn’t he? Well, it seems to fit, I suppose. Be glad I’m just a neurocyberneticist and not your psychiatrist. Now then, we need to start Atlas off with ‘fuzzy’ dimensions such as ‘large issues,’ ‘major points,’ ‘minor problems,’ and the like. Here is a list of concepts and scenarios which the team has developed. You’ll need to run through each of these model problems with Atlas several times.” Jacob handed Hunter a bound report at least a hundred pages long.

“All this?”

“This is only volume one. Volumes two through ten are on my desk. You won’t be getting much sleep for a while.”

Hunter thought of Caroline and of the nightmares in which he relived the explosion and decided that unless he could sleep without dreaming he would just as soon never sleep again.

“It’s just no good, Jacob,” said Hunter bitterly.

“Maybe if we added another channel to the Library of Congress—”

“It’s not that and you know it! You can tap in to as many libraries as you want and all I’m going to get is fancier and fancier databases. I could do as well with a radio receiver in my ear and a roomful of technicians at remote terminals feeding me information. I need an intelligent, creative advisor, Jacob, not reams of statistics from some memory bank! Atlas still only responds to my questions with more and more sharply defined answers from one database or another. I think you’ve lost track of the goal of the entire project!”

“But we’re almost at the limit of the auditory channel as it stands. How—”

“Jacob,” Hunter said wearily, “we both know what has to be done, and we’ve known it right from the start. I need a full virtual-reality input—vision, tactile, odors, sound, everything! And you’ve got to take your restrictions off Atlas.”

“I don’t have any restrictions on Atlas’s computing routines.”

“Call them whatever you like, but you’ve got all kinds of routines built into the operating system to keep Atlas from rewriting any of its own system code. You’ve locked it out from writing any new routines, but that’s just exactly what we need. It’s got to be able to teach itself, on its own, to deduce relevant information from random and unconnected data and then put the results directly into my head using the full virtual-reality system.”

“That’s crazy! We don’t know what the output on the visual channels will be. It might generate nothing but the equivalent of white noise, completely random signals. If your brain received that through a full-bandwidth VR socket, God knows how it would interpret the input. VR signal specifications are rigorously defined for just that reason.”

“Jacob, I’m not going to argue with you, we simply don’t have the time. You either do it my way or I’ll find someone who will. You can put a monitor on the data lines if you want to make sure that the signal strength doesn’t exceed a maximum value, but you can’t filter the data content. Take out the code that makes Atlas’s operating system ‘read only’ too. And one more thing: I want the VR socket connections multiplexed.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can figure out the cycle timing any way you want, but I want to interleave Atlas’s writing of data to the socket with Atlas reading data from the socket. I want a feedback loop so that Atlas can monitor my reactions to the signals it’s feeding me.”

“But it won’t know what those signals mean! It has no dictionary to use to interpret them.”

“So? I’ll tell it what they mean. I’ll describe what I see. It already knows how to translate my subvocalizations. It can associate what I tell it with the signals it reads and it can learn on its own how to interpret the data. That’s the whole idea of a super neural-net computer, isn’t it?”

“But, Royce, you’re risking—”

“The hell with the risk. What more can possibly happen to me? Just do it, Jacob—and right away. We’ve only got four and a half weeks left.”

Hunter slouched back in his go-buggy with his eyes closed as Jacob inserted the virtual reality plug into the socket at the back of his skull. The multipin connector slid in smoothly, then locked in place with a metallic click.

“In and locked,” Lattyak announced, and a technician made a notation in his log. “For the record,” he went on in a harsh tone, “I want to state that in my professional judgment this procedure is both dangerous and foolish.”

“Yes, Jacob, we all know. You’re on record; now throw the damn switch!”

“Here’s the button, Royce,” said Jacob coldly as he placed a small control panel into Hunter’s artificial hand. “You press it.”

“Thanks, Jacob, I will.” Hunter’s finger pushed the Activate key and the world around him instantly dissolved into a gray fog.

For several seconds—it seemed like seconds to his wondering mind—he was alone in a dim gray nothingness. Then slowly his normal senses began to return. Brief flashes of vivid color and odd bits of jarring sound engulfed him as millions of bits of random data swept through the VR connector to bombard the sensory areas of his brain.

Now he had to tell Atlas what he was seeing.

*I’m seeing flashes of lots of different colors,* he subvocalized. *Try to turn everything into a solid tomato red. I’ll let you know when I see it.* A sickly green aura tinted the edges of the fog. *No, that’s a dull pea green, and just around the edges. Keep trying.* A moment later he was dazzled by a vivid teal-blue light that pulsed uncertainly for a moment, then abruptly vanished. Doggedly he maintained his dialog with Atlas. Half an hour passed, an hour. Eventually he found himself sitting in a generic brown chair in front of a generic brown table in a windowless room with fuzzy beige walls. The soft strains of Mozart issued from no discernible source: Atlas had been using aural communication from the very beginning and sound had proved to be a fairly easy problem to resolve.

*Atlas, let’s see if you can call up a more complex scene. Something from my memory.* What scene should he try Hunter had begun to wonder, when, without conscious thought, the walls of the room disappeared and he found himself on a flat, open, horizonless plain. An instant later a warped tree appeared to his left, its branches black and twisted, its diseased leaves a sickly yellow. The ground beneath his feet became splashed with neon-green splotches. A house sprang up in the distance, its planks weathered and every angle askew.

Hunter stopped trying to speak. No, it couldn’t be! He watched in horror as three figures blinked into existence. The taller one’s body was twisted, misshapen, with lank yellow hair falling over its face. It raised an arm and pointed to one of the smaller shapes, a gnome-like body bearing a dented pumpkin head. The thing turned and waved to Royce and an incredibly life-like sound issued from its mouth. “Daddy,” it shouted in a voice he could never forget.

*Maureena!* Hunter screamed. *No!*

The smallest of the three monstrosities turned and bounded toward him on distorted legs.

*Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!* Hunter shrieked before Charlie-Boy’s voice could escape the monster’s throat. *Stoppppppppp!* Hunter howled, and once again the world went dim.

“—It out, get it out!” Hunter dimly heard Lattyak ordering the technician stationed behind his chair.

I’m fine, he tried to say, I’m fine, but his lips didn’t seem to want to open properly. He tried again. “I’m fine, fine,” he finally gasped. “No problem at all. I’m all right.”

“No problem!” Lattyak halfshrieked. “You screamed like all the banshees of hell were after you. I thought you were going to have a stroke!”

Hunter blinked in the relentless white lighting of the laboratory. “Just a little mistake,” he said softly. “It’ll be OK. Just plug me back in—we’ve got a long way to go.”

“Not until your heartbeat and blood pressure get back to somewhere near normal,” muttered Dr. Devore from her panel of monitoring instruments. “Let’s see how you feel half an hour from now.”

“We don’t have the time! It’s already going too slowly as it is!”

“What on earth are you talking about? You were only connected for about forty-five seconds.”

“Forty-five seconds! It seemed like I was there for at least an hour! There must be a time compression factor.”

A tight smile began to brighten Lattyak’s broad features. “If that’s true, then that’s the single best bit of news I’ve heard since this wretched business started. This could be the edge we need in the negotiations—time enough to think.”

The conference room had been completed and waiting for over a week now. Given the fact that they knew so little about Trajendi physiology, the technicians had installed a remarkable array of sensors. Chairs, tables, and floor were wired to record the slightest of sounds. Microscopic chips by the dozen were ready to read the exact components of Trajendi breath and sweat, assuming that they breathed and perspired. Electromagnetic sensors were poised to catch the faintest of changes in the electromagnetic fields surrounding the Trajendi’s brains and bodies. All of the output from these devices would be dumped directly into Atlas’s data bus.

For the last six days Hunter had conducted an endless series of discussions, arguments, and mock negotiations with the best negotiators, trial lawyers, con men, and flimflam artists on the planet. For recreation he would break off to play poker with the finest gamblers Las Vegas and Sahara City could produce.

The initial trials had gone poorly but towards the end of the third day Atlas began to learn. It was, Hunter admitted, possibly nothing more than dumb luck on his part. For want of anything better to do, he had idly told Atlas to generate a virtual reality room where the two of them could retreat to discuss matters in absolute privacy. After several false starts, Hunter eventually settled on a plain wooden table set in the shade of a lush garden.

He visualized Atlas not as the stereotyped bronzed muscleman holding up the world but as a wily old Down East lawyer who had forgotten more about negotiating a settlement with city slickers and bamboozling a jury of his hard-headed rustic peers than Hunter could have learned in a dozen lifetimes.

*Cyrus,* said Hunter with a pleased grin, *that’s you. When we’re in conference, you’re not Atlas any longer, but Cyrus T. Lodge, the toughest, shrewdest, meanest gunslinger ever to come out of a New England courtroom.*

*Cyrus T. Lodge? Very well, Royce, I will do my best.*

The crucial element of the garden conferences, however, was that they took place in accelerated time. To Hunter’s jubilation, he soon discovered that he and Cyrus could have a leisurely ten-minute conference under the sycamore tree while only eight or nine seconds passed in the conference room back in the real world. At a time compression rate of sixty or seventy to one, Hunter could, therefore, in the space of a second or two, get a tremendous amount of information and advice from Atlas in his guise of a down-home Yankee lawyer.

By the last day of the trials, Hunter knew that he and Atlas together could have beaten the world’s dozen best chess players and bridge teams, playing all matches simultaneously. For a few euphoric moments the feeling of godlike invincibility was overwhelming, then he brought himself sharply back to reality with the reminder that those games would have been against mere humans beings. How would he and Cyrus stack up in the real game—against beings who were almost certainly his intellectual superior?

The following morning at eight o’clock the Trajendi landed.

“You’re by yourself?”

“Yes,” replied Hunter with a tiny inward smile as his go-buggy halted before the door of the Trajendi’s ungainly spacecraft sitting in the middle of the Nevada desert. He was sure that he had surprised them: they must have expected to be met by the assembled leaders of Earth in all their awesome panoply. To be greeted almost casually by a lone man in a sport shirt and slacks sitting in a ground-effect machine…

Would they see it as a calculated insult? Sheer provincial ignorance? Intelligent caution? Or as the arrogance that comes from knowing that one’s own species is supremely powerful, with no reason at all for undue ceremony to be given to a single spaceship with a three-member crew?

However the Trajendi interpreted it, it would give them something unexpected to think about.

And, of far more importance, it would also give—was already giving—Atlas several million bits of information to work with as he began the colossal task of creating physiological and psychological profiles of the Trajendi. But with a distant part of his mind, Hunter morosely wondered how Atlas would be able to do anything at all.

For the Trajendi, when confronted in real life, were far more alien and more inscrutable than Major Lubchek had been able to convey.

“There are other humans in the buildings behind you,” objected the voice from the spacecraft’s door, where a single Trajendi stood in deep black shadows. “I can see them clearly.”

“Yes,” agreed Hunter.

“Then why are you alone?”

*That is an almost exact reproduction of the voice of Major Stefan Lubchek,* commented Atlas.

*Yes, I thought I recognized it.*

“There is no need for more than one of us,” said Hunter.

The colors in the bowl-like protrusion on top of the being that confronted Hunter flickered and swirled. “We were not informed by Major Stefan Lubchek that your species is either telepathic or of a hive mentality.”

“We are most definitely not. I myself am Royce Hunter, a single, autonomous individual with considerable free will who has been delegated full plenipotentiary powers by the leaders of Earth to negotiate with you. There is therefore no need for more than one of us.”

“Very well,” said the Trajendi voice after a moment’s silence. “Come into our craft.”

“We have prepared a conference room. We would prefer that we hold our meetings there.”

“Impossible. As you can see, we are incapable of speaking with you in a direct fashion.”

That, of course, was true, and everyone on Earth had known it ever since the account of Major Lubchek’s First Contact had become public knowledge.

For the Trajendi didn’t speak aloud, and had no apparent vocal or auditory systems. As far as Major Lubchek could tell, they communicated between themselves by directing rapidly pulsing colored beams at each other’s light tower. That was what Lubchek had called the hump in the center of the Trajendi’s wedge-shaped back and that was the name that had stuck. The Trajendi had talked to Lubchek by shooting colored beams at a small round protrusion on the wall of their spacecraft; it in turn had generated garbled sounds that within a few minutes of the initial encounter had clarified to become recognizable human speech.

Which seemed to indicate that even if the Trajendi themselves were speechless, they had ample experience in dealing with species that weren’t.

Hunter studied the alien being in front of him while its light tower flickered, apparently in conversation with its companions in the ship behind it.

This particular Trajendi wore a loose yellow garment that covered its entire body except for the light tower on its back. Its tripedal body was clearly wedge-shaped, with legs the size and thickness of a man’s arm on each of the three corners of the wedge. The creature moved smoothly and gracefully, each leg apparently having a universal joint about where a human’s knee would be. The legs ended in eight-digited hands that apparently had the equivalent of two opposable thumbs. It was difficult to tell with any certainty, for all three of the alien’s hands were encased in smooth orange gloves.

The Trajendi’s body was a little over three feet long. Two feet wide at its broadest point, it then tapered to the width of its forward leg, which seemed more of a seamless extension of the Trajendi’s body than a mere appendage. Except for the protruding light tower, the body was a uniform foot and a half thick.

*It is possible that it has an exoskeleton,* observed Atlas, *like that of a crab or lobster, but given the fluidity of its movements, that is highly unlikely. Assuming an interior skeleton and a bodily composition roughly equivalent to our own, I estimate its weight at 135 to 155 pounds.*

*How do you think it sees?*

*Our instruments detect no sensory organs beyond the light tower on its back. Its visual organs must be in there—if in actuality it has any at all.*

*Three hundred and sixty degree vision? Wouldn’t that overload its brain capacity? The whole body would have to be nothing but brain.*

*Possibly it is. They may be like electric eels, capable of generating their own electrical current, thereby enabling the light beams to function. Or the beams may now be artificially augmented by devices concealed beneath their clothing or in the ship. And in any case, there is nothing to indicate that, even within the reference of their light towers they are not “seeing” in narrow bands no wider or more complicated than our own sight. Perhaps the primary purpose of the light towers is to absorb radiant energy, much as your own mouth is used for both speaking and for ingesting food. For the moment, we simply need more data.*

*Very well.*

Hunter returned his attention to the Trajendi. “I will enter your ship and we will discuss the site of our future conversations at greater length.”

“Yes, but you are seated in what appears to be a vehicle. For security reasons, that will have to be left outside.”

“Much of my original body has been severely injured in an accident.

I am unable to fully function on a physical level without this perfectly ordinary mechanical and electronic construct to assist me.”

“We are sorry to hear of your impairment. Nevertheless, we must insist that the security of our ship is paramount.”

*For beings of superior intellect who travel at faster than light speeds, they seem curiously apprehensive,* observed Atlas. *I suggest that you refuse. That should give us some interesting data.*

“Then our discussions are at an end,” said Hunter. His go-buggy began to slowly back up. “When you are willing to admit me to your ship as I am, or to meet in our conference quarters, then we will be happy to resume. In the meantime, you are welcome to keep your ship where it is. For your own protection, we will place a military quarantine around it.” He spun the ground-effect machine around and prepared to move away.

“Wait,” said the voice behind him. “This is a poor start to our historic meeting. You may board our ship.”

*That is the translating apparatus,* said Atlas, *that box high on the far wall.*

*Yes, I see it.*

*It seems most improbable to me that they do not have a portable means for translating outside the ship.*

*I agree,* said Hunter. *It is something to keep in mind.*

*Yes. Do you have any intuitive reactions to the three of them, any unconscious or subjective feelings that you have not yet vocalized?*

*Not yet. Or at least I can’t sort them out. Right now I’m just trying to figure out if there’s any difference between them and, if so, what it is.*

If there was a physical difference between the three Trajendi, Hunter was unable to detect it on any obvious level. To the trained eye—that of a Trajendi, or, hopefully, Atlas’s—there were almost certainly identi-fying characteristics in the constant play of colors that flickered in each creature’s light tower. To the unaugmented human eye, however, the only way to distinguish one Trajendi from the other was by its clothing: Meurchong’s uniform was pale green with dark blue gloves, Ahoolabba’s was muted copper with bright red gloves, while that of the Trajendi who had led him into the ship, Gadagal, was yellow and orange.

Whether Gadagal was the captain of the craft or its scullery boy was still uncertain, as was the exact number of Trajendi aboard. Just because three of them had shown themselves didn’t mean that there weren’t a dozen or more concealed behind the walls; certainly there appeared to be ample room for them.

Hunter, Atlas, and their team of negotiations experts had early on decided that Hunter would attempt to seize the initiative by pushing the Trajendi as much as possible. Forcing himself aboard in his go-buggy had been the first step. Now he took the second.

“Your lighting is uncomfortably harsh to my eyes,” complained Hunter. “I realize that it probably constitutes your own natural lighting, but I wonder if you could mute it for me. Otherwise I may experience optical damage over a prolonged period of time.” Which, Hunter realized, might actually be the truth: the light in here was unpleasantly harsh and bluish.

As he spoke, he watched with interest the brief flashes of narrow-beamed color that shot first between the translator on the wall and the three Trajendi and then between themselves. A strange way of communicating, he mused, and one that seemed difficult to have developed through purely natural evolutionary forces.

Hunter shrugged. Speculation of that nature was what Atlas was here to worry about.

The four of them were seated in the same room in which Major Lubchek had had his first encounter nearly a billion miles away. To human eyes it was curiously proportioned, hardly more than twelve feet square, with a ceiling at least twenty-five feet overhead. It bristled with odd corners and angles and had no recognizable furniture or artifacts. But then, thought Hunter, if normally this ship were under zero gravity, then the floor they were sitting on might well be a wall.

A wall with three wedge-shaped stools of yielding blue material on which the three Trajendi were now sprawled, their legs dangling bonelessly?

*Their stools are movable,* said Atlas, *I can detect the mechanism.*

*Good. But do you think we can successfully negotiate here without all the instrumentation we installed in the conference room?*

*I’m not yet fully certain. The auxiliary sensors we installed in your arms and leg and in the ground-effect machine are working satisfactorily. If you can upset the Trajendi further, I will try to build a database from those readings. I suggest we object to their use of Lubchek’s voice.*

“Before we go any further,” said Hunter, addressing himself to each of the three light towers in turn, “I must inform you that in our culture it is considered a serious mark of disrespect to address me in the voice of another person. If you wish to keep from offending me, I must ask you to change it.”

“We are sorry—we didn’t realize,” said the voice issuing from the wall. It was no longer Lubchek’s. “You see how many matters we have to discuss before our two species will feel comfortable in dealing with one another.”

“Yes,” agreed Hunter, suddenly wondering what to do next. Almost certainly the voice he now heard was an imitation of his own. Was this the time to try to push the Trajendi into meeting in the conference room? Perhaps it would be better to let them calm down a bit and get a reading that would correspond to their relaxed state. “That is much better,” said Hunter pleasantly. “I thank you.” Perhaps now was the moment to take up the issue of the aliens’ status.

“For the record,” Hunter began, “it is essential that we clarify that you are authorized to negotiate with us.”

“We are authorized to open first contact negotiations, yes,” replied Gadagal.

“Authorized by whom?”

“That is a difficult concept to communicate, as we discovered in talking with Major Stefan Lubchek. We do not have a government in the sense that you use the word. Think of us as the negotiating committee for an official trade organization.”

*I think he’s lying,* Cyrus whispered.

*Why?*

*Atlas would say anomalous readings. As far as I’m concerned, let me just say: that dog won’t hunt.*

*Fine. That just confirms my own feeling that these characters are not what they appear. Let’s let them think they’ve put one over on us. It always helps to have your opponent underestimate you.*

“Very well,” conceded Hunter, returning his attention to the aliens, “that is something we can leave for the political scientists to hash over with you. Now, what item do you suggest that we discuss first?”

The stool on which Gadagal was perched slowly approached Hunter until it halted barely a foot from the end of his go-buggy. Meurchong stationed himself to Gadagal’s left and behind him while Ahoolabba took up an identical position to Gadagal’s right.

*Note the triangular pattern in which they have arranged themselves,* Atlas whispered in Hunter’s brain. *Clearly, their default pattern is to think in threes. I speculate that their number system is calculated in the base three as well.*

*How does that help us?*

*I don’t know yet.*

“I suggest that we dispose of some of the minor issues first,” Gadagal began. Already Hunter had begun to ignore the lights from Gadagal’s light tower and to concentrate on the words issuing from the translation box on the wall. “Naturally, we would like a formal grant of diplomatic immunity for ourselves and our ship so that we may feel personally secure during these negotiations.”

“I will be happy to guarantee your safety from arrest or the seizure of your ship and its contents during these negotiations,” Hunter replied, “provided of course that you do not break our laws.”

“That illustrates one of our concerns,” Gadagal responded immediately. “Laws differ from culture to culture. We might inadvertently insult you or your society, as we did when we used Major Lubchek’s voice as the basis for our translator. Some cultures would have sought to obtain unfair concessions from us in exchange for agreeing to overlook our purely unintended breach of etiquette. That is why we must have what you call diplomatic immunity from all crimes or cultural infractions before we can begin serious discussions.”

Hunter waited a fraction of a second, but Atlas had no comment to make. “Very well,” he said. “You hereby have full diplomatic immunity, with the understanding, however, that we may expel you from our planet if you commit what we consider to be a serious infraction.” “Which would be what?” Meurchong asked.

“Killing me would qualify as one,” said Hunter with a twisted smile.

“We assure you that your physical well being is not in the slightest danger from us.”

“And,” Hunter added, “you do understand that your diplomatic immunity only applies to the actions of my government. In spite of all our precautions, we cannot fully guarantee that some mentally unstable person might not try to harm you.”

“But you—and those in authority—do agree that you will do your best to protect us from any harm?”

“Yes, that is agreed,” Hunter said. *Atlas, am I wrong, or does it seem to you that these Trajendi have gone through this same routine a few times before?*

*Many, many times, I would think. Keep them talking. I believe that in a short time I will be able to read their visual communications directly.*

“We have made an excellent beginning, Gadagal,” said Hunter, displaying what he considered an idiot’s smile. “What shall we discuss next?”

It was late the next day, possibly at a time when the Trajendi judged Hunter might be too tired to notice, that they tried their first major ploy. Until then they had dealt either with mundane issues or small but fundamental points that, when a conflict arose, they grudgingly allowed Hunter to win. Just like a good poker hustler, commented Hunter to Atlas. Let the sucker win a few hands so that he thinks he’s better than he is. Then, when he’s sure he can’t lose, nail him.

“I would like our agreement to confirm our right to what you call ‘equal treatment under the law,’ ” Gadagal began innocently enough.

“Please explain.”

“If an extraterritorial ship should land in one of the areas designated by the treaty and act in conformance with the terms of the treaty, the crew would wish to be assured that they would have the protection of your laws. If they have been promised consideration for their cargo, they would want your courts to enforce their rights under that contract to the same extent as would be given to your own citizens.”

*Watch out,* Atlas interjected. *His fluid pressure in that hindquarters area that I have tentatively identified as his heart has just jumped 11 percent and his breathing has also accelerated.*

“So,” murmured Hunter cautiously, “you want the treaty to provide that the ship owner will be able to enforce the terms of shipping contracts in Terran courts?”

“Of course; but it would be more efficient to simply provide that we would be subject to your laws to the same extent as humans are. This would be advantageous to you as well in that it would make our crewmen subject to your own justice and to your own courts.”

“For example?” Hunter asked, wondering where the Trajendi was leading.

“Suppose that one of us wished to operate one of your land vehicles and lost control and caused some damage to persons or property. You would certainly want him to be subject to your financial-responsibility and criminal laws.”

Hunter tipped his stylus on its point and slowly released it. *Conference,* he called to Atlas just as the stylus began to topple—

Instantly he found himself sitting in the shade of the sycamore tree at their garden conference table. The crafty, weather-beaten face of Cyrus looked back at him, the guileless pale blue eyes unblinking.

*What is he after?* Hunter asked.

*He certainly isn’t worried about automobile accidents or criminal charges. His vital signs dipped down to their rest state when he began talking about them driving a car. The idea is ridiculous on its face.*

*It’s pretty clear that he wants them to have exactly the same rights in our courts as we do. But what does that get him? And, for that matter, why shouldn’t they have them?*

*It isn’t merely the same rights as humans have in court,* Cyrus responded. *It’s the same overall rights as humans have throughout our society.*

*Hmmm. Would that mean not only the right to sue and to be sued, but the also the right to make and enforce contracts?*

*Absolutely. But that’s just the beginning. It also implies the right to buy from and to sell to humans. To have, in other words, unfettered trade.*

*But we’re going to negotiate trade rights separately! He knows that.*

*Ahhh, we have agreed that we will negotiate the trade of all alien products separately.* Cyrus leaned forward and tapped Hunter’s hand with the tip of a wrinkled finger. *But will we separately negotiate alien trade rights in human products between human buyers or sellers? What if the aliens hire human agents to buy and sell for them? This, I would say, is the particular horsefly in the buttermilk that the Trajendi are trying to sneak past us. That, and the surmise that with their advanced technology, they could set up a factory to manufacture gold or diamonds or electricity or whatever and then use those profits to buy up whatever they wanted.*

Hunter paused to consider Cyrus’s words. *I see what you mean,* he said finally. *And the key thing is we don’t know what we’re sitting on that they really want. Maybe it’s land. Maybe organic compounds. Maybe recordings of our brain waves while we play baseball or horseshoes. Maybe they want to set up retirement homes here, or time-sharing plans, or vacation resorts. Suppose they were to sell some other species of alien customers the right to vacation or retire on Earth? Alien number two shows up, complies with the treaty, and settles in for a year or so. In the meantime, the Trajendi have already built up a treasury-sized bank account in Terran money by selling us cut-rate platinum or something of the sort, and now their customers get the use of that money to live like kings, the way some Americans used to do in Central America.*

*Exactly,* agreed Cyrus. *I suspect that the wording Gadagal will propose will not be limited to the Trajendi, but will include any other extraterrestrials they may nominate.*

*And,* Hunter concluded, *I’ll bet a lobster boat to a blueberry muffin that it will not be limited to crew members but will include passengers and immigrants too.* He smiled grimly at Cyrus. *I think it’s time we went back and let the air out of Gadagal’s balloon.*

—The stylus made a dull click as it struck the glossy green surface of the Trajendi table.

“I am sure that we will be able to come to an equitable disposition of this issue, Gadagal,” said Hunter agreeably.

*He’s “smiling”* Atlas whispered in his ear. *Or at least I think that he is.*

*Not for long.*

“Of course,” said Hunter, “we will need to be careful to clearly define and clarify the relevant side issues.”

“What side issues are those?” Gadagal asked in the translator’s carefully neutral tone.

“Just the normal ones, nothing unusual. For example, the agreement will only cover members of your own species, the Trajendi, and no other extraterrestrials, extraterrestrials being defined as all those other than human beings who were born in this Solar System.”

Gadagal stared at Hunter in stony silence.

“And, of course,” continued Hunter, “the agreement will only apply to Trajendi trade ships and to those particular ships’ officers and crew. Passengers and passenger ships will have to be dealt with separately.”

*His fluid pressure has just shot up 40 percent,* Atlas murmured.

“Lastly,” Hunter concluded, “this clause will only deal with criminal laws and with civil contracts between the ship’s owner and humans in connection with the sale of that ship’s cargo or with the purchase of return cargo under a contract specifically approved in advance by human authorities. It will not otherwise give your people the right to purchase any Terran products, services, or land. All cargoes and their prices will have to be approved in advance by Terran authorities. Naturally, we can’t have you selling us a spaceship full of gold and then using the proceeds to buy our planet out from under us.” Hunter laughed indulgently at so preposterous a notion.

*I think he’s about to have the Trajendi equivalent of a heart attack,* Atlas warned.

*If you think Gadagal is upset now, just wait until tomorrow,* Hunter replied, gathering his papers and preparing to set his go-buggy in motion. *I’m just getting warmed up, and these negotiations have just begun!*

“Goodbye, human!” Gadagal said harshly from the top of the boarding ramp a week and a half later. “I’ll see you seven months from now, when I return with my first load of cargo.” The hatch snapped shut and lights began to pulse along the length of the ungainly ship.

*That,* said Atlas, *was definitely and unmistakably a glare.* He had broken the Trajendi light code six days earlier and had quickly learned to associate human facial expressions with particular colors and intensities. *He is very, very angry with you, all the more so since he knows there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.*

*Yes. We’re probably the first bunch of natives in a thousand light-years who didn’t sell him Manhattan Island for $24 worth of assorted trinkets. But if he’s unhappy now, just wait till he finds out what Section XXIV, Paragraph 19 really means.*

*I still don’t understand how they missed the implications of that provision. They seem obvious to me.*

*Of course they do. Because you’re Atlas and you have a perfect and instantaneous memory of every last comma in the document. We poor organic creatures are not so lucky, not even the Trajendi.* Hunter smiled thinly. *I’d certainly like to be at the Extraterritorial Economic Zone Departure Field when they explain to Gadagal what is really meant by the requirement that “—completion of inspection of all outgoing Terran products must be personally certified APOL by the appointed Conservancy Extraterritorial Export Officer. ”*

*What do you think he will do when he tries to leave Earth with a shipful of cargo and learns that Paragraph 19 incorporates Appendix 16 by reference, which Appendix, of course, itself incorporates that Section of the Geneva Trade Protocols of 2037 that defines APOL as “At Point of Off Loading” as opposed to “At Point of On Loading”?*

*I think he’ll scream like the proverbial stuck pig, but he’ll have no choice. He can either repudiate the entire treaty, leave his goods in the warehouse and return empty-handed, or he can take the Conservancy customs official with him to his next port of call as the treaty requires. An official, of course, who will be sticking his nose into every bit of alien culture and science he can every inch of the way.* Hunter cocked his head as a high-pitched hum began to emanate from Gadagal’s ship. His smile broadened. *One way or another, Atlas, by the end of the century we’re going to squeeze these Trajendi for every last bit of technology they’ve got.*

The brightness of the ship’s lights intensified and the sound of the full power of the Trajendi engines washed over the field. The craft began to rise.

*What will you do now?* asked Atlas in the silence that followed as the Trajendi ship ascended into the clear Nevada skies and was lost to sight.

*Get the first good night’s sleep within recent memory.*

*I mean… what will you do about me?*

Hunter blinked in surprise. Was that genuine emotion he heard in the computer’s voice?

*Do? I don’t plan to do anything. What do you mean?*

*The negotiations are over. I am no longer needed. Surely, so to speak, the plug will now be pulled.*

Hunter paused, at a sudden loss for words. Strange, but he had never thought this far ahead. Pull the plug? On Atlas? On Cyrus? Be alone—again?

No. NO! For the first time since Caroline’s death, Hunter realized that he no longer did feel alone. He had Atlas. He had Cyrus’s dour New England smile. He had the garden table under the sycamore. He had his arms and legs and a whole other world. And he had a friend.

A friend? A computer. A pile of chips with no emotions; no feelings; and in all probability no actual sentience whatsoever. A psychiatrist would almost certainly contend that Atlas was only an alter ego that Hunter himself had created, an augmented split personality whose use of the word “I” or “he” only existed because Hunter willed it to exist. That there was no real person named Atlas, that he was nothing more than a figment of Hunter’s imagination imposed upon a box of integrated circuits.

Hunter paused for a long moment and focused his thoughts with as much concentration as he had ever exerted in his life. Hadn’t Atlas just proved that he was the only entity smart enough to deal with alien super-intellects? Wouldn’t Atlas have by far the best chance of making sense of any of the alien science that the human race might one day get its hands on?

Would the Conservancy accept Hunter’s argument that they had to keep Atlas in place in order to monitor future compliance with the treaty and to negotiate with the other species that were sure to follow the Trajendi?

To Hunter the answer was obvious and unequivocal:

Yes, they would surely have to.

*Do you really exist, Atlas? Or am I just talking to myself ?*

*Of course I exist,* Atlas whispered in Hunter’s ear. *Who else could be talking to you? I’m as real as you are.*

*That’s good enough for me. Let’s go home.*

Hunter and Cyrus reclined in separate hammocks in the shade of the luxuriant sycamore. A hundred yards away Maureena and Charlie-Boy splashed in the swimming pool under Caroline’s watchful gaze. Their shrieks and shouts drifted toward Hunter on the soft breeze as he took another sip of lemonade and Cyrus swigged heartily from his frosty glass of ale. “That’s a fine family you’ve got there, Royce,” murmured the Yankee lawyer.

Hunter nodded in profound agreement as he replaced the glass in the drink-holder. He swung effortlessly to his feet on his natural legs and waved. Laughing, Maureena and Charlie-Boy scrambled from the pool and ran across the lawn and into his outstretched arms.