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Garsten."
Michelle was not inclined to argue. She'd had a feeling of something not being right ever since
her conversation with Garsten, but it had refused to take on concrete form. Now Ohira had
crystallized it for her. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.
This time there was a pause. Michelle knew how Ohira worked. He had already made his mind
up what he wanted to do. She could sense him searching for an angle.
"Taki's best friend, Kevin, is also affected by this. I'm really an uncle to both of them. So we
have to look after the family, eh? So what I want you to do is, follow up on this Mrs. Heber
wherever it leads, and keep information to yourself. If you get into any kind of trouble, then as
long as everything's legal, you'll be okay. I'll say you were working for me."
It was what Michelle had wanted: a clear directive and indication that they agreed. She nodded
into the phone. "Okay, I guess that's it from me. Is there anything else?"
"No, that's all. They're calling seats now, so I got to go anyway. It sounds as if you need to
see this tape."
"That was why I wanted to catch you. We can get right on with that now. When are you due
back?"
"Just tonight in LA. I'll be back late tomorrow."
"Okay, we'll talk more later in the week. Enjoy the flight."
The phone buzzed again as soon as Michelle put it down. She picked it up again. "Yes?"
It was Wendy, the receptionist. "Stanley Quinze is on the line again. I tried to get a number
from him, but he insisted on holding."
"Okay, I'll take it. And could you try and get Doug Corfe at Neurodyne for me? Let me know
if he's not there."
"Will do."
* * *
For a long time, Kevin and Taki had been intrigued by the thought of getting mecs to fly. In
their experiments, they concentrated, naturally, on the smaller models in their collection,
thinning the casings to fragile shells and taking out all nonessentials to reduce weight. They
designed flexible wing systems based on insect patterns, which used leverage to exploit the
improving power-weight relationships that came with diminishing size and stored mechanical
energy recoverably in elastic structures.
A further problem was with the dynamics: of somehow matching the speeds of slow human
neural processes, evolved to suit the needs of slow, lumbering bodies, with the high-speed
motions appropriate to insect-world physics. And even with some real insects, for example bees
and mosquitoes, it turned out that the frequency of wing beats was a result of resonance, and
was actually higher than the rate of the nerve impulses driving the system.
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Their solution was a "software gearbox": a microprogram that would translate one cycle of
operator-muscle contraction and relaxation or at least, what was perceived as an operator's
muscles working into a hundred or more precoded wing beats. Hence, each voluntarily
initiated beat would cause a set series of instructions to execute over and over at a rate too
fast to follow individually. Since the boys wanted their four regular limbs to be available for
normal use, they had programmed the wing drive to link to the neural circuits associated with
the shoulder blades. Flying would thus follow from a learned process of precisely controlled
"shrugging." That was the theory, anyway.
The trick, Kevin told himself as he stood poised on the edge of a cliff in Neurodyne's
wooden-block benchtop test ground, was to imagine that he was swimming in a dense fluid that
amplified the effects of his movements. In fact, they had tried to write the microprogram to
make the feedback feel just that way, with the perceived force serving as an analog of the wing
speed that was impossible to register directly. Then, what felt like deliberate motion of an
imaginary limb in a tangible medium would be converted insensibly into the appropriate
vibrations. Having got that firmly fixed in his mind, he extended his virtual appendages and
launched off.
The problem, he admitted as he found himself spinning and gyrating erratically across the
floor, was that the system also amplified every error a hundredfold before you could do
anything to correct it. It was like the old adage about the computer as something that can make
mistakes a million times faster than the worst imbecile on the payroll: by the time you got to
know that something was going wrong, it was already history.
He flipped out of visual to become himself again, viewing the Training Lab from one of the
couplers. There were several techs in the vicinity, engaged at various tasks. Patti Jukes was
nearest, clicking through report screens on a terminal. "Hey, Patti," Kevin said. "Can you pick
me up off the floor and save me having to get out of this? I'm a couple of feet to your left, by
the bottom of the bench."
"Sure, no problem." The lab staff who had been with the company for any time at all were
used to having Kevin around, and sometimes Taki also. Kevin knew most of them. Patti
listened to classical music and owned a dog called Bach. Kevin had told her once that
Beethoven had had a dog with a wooden leg. That was where he'd gotten his inspiration when it
walked across the room: dah-dah-dah-dah.
Patti got up and picked the mec off the floor. "I wouldn't want you to get trodden on down
there." She held it over the landscape of blocks and terraces. "Where do you want to
be back on the big flat one at the end?"
"Yes. Thanks." Kevin had come in after school to use some of the firm's microcode utilities
that he couldn't run at home. Taki was at his own place that evening, ensnared in some family
function that had proved impossible to escape from.
"The way you guys have done this is terrific," Patti said, examining the mec before she
replaced it. "How's it coming along?"
"Oh, slow, but I think we're getting there. The problem is finding a program to give just the
right wing twist. Right now, it's spiraling and losing lift. That's why I ended up where I did. You
want to try it?"
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"I'd love to, but not right now. Maybe later, when I'm done with this. Will you still be around
after five?"
"Probably. . . . No, more than probably. I'm supposed to be riding home with Dad, and he's
with a couple of prospective customers. You'll have time for dinner, then come back."
"Is Kevin in here?" It was Doug Corfe's voice, from the doorway. "Ah yes, there he is." He
came on in and approached across the lab area. "How's the magnificent man in his flying
machine getting on?"
"I think he's amazing," Patti said. "They're going to crack it, you know, Doug."
"Did Stewart put that new lens in the Liga?" Corfe asked her.
"I'm pretty sure he did. He looked like he was aligning it the last time I was in there. That was
about an hour ago."
"Good." Corfe turned to Kevin. "Can we wrap it up for now, Mr. Wright-brother-the-second?
I need to talk to you."
"Well, I'd say it's still mostly Mr. Wrong-brother at the moment," Kevin said. "What's up?"
"Well . . . let's go to my office."
"Oh sure." Kevin removed the headpiece and collar, and stood up from the coupler. "Shall I
leave all this as is?"
"I'd shut it down and pick up your stuff," Corfe said.
Kevin saved his updated files onto a removable disk pack, ejected it, and collected together
his coding charts and notes. He put the mec in its container and stowed everything back in his
school bag, which he had left on a chair. "That's it," he announced.
"Some other time, then, I guess, Kevin," Patti said. "Okay, I'll settle for a raincheck."
"We'll have it working better next time, anyway. You wait. I'll see you, Patti."
"Take care, Kevin."
Kevin followed Corfe out of the lab. They walked a short distance along the main second-floor [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]