The Mind Pool (25 page)

“Team Three—your alignment’s fine, by the way, but you’ll land a lot smoother if you drop the speed another couple of points. That’s it. Spot on, and hold it there. Anyway, Team Three arrived all right, seemed to get on well together. They searched around and found their ‘Fact. But they didn’t get it. It got
them.
”

“It killed them?”

“Hell, no.” The pilot leaned back and closed her eyes all the way. The car touched down, light as a feather. “A ‘Fact won’t actually
kill
a team—they were designed not to. But it can give you a pretty bad time. This one roughed ‘em up so bad, they decided they’d had it with being a Pursuit Team. They split up. I picked ‘em up one by one, and they all went home. So there we were, one out of three.”

The pilot glanced out of the window and nodded approvingly. They had come to rest at the exact center of the landing circle. “Want to hear about Team Four?”

“Of course. Maybe I can learn by their experience.”

“They were the worst of all. They got themselves organized, searched for their ‘Fact, found it, and were all ready to blow it to bits. Well, that’s when the Pipe-Rilla decided it couldn’t go through with it. Couldn’t stand the idea of killing something, even if it was only an Artefact.”

“So they had to quit?”

“Not quite. The human on the team—big fat blond feller, looked like he’d not harm a fly—got so mad with the Pipe-Rilla, wasting all his time, he was all set to blow
her
full of holes in place of the ‘Fact. Might have done it, too, if the Tinker hadn’t swarmed him.

“I got ‘em all out in one piece, but the whole thing convinced the other Stellar Groups—again!—that humans are crazy killers. And if you think
that
didn’t create an interstellar incident and make things worse here . . .”

She opened the door of the car. A wave of dry heat like dragon’s breath wafted into the cabin. “Phew! Welcome to sunny Barchan. This car’s all yours now, until you get your ‘Fact. Good hunting.”

As she started onto the steps Chan leaned out after her. “You’ve seen them all. What do you think our chances are?”

The pilot paused with the door half-closed, and the car’s air conditioner went into overdrive. “Your chances? Well, if you believe it’s a random process, past history says you’re one in four. But I don’t believe it’s that random. Mind if I ask you a question?”

“I’ve been asking you plenty.”

“Well, I’ve looked you over pretty hard these past few days. You don’t fit this job, not at all. With your face and body, you’re an entertainment natural—public, or one-on-one. There’s fifty billion women would like a piece of you. So how come you’re on a Pursuit Team, out here at the ass-end of the universe?”

Chan hesitated. Had Leah talked about him, so the pilot was just prodding for more details? The waves of arid heat coming in through the open door produced floods of sweat on his face and neck that dried the moment they appeared, but the pilot seemed oblivious to outside conditions. She was waiting patiently, and her face gave him no clues. He decided that her question reflected no more than a genuine interest.

“I was born on Earth. I was a commoner, with a contract. This gave me a way out, and when it’s over I’ll be free to do as I like.”

It was close to the truth, and the pilot was nodding sympathetically. “Ah, I’ve heard about Earth. Everything’s relative. Maybe after that, Barchan don’t seem so much like the ass-end of the universe. I know that Leah Rainbow seemed pleased enough to be here. Did you get recruited the same way she did?”

“Pretty much. We were both recruited by Commander Mondrian.”

“Good enough. You’ve answered my questions, now I’ll answer yours. I’ll up your odds of success from one in four to fifty-fifty. Mondrian’s as hard as Tinker-shit and cold as Angel-heart, but he’s one sharp son of a bitch. And he don’t pick losers.” She swung the door closed and grinned at him through the window. “I mean,
usually,
” she shouted. “But there’s exceptions to everything. Fifty-fifty! Good luck!”

She gave him a wave and set off for the cluster of service buildings. Chan sat quietly in the car, inspecting the landscape around him. They were in Barchan’s low polar regions, where winter temperature would allow a human to survive without a suit except around noon. The vegetation, such as it was, was deep-rooted and covered in waxy blue-green foliage. At the pole itself it would grow in Barchan’s half-g surface gravity to fifty meters or more; here it sat low to the ground, tight-wrapped to conserve moisture. The soil beneath the plants was dry, dark, and basaltic, rising in slow, brooding folds away from the landing area. Gusty surface winds lifted the top layer of soil up and about the parked aircar in twisting dust-devils of dark grey. Near the equator that sand layer was hundreds of feet deep. The constant winds blew it into the miles-long crescent-shaped
barchan
dunes that gave the planet its name.

Eta Cassiopeiae’s twin suns hung close to the horizon. They lit the scene with orange, dust-filtered light. This dour landscape, according to Chan’s briefings, was the most attractive part of the planet.

He wondered where the Artefact might be hiding. According to those same briefings, it would have no trouble living anywhere on Barchan—even in the scorching equatorial regions where only micro-organisms survived.

The three service buildings stood a kilometer away from the parked aircar. As Chan watched, a swirling veil of dark purple emerged from one of the buildings and blew like a rolling cloud of dust towards the car. When it was fifty yards away Chan opened the door. The individual components of the cloud could now be resolved. They were purple-black winged creatures, all identical and each about as big as his finger. They approached with a whirring of wings. In less than thirty seconds every one of them had entered the aircar door and settled all over the rear of the main cabin.

Chan closed the door and turned to watch. He had seen the next phase in briefing displays, but this was his first exposure to the real thing.

It began with one component—an apparently arbitrary one—hovering in mid air with its purple-and-black body vertical. A ring of pale green eyes on the head stared all around, as though assessing the situation, while the wings fluttered too fast to see. After a moment another component flew in to attach at the head end, and a third one settled into position beneath. Thin, whiplike antennae reached out and connected heads to tails. The triplet hovered, wings vibrating. A fourth and fifth element flew over to join the nucleus of the group.

After that the aggregation grew too fast for Chan to watch individual connections. As new components were added the Composite extended outward and downwards, to make contact with and derive support from the cabin floor. Within a minute the main body was complete. To Chan’s surprise—something not pointed out in the briefings—most of the individual components still remained unattached. Of the total who had entered the cabin, maybe a fifth were now connected to form a compact mass; the remainder stood tail-first on the cabin floor or hung singly from the walls using the small claws on the front of their shiny leather-like wings.

The mass of the Tinker Composite began to form a funnel-like opening in its topmost extremity. From that aperture came an experimental hollow wheeze. “Ohhh-ahhh-gggghh. Hharr-ehh-looo,” it said. Then, in an oddly acrentedvariety of solar speech, “Har-e-loo. Hal-loo.”

Kubo Flammarion had warned that this was inevitable. “Imagine,” he said, “that somebody took
you
apart every night and put you back together every morning. Don’t you think it would take a little while to get your act together? So make allowances for the Tinkers.”

Chan couldn’t imagine it. But he suspected that the little captain, a long-time alcoholic and a recent Paradox addict, knew that morning-after where’s-the-rest-of-me feeling rather too well.

“Hello,” he said, in response to the Tinker’s greeting. “Hello.”

As he had been advised to do, he waited.

“We-ee arre-eh,” said a whistling voice. There was a substantial pause, then, “We are . . .
Shikari.
”

“Hello. You should call me
Chan.
”

This time it was the Tinker who waited expectantly. “Shikari is an old Earth word,” it said at last when Chan did not respond. “It means
hunter.
We think that it is appropriate. And perhaps also amusing? But you did not laugh.”

“I’m sorry. I never heard the word before.”

“Yes.” The funnel buzzed briefly. “You see, we were making a joke. We do not think that you are amused. You do not look it.”

Look it.
Chan wondered if the Tinker could actually see him. The individual components had in total many thousands of eyes, but how were they used for vision by the Composite? He gestured to the myriad of components still scattered around the cabin.

“Are
all
of you Shikari? Or only the ones who are connected?”

There was a buzzing pause. An indication of confusion? “We thiink that we understand your question, but we are not sure. We all in past time
have been
Shikari. We all in future time
will be
Shikari; and we all in now-time
can be
Shikari. But in now-time we are not all Shikari.”

“I understand. But why are you not all Shikari now? Don’t you think better when you are all connected?”

The Tinker had taken on a roughly human outline, with arms, legs, and head. When it moved forward in the cabin it was propelled by two different actions, the turning of body connections and the movement of thousands of component wings.

“Chan, you ask a many-questions-in-one question,” said the whistling voice. “Listen carefully. First, if we wish we can join all together at any time.”

“And you have more brainpower when you do it?”

“Yes, and no. When we join we certainly have more thinking material available—which you may call
brainpower.
But we are also less efficient. We are
slower.
We have a much longer integration time—the time it takes for us to complete a thought and reach a decision. That time grows fast-as-growth-itself—as you say,
exponentially
—with the number of components. When there is much, much time available, and the problem is large, we combine more units in us. More join, to make one body. But then the integration time can become so long that individual components begin to starve. We cannot, when connected, search for food. So components must leave, or die.

“What you see now is the most effective form, our preferred compromise between
speed
of thought and
depth
of thought. The free components that you see now will eat, rest, and mate. When the right time comes there will be exchange. Rested-and-fed-of-us will take the place of tired-and-hungry-of-us.”

Chan had a score more questions, although they were already late for take-off. How did a Composite decide when and how to form? Was it adopting a human shape only for his convenience? How intelligent were the components, if at all? (He had the feeling that question had been answered during his early briefings on Horus, but anything told to him before the Tolkov Stimulator worked its miracle felt vague and unreliable.) How did the components know whether to join the Composite or stay away? Most important of all, if a Tinker was varying its composition all the time, how could there possibly be a single self-awareness and a specific
personality
? Shikari had all that, and claimed a sense of humor, too.

So many questions, and every one of them surely vital to the Pursuit Team’s success—not to mention Chan’s personal curiosity. But they would have to wait until the rendezvous with the other team members.

Chan prepared to take off, then decided he ought to consult Shikari. After all, if they were to be
called
a team, they ought to act as one.

“Shikari, are you ready to go?”

“We are very ready.”

“Then would you like to move up front? If you want to study the landscape, you’d be better off sitting”—(
Could
a Tinker sit?)—“next to me.”

“That will be very good.” The Tinker changed shape. It came slithering forward like a giant purple-black pancake, over and around the back of the passenger seat and around Chan’s legs. The speaking funnel emerged briefly from the center.

“And perhaps when we are on our way,” Shikari said, “we can talk some more. When opportunity arises, we have
innumerable
questions concerning the strange form and functions of humans.”

Chapter 19

To a visitor, all the inhabitants of a foreign country are apt to look the same.

The Sargasso Dump was as foreign a place as Phoebe Willard had ever been. For her first week or two, the brain-shattered guards at Sargasso were distinguished by little more than their sex.

Two things changed her attitude. The first was Luther Brachis’s insistence that the two of them attend the guard review and follow it by a formal reception and dinner. It was possible to regard men and women as identical and anonymous when you merely passed them in corridors or took trays of food from them, but it was far more difficult when you stood or sat face to face and made (or attempted) conversation.

Many of the guards found speech beyond them. Luther Brachis ignored that fact. He knew every one of the hundred residents, he talked to them easily, and he told Phoebe of the deeds that had brought them to the Dump. It was a shock for her to realize that many of the blank-eyed dreamers at the long table were true heroes, the derelict remnants of daredevil men and women who had saved ships from disaster and whole colonies from collapse. They wore their medals at the dinner, but most of them seemed oblivious to former glories. Only a couple brightened and smiled when Brachis called them by their old titles.

The reception and dinner was a one-time event, but after it was over Phoebe began to notice individual guards, and address them by name.

That led to a bigger change in her attitude, although the next event had nothing to do with social behavior. It was a matter of simple necessity. Phoebe had a task that could not be accomplished with just one pair of hands. She left the nitrogen bubble, checked the guard roster, and headed for a remote region of the Dump.