Jonders will not be put off. His face grows brighter and hotter than ever, as he leans closer. "That transmission originated here at this center, Hoshi—and there was something in it that was unlogged, a dense packet of information—and it occurred exactly when you were operating the scanning program on Mozelle. Is that a coincidence, do you think? Is it a coincidence that we can't find any record of Mozy's scan in the system here?"
He flinches as Jonders's voice grows harder, sharper. Stop it, he thinks,
stop it
. A dull ache is building in the top of his head, and he doesn't want to talk about this anymore.
Please, stop!
"We need to know if the project has been damaged," Jonders is saying.
The doctor speaks, as Jonders runs out of breath. "There's Mozy to think of, too," she says. "We need to help her."
He jerks his gaze to look at her. There is a swelling in his throat, and a pressure in his forehead. It hurts too much to think of Mozy; he meant her no harm, he didn't know this was how it would end, he
loved
her.
"If you could see Mozy now," the doctor says, "I believe it would move you, Hoshi. She can't speak now, or feed herself, or keep herself clean. And yet she's alive, we know she's in there thinking, and hurting, and trying to get out. Won't you help us help her? Don't you care for her enough to do that? Don't you love her?"
No, yes, I do love her, but don't make me—
Jonders and the doctor are exchanging glances, and Jonders's voice shakes with hushed surprise as he says, "Hoshi, do you love her?"
Nods, trying fiercely to let nothing more out.
"I'm sorry, Hoshi," Jonders says, startling him with the gentleness in his voice. "If I had known—well. I didn't realize—the attraction, or your—friendship with her." He sounds genuinely sorrowful. "I suppose I was—I don't know, but the point is that her condition is very—"
The tears come in a sudden, astonishing rush. He tries desperately to contain them, but they're flooding over his eyelids and down his cheeks. The pain grows sharper, not duller, and he feels his chin sinking, fists clenching and unclenching and then rubbing, jabbing at his eyes. It's as though a fiery nerve gas has enveloped him, choking and blinding him.
I gave you what you wanted . . . I gave you . . . gave you . . . won't you still be here with me, the way you promised?
"We can see how much you care for her," Jonders says. The man is making no sense at all. Can't he see, doesn't he know—
that I killed her, that I knew all along it wouldn't work? That I wanted her so badly I would kill to—
"Yes! I transmitted her!" The words erupt from his throat. Jonders's voice cuts through him like a scalpel. "What exactly did you do, Hoshi? Tell me every detail. Where did you send her, and how?"
The dam is broken: there is no holding back now. He babbles; he can hear pens scratching on paper, recorders clicking on; he doesn't mind, that is all past now. "To the spacecraft," he says. "I scanned her and—"
"Why?"
"—transmitted her—to the Kadin receiving point—so she'll be there—for him—"
Jonders's face is searing hot. People are moving around beside him, but all he can see, squinting, is the blurry white heat of Jonders's face. The tears and the pain are wreaking havoc with the visual amplification, and Jonders's silhouette shimmers between dazzling bright and aching dark. It is the face of a harlequin mask, leering at him—or laughing—he can scarcely tell which.
"You sent her—into the receiving programs—?" Jonders's voice is muddled. Maybe it's his own confusion; he can scarcely understand what is being said anymore.
"How did you get the transmission codes?" another voice seems to be asking.
He would laugh if he were not already crying. So easy, so easy!
"Easy?"
someone else mutters.
He had not realized that he had spoken aloud, but he nods, grinning in spite of it all. "You thought I couldn't do it," he whispers. "You thought I could do nothing but plug into your boards and do your work, and you would tell me nothing—
nothing
—not even why it was secret. But I learned anyway—and the codes were the easiest part of all."
He stops—and realizes that everyone is looking at him in astonishment. "Don't you see?" he cries, looking from one blurry face to another. "She was in love with
him
. I
had
to." The tears flow as he whispers, "Don't you see I had to . . . I had to do it for her?"
* * *
One face after another turned to watch him as he walked into the conference room. Jonders dropped into a vacant seat, took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase, and placed them neatly on the table before him. Then he looked up into the eyes of Slim Marshall, Fogelbee, Kelly, and several of their respective aides. Marshall, a heavyset black man with bristly hair and thick-rimmed glasses, glanced at the holoscreen on the far wall. "We'll talk when Mr. Hathorne is ready on the conference line."
Jonders nodded and rose to pour himself a cup of coffee at the sideboard. As he returned to his seat, Joe Kelly gave him an unobtrusive thumbs-up gesture, and Jonders returned a wan half-smile.
Though Jonders in no way relished this meeting, he could be facing a worse boss than Slim Marshall. Marshall had been the Director of Sandaran-Choharis Institute for two years, after a successful directorship of the Fermilab II neutrino lab. He managed support for both the
Father Sky
mission and the matter-transmission R&D program, and was widely regarded as a fair but no-nonsense administrator. He reported directly to Leonard Hathorne, a considerably less gentle man.
The wall screen flickered, and Hathorne's face appeared, larger than life. "If you're ready, Slim, let's get going," he said.
Marshall turned the floor over to Jonders, who summarized everything he knew about Hoshi's actions and their consequences. "So far as we've been able to determine, there has been no damage to any of the Kadin related programs," he concluded. "As for the transmission, we don't know yet whether it was successful or not, but are presuming that it was." He paused. "Hoshi Aronson is an extremely resourceful programmer—more so than I had given him credit for."
"We don't question his resourcefulness," Fogelbee said. "What about his motives?"
"Indeed," said Hathorne. "There are two questions I want answers to. One—did Mr. Aronson work alone, or was he in complicity with other parties? Two—do we or do we not now have an unauthorized intelligence program on
Father Sky?
Comments?"
Joe Kelly rose from his seat in the corner. "So far, we've found no evidence that Mr. Aronson was anything but a loner. As for his relationship with Miss Moi—we don't have all the facts yet. But at this time Bill's explanation for his actions seems the most probable."
Marshall added, "We have, by the way, obtained federal authority to keep Mr. Aronson and Miss Moi here for the time being, for psychiatric observation in cooperation with the Riddinger Institute." He looked up at Hathorne. "Leonard, my biggest worry is the condition of the spacecraft." He turned to Fogelbee. "Ken?"
"We programmed it once. We can program it again," Fogelbee said. "There's no reason why we can't clear out the intelligence banks and start over, if we have to. I see no obstacles."
"I'm . . . not so sure that we should do that," Jonders said. As everyone looked at him, he swallowed. He hadn't thought this through completely, but Fogelbee's words had struck a dissonant chord in him.
"Yes, Bill?" said Marshall.
Jonders struggled to separate his own feelings from the objective facts of the case. He said slowly, "I'm not so sure—if there is a human intelligence existing—living, if you will—in the
Father Sky
computer—" He paused, looking up. "I'm not so sure that we have the right to 'clear it out,' as Ken says, and start over."
Fogelbee stared at him in bafflement. "Are you saying that you think we—"
"May be morally bound to keep it alive? Yes."
Several people murmured at that, but Fogelbee's answer was vociferous. "I don't see that at all. You're proposing that the actual personality of Miss Moi could be alive in the computer—and that such a personality
program
constitutes—"
"A living person," Jonders said. "In a sense."
"Aren't you forgetting something? Mozelle Moi is still alive here in our hospital? That program is only a
copy
of her personality, even assuming that it's complete and functioning."
Jonders frowned, aware that everyone was waiting for an answer. "I'm not sure that that matters," he said cautiously. "In any case, the physical Miss Moi is catatonic, and she may or may not recover."
Fogelbee shrugged. "That's unfortunate. But just because someone has brought misfortune upon herself, why should we be responsible for seeing that this—
program
—stays intact? Not
alive
—I don't grant you that.
Intact
."
Jonders opened his mouth to reply, but Marshall interrupted. "Gentlemen, I don't think we're going to settle this point here and now." His gaze drifted off. Hathorne was watching with a dour expression. "This issue has been raised before, in a hypothetical vein, relative to the matter transmitter. Suppose an attempted transfer resulted in the loss of a physical body, while the brain-scan information remained intact? Would we bear a responsibility for the 'life' of the program representing that individual—or could it be terminated, because the human being was legally dead?"
"And what," Hathorne asked sourly, "did you decide?"
"We didn't. Both legally and philosophically there were too many unanswered questions," Marshall said.
"I see," said Hathorne. He arched his eyebrows. "I suggest we investigate the legalities as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, there's no point in trying to reach a decision without knowing the facts. How can we best determine whether or not we have a problem?"
A discussion followed of alternatives. Marshall ended it by saying, "If direct link with the spacecraft is our next step then Bill, I'd say you're the one to undertake it—to contact our 'rogue personality,' if there is one."
"I haven't exactly been successful in dealing with her," Jonders grumbled.
"Nevertheless, you have the experience—and would be best able to recognize the personality, if it's there." Marshall rubbed his wiry hair and peered at Jonders sympathetically. "Bill, we aren't trying to assign blame. Let's just find out where we stand, and where we can go from here."
Jonders nodded. It was all very well for Marshall to spare him judgment; but he wasn't sure that he could stop judging himself for allowing a situation like this to develop. He thought of Mozelle lying catatonic in the infirmary, and wondered: Should I
hope
to find her alive, out there?
He had no answer, and shook the thought away.
With a shock, she remembers. A hollow yawns open in her, and fills with yearning. David! David Kadin! Somewhere here among the shadows, he must be waiting. She reaches out, searching.
(David?) she calls. (David?) Plaintively. (David?)
There is no answer, no stirring of the ether. A kernel of doubt grows, but she listens, waiting . . . waiting for
any
sign of his presence. Isn't he
supposed
to be here?
There is a sound like a waterfall rushing in her ears, making it impossible to think clearly. The maddening roar fills the emptiness around her and within her. An ugly pressure is building. (DAVID, WHERE ARE YOU?)
The pain begins in earnest. A metal hoop twirls deafeningly on a metal rod, ringing as it spins around and around and around and around . . . envelops her in a vise of sound . . . the hoop spins faster and faster, the sound coming in pulses . . .
Where's David? it seems to say. Where's . . . David . . . David . . . David . . . David . . . David . . .?
Suppose she is alone, and there is no David . . .?
The ringing shatters, and a dreadful silence encloses her. No David?
No David?
A feeling of horror issues from a trapdoor and rushes over her in waves, No, No, No, No, No, bringing nausea to her . . . throat . . . or whatever . . . absorbs the pain of the hideous realization, because she is choking, gasping for air . . .
No air. No lungs. No nothing. Gone, all gone. Dear god, what have I done?
Desperation creeps through her like a black spider. She wants to let her fear spill over, she wants to cry and let tears carry away the awful loneliness, but she cannot; she has forgotten how to cry.
(DAVID! WHERE ARE YOU!)
she screams, and she cannot hear her own voice; she is deafened by the impossibly loud thrumming of her heart, a pounding of blood in her brain . . .
. . .which is suddenly cut off, shunted away by a corridor that has closed . . .
. . .a landscape that has changed . . .
Did a door open just now? Did someone speak to her?
There is only emptiness, and a vague recollection of loneliness and fear.
She cannot remember now what she was afraid of. Or who or what she wanted. The memories have vanished, scattered with the winds.
* * *
The darkness had grown more familiar. "Darkness" was the way she thought of it—an absence of certain bodily sensations with which she had a lifetime of familiarity. At times, however, she was bewildered by the presence of other sensations—startling and disorienting bursts of information, images, emotions. It was terribly difficult to know what was her own memory, what was someone else's, what was real-time perception.
(Query—) she said.
(INFORMATION REQUEST ACKNOWLEDGED. YOUR ACTIVITY RATE HAS INCREASED. DO YOU FEEL RESTED, STABLE, RESTORED?)
(I don't know,) she murmured. She had been experiencing strange dream images, often heavily erotic. It seemed that they had provided for her need for REM sleep and dreaming—or perhaps it was just her own behavioral patterns, persisting. Whatever the cause, the results were bizarre: curious reverberations of incomprehensible details and memories and images.