10000 Light Years From Home Part 23
He raced on through the night, communications springing at him. Right lane must turn right, he read.
Food gas lodging next exit. His black mood lifted. Green-to-red, green-to-amber, flashing-amber, All-Night Funeral Home. He laughed aloud.
He was still grinning when the garage opened to his beeper and the house door opened to his thumb.
The house was dark, silent. He expected that, he realized. His wife was visiting her mother. Eleanor.
But his wife's name was not Eleanor, his wife was Audrey.Depression descended. Suddenly he saw he had been evading reality. Swimming and playing games with the cops instead of doing the serious thinking he had planned to do. Before tomorrow's meeting.
He turned out the lights and lay on the bed, trying to concentrate. There were paragraphs in his mind. Other things. He must concentrate. The moon set. It grew darker, and presently, very slowly, lighter. He failed to notice that he did not sleep. When the little sun rose he got up and redressed.
The San Bernardino lot was still quite empty when he pulled in; the guards seemed surprised to see him. His office, though, was sunny. Did not need light. He found the files.
His secretary came in at eight-thirty tip-toeing.
"Miss Mulm," he said brightly. He pushed the files away.
"Yes sir?" She was instantly wary, a small, dark, softlipped girl.
"Sir?" he echoed. "Indicating deference, subordination... are you afraid of me, Miss Mulm?"
"Why, no, Dr. Mitch.e.l.l." Staring gravely, shaking her dark head.
"Good. There's too much of that sort of thing. Too much one-way communication. No true interaction. Entropic. Don't you feel it?"
"Well, I guess... uh-"
"Miss Mulm. You've been with me five years now. Since before I was Director. You came over from the department with me."
She nodded, watching him intently: yes.
"Have you any feelings about the sort of work we do here?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, Doctor Mitch.e.l.l."
"Do you-well, do you approve of it?"
She was silent. Wary. But somehow br.i.m.m.i.n.g.
"I-of course I don't understand all of it, not really. But it-it seems more military than I expected. I mean, Colonel Morelake, I guess-"
"And you don't feel quite right about military-type research?"
"Doctor Mitch.e.l.l," she said desperately, "if you think it's all right-"
Her eyes, face brimmed, communicating information.
"My G.o.d," he said slowly, studying her. "Do you think I think-does everybody here think I-No.
You can't answer that, of course. I guess I, since Hal's been away I've been doing some-" He broke off.
"Miss Mulm! Does it strike you that we are engaged in a most peculiar interaction process?"
She made a helpless confused noise.
"On the one hand we're discussing, verbally, the work of this inst.i.tution. And at the same time there is another quite different communication taking place between us. Without words. Are you aware of that?
I feel it has been going on for some time, too. Don't you think so? By the way, my name is Colin."
"I know," she said, suddenly not confused at all.
He came closer and slowly, experimentally, reached his hands and arms out along the force-lines of the emergent system. The system of two.
"Eleanor," he said. The system tightened, connected body to body, changing both. His body began to move along the field stresses. It felt wonderful. It felt resonant. Resonances tuned, building to oscillation. Feedback began to drive-swelled stress- "Eleanor!" He was galvanized with delicious danger. "Eleanor-I-"
"Yes Colin!" Br.i.m.m.i.n.g at him, five years of small, dark very intense- "I-I-I-" Bracing against the forcefield's bulge, "What?""The intercom! They-they-it's time, Doctor Mitch.e.l.l!"
"Oh." It was flashing, buzzing, down there very small and far away. The ... the meeting. Yes. What the h.e.l.l had hit him. Damp. Damp the circuits. The room came back. And the paragraphs.
He was quite himself when the staff meeting opened. The project leaders, as usual, led off with their reports. There were eighteen bodies and an empty chair: the fourteen project directors, Admin, Security, Colonel Morelake, himself and the empty chair for his deputy Hal, on leave at Aspen. The reports were officially being made to him as Director, but most of the speakers seemed to be talking directly to Colonel Morelake. Again as usual.
Jim Morelake bore a disarming resemblance to a robin. A slim, neat robin with a perfectly good PhD and lots of charm. He bobbed his head in obviously genuine interest at each report. When old Pfaffman got into a tangled complaint-this time to Mitch.e.l.l-Morelake spoke up.
"Colin, I believe I know where we can get some computer time to help Max."
Pfaffman grunted without looking at him and subsided.
That wound up the routine. They looked at Mitch.e.l.l.
"About Cal Tech North," Colin Mitch.e.l.l said. "I spent over six hours with Will Tenneman yesterday, before and after the general meeting. Essentially he was very ready to deal, provided we can work out the details of the grant allocations, and I feel they'll be reasonable. In fact, there was so little to talk over until we get down to specifics that I came back early. I think the main thing that was worrying him was parking s.p.a.ce."
That brought the ritual chuckle.
"However," Mitch.e.l.l went on. "There's something bothering me. This business brings it to a head.
The Cal Tech North link-up is completely logical and desirable, provided we continue as we have been going. I'd like to do a little review. As you all know, especially those of you who have been here from the start-" He paused, momentarily aware of how many new faces were around him.
"This group was set up as an independent research facility annex to the university proper. It was our role to service a wide spectrum of basic research projects which could attract special funding arrangements. We started with eight projects. Two were medical, one was a short-term data a.n.a.lysis on traffic fatalities, another was historical, two were interdepartment teams in the anthro-sociology area, one was concerned with human developmental and learning processes, and one was an applied project in education. Of these, four were funded by N.I.H., one by private industry, one by the Department of Commerce, one by N.S.F., and one by the Department of Defense. Right?"
A few heads nodded, old Pfaffman's the hardest. Two of the younger men were staring oddly.
"At the present time," Mitch.e.l.l went on, "we have increased to fourteen projects in hand. There has been a threefold increase in personnel, and a commensurate growth in support facilities. Of these fourteen projects, one is funded by N.I.H., three by private industry, and Commerce is still continuing the traffic study. The rest, that is nine, are funded by the Department of Defense."
He paused. The empty chair beside him seemed to be significant. Things were different without Hal.
He had chosen Hal, relied on him as an energizer. And yet-was it since Hal's time that the D.O.D.
connections had tightened?
"Everyone is, of course, very pleased," he said heavily. "But I wonder how many of us have taken time to a.n.a.lyze these projects, which we live with daily. If you stand back, as I have been doing over this past week, and cla.s.sify them very naively from the standpoint of their ultimate product, I think it is fair to say that five of them have no conceivable application except as means to injure or destroy human life.
Three more probably have no other application, although they may yield a small return in basic knowledge. That's eight. Number nine is devoted to the remote electrical control of human behavior. Ten and eleven are exploring means for the sterilization of plants. Twelve and thirteen are limited engineering problems in metallic structure. The last is one of the original-I might say, surviving-projects concernedwith human cognitive development."
That was Pfaffman. He was looking at his hands.
"When we link up with Cal Tech North," Mitch.e.l.l went on, "when and if we link up with Cal Tech North, this imbalance will be intensified. I am not familiar with their entire panel, since so much of it is cla.s.sified. But they are entirely funded by D.O.D."
The silence was absolute. Colonel Morelake's eyes were on the table, his expression attentive. Even sympathetic.
Mitch.e.l.l took a breath. Up to now his voice had been light and controlled, as if reciting a long-prepared speech. He went on, still quietly.
"I would like to have your comments."
One or two heads moved. Feet shifted. One of the younger men-the neural impulse broadcaster-let his teeth click audibly. No one said a word.
The pulse under Mitch.e.l.l's ear began to pound. The wrangles-the free-for-alls that had gone on around this table! How had he let things drift so far? He leaned back, his elbow on the empty chair.
"I'm surprised," he said, still mildly. "Let me remind you of the way we set up. Perhaps some of you haven't read the charter. It calls for periodic reviews of our program-our whole program-giving each of you as project head a voice, a vote if you like, in evaluating what it regrettably refers to as the thrust or the social impact of our work. As Director, I have two votes-three, with Hal away. Gentlemen, I am calling for your evaluation."
Three men cleared their throats simultaneously. Mitch.e.l.l looked toward Bill Enders, one of the phytocide biologists.
"Well, Colin," Enders said awkwardly. "Each of these projects was discussed, at the tune of initiation. I... I frankly don't quite see--"
There were several nods, a shuffling release of tension. Morelake, as a non-voting consultant, kept his eye on his papers throughout.
Mitch.e.l.l drew a breath.
"I confess I am surprised that no one sees anything to discuss here." His voice sounded oddly thick in his own ears.
"Colin." A crisp voice; Chan Boden, biochemist was the oldest man present bar Pfaffman, with a lush, longterm grant.
"One sees what you mean, of course, Colin. These problems in values, social responsibility. It's always been a difficult aspect. I'm sure all of us maintain awareness of, for example, the triple-A.S.
ventilations of the problem. In our private lives," he smiled warmly, "we all undoubtedly do a bit of soul-searching from time to tune. But the point is that here, in our professional personae, we are scientists."
The magic word; there was audible relaxation.
"That is exactly the point." Mitch.e.l.l's voice was dead level. "We are scientists." This too was in the paragraphs, this had been expected. But why were the paragraphs fading? Something about the way they refused to respond. He shook his head, heard himself plow on.
"Are we doing science, here? Let's get down to basics. Are we adding to man's sum total knowledge? Is knowledge merely a collection of recipes for killing and subjugating men, for eliminating other species? A computerized stone axe? I'm not talking about the horrors of gore and bloodshed, mind you. The h.e.l.l with that-some bloodshed may be a fine thing, I don't know. What I mean-"
He leaned forward, the paragraphs all gone now, the pound in his neck building.
"Entropy!. The development of reliable knowledge is anti-entropic. Science's task in a social system is comparable to the function of intelligence in the individual. It holds against disorganization, oscillation,noise, entropy. But we, here-we've allied ourselves with an entropic subsystem. We're not generating structure, we're helping to degrade the system!"
They were staring, rigid.
"Are you accusing me of being a virus particle, Colin?" Jim Morelake asked gently.
Mitch.e.l.l turned on him, eager for connection. The room seemed momentarily clearer.
"All right, Jim, if you're their spokesman now. You must see it. The military argument. Biotic agents-because the other side has. Mutagenesis-because they may get it first. But they know we do it, and so they-Christ! This is at the ten-year-old level. Runaway forward oscillation!"
He was fighting himself now, peering down at the dwindling table.
"You're a scientist, Jim. You're too good a man to be used that way."
Morelake regarded him gravely. Beside him Jan Evans, an engineer, cleared his throat.
"If I understand you, Colin, and I'm not sure that I do, perhaps it might help if you gave us an example of the kind of project you feel is, ah, anti-entropic?"
Mitch.e.l.l saw Pfaffman freeze. Was the old man afraid he would cite his work? Afraid? The awful churning rose in his gut.
"Right," he said clumsily. "Of course, one can't, at a moment's notice but here-communication!
Two-way communication. Interlocking flow." He felt suddenly better. "You can understand why a system would seek information-but why in h.e.l.l does it offer information? Why do we strive to be understood? Why is a refusal to accept communication so painful? Look at it-a process that ties the whole d.a.m.n human system together, and we don't know fact one about it!"
This was good! Panting with relief, shining-eyed, Mitch.e.l.l searched from face to face for what must be coming. At the edge of his mind he noticed the Admin man was by the door. He didn't count.
"Fascinating idea, Colin," Morelake said pleasantly. "I mean, it truly is seminal. But let's go back one moment What exactly are you suggesting that we do?"
Annoyance tugged at him. Why didn't the others speak? Something wrong. The swelling feeling came back, rose hard.
"That we stop all this," he said thickly. "Close out the d.a.m.ned projects and kiss off D.O.D. Forget Cal Tech North. Get out and hustle some real research."
Someone gave a snort of amus.e.m.e.nt. Mitch.e.l.l looked round slowly in the silence. They seemed to be down there below him, the little faces-hard and blank as that cop's. Only old Pfaffman and the lad whose teeth clicked- they looked scared. The swirling grew inside him, the pound of seeking resonance. Why would they not respond? Mesh, relieve the charge that was hunting wildly in him, straining the system?
"You won't even discuss it," he said with terrible urgency. Dimly he saw that two little guards had come into the shrinking room.
"Colin, this is very painful," said Morelake's voice from the pulsing roil.
"You're going to pretend I'm sick," his own voice chattered. Pygmy guards were closing on him, reaching out. Faces were in the doorway now. One small dark head. Incongruous newspaper in her hand: Eleanor Mulm had been reading that the nude body of a man identified as Dr. Colin Mitch.e.l.l had been found on the rocks below coastal lookout 92.
"Believe me, Colin, this is very painful," Morelake was saying to the choking thing that looked like Mitch.e.l.l.
"Entropy!" it gasped, fighting hard. "We must not!"
The guards touched him. The human circuits-the marvelously dense gestalt he had modeled from the man-system floating in the sea-retained its human integrity long enough to make him yell: "ELEANOR! RUN! RU-UU-UU-"-And the strained equilibrium ruptured.
The huge energy which had been stressed into the atomic lattice of a human body reverted back to immaterial relatedness and blossomed toward Vega from a point in Lower California. The resulting implosion degraded much of San Bernardino County, including Colonel Morelake, Pfaffman, the S.B.R.
Inst.i.tute, and Eleanor Mulm.
-and he came finally to equilibrium among the stars.
But it was not the same equilibrium...
What served him for memory had learned the circuitry of self-consciousness. What served him as emotion had sampled the wonder of communication between systems, the sharing of structure.