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“The hell you don’t!”
They glared at each other, Bickel desperate with indecision, and Flattery’s suspicions verging on certainty.
He has given the Ox the means to kill, Flattery thought. His argument and his anger betray it. But kill what? Not one of us, certainly. A colonist in the hyb tanks? No. One of the stock animals! He’d dip his toe into violence first, see if the Ox could really do it.
But he cannot have already made the black box—white box transfer.
Prudence, dividing her attention between the control console and the clash of wills, felt herself shift further and further into a state of heightened awareness. She sensed Com-central’s minute temperature variations, heard the constant metallic creakings of deck and bulkheads around her, saw Flattery’s growing suspicions and Bickel’s desperate defensiveness, knew her own heartbeats and tiny variations in her body chemistry.
It was the chemistry that fascinated her: the thought that all through this subtle play of organic and inorganic matter which she called “myself,” messages of which she was only dimly aware (if at all) were being transmitted and acted upon.
The computer with its enormous library of data culled from millions of minds had offered her a way to explore the issue Bickel had raised, and she could not resist this.
Where and how are the instincts carried?
While the argument between Flattery and Bickel raged, she had translated the question onto an edge-coded tape, shifted it into the computer section of her board, tripped the action switch.
This went beyond chemical-base sequence, she knew, and into the area where knowledge of protein structure itself was only theoretical code. But if the computer gave her an answer that could be translated into a physical function, she knew she could explore the answer through experiments on her own body.
“Bickel, what’ve you done?” Flattery demanded.
Prudence looked up from her console, saw Flattery, his shoulders tensed as though about to leap, staring into the screen. The screen revealed Bickel and Timberlake, their backs turned, staring at the computer wall and the blocks-and-angles contortion that was the Ox.
The hum of the computer could be felt throughout the shop and Com-central. The play of sensor and telltale lights across the big board and the shop’s panels had reached a glittering tempo. Drain gauges showed energy consumption almost at the limits the system could tolerate.
Chapter 25
There must be a threshold of consciousness such that when you pass it you acquire godlike attributes.
—Raja Lon Flattery, The Book of Ship
As though the computer display were a hypnotic trigger, all four of them waited it out with minimal reaction. Both Bickel and Flattery shared the same reason for inaction fear that anything they did might be enough to destroy the entire system. Timberlake sat in sweating fear that his charges in hybernation were threatened by this computer display. Only Prudence was frozen by guilt.
She found herself breathing in shallow gasps, acutely aware of every mechanical sound from the flashing display—every click and hum and buzz, every hissing tape—as though she had a direct sensory connection to the system.
Abruptly, she put the back of her left hand over her mouth, horrified realization flooding her: The whole computer’s routed through the Ox now!
“What’ve you done?” Flattery demanded.
“Nothing!” Bickel said without turning.
Timberlake said, “Shouldn’t we …”
“Leave it alone!” Bickel snapped.
In a low voice, Prudence said, “I did it. I fed a question into the computer.”
“What question?” Bickel demanded. He pointed to a large meter above him. “Look at that current drain! I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I traced out sixty-eight sequential steps of fourth-order biochemical configuration. I programmed it as a comparator of optical isomers for a first step in trying to detect where and how our instincts are imprinted on us.”
“It’s gone into the monitor banks,” Bickel said, nodding at a new play of lights on the wall. “We’re getting multitrack reinforcement …”
“Like a man concentrating on a tough problem,” Timberlake said.
Bickel nodded.
The output beside Prudence began hissing as tape sped from it into the strip viewer.
Bickel whirled. “What’re you getting?”
She studied the viewer, forcing calmness. “A pyramided answer. I only asked for the first four probables. It’s already into the tenth step! It’s the nucleic acids, all right … down there with the genetic information. But it’s tracing out all the dead ends … the molecular weights and—”
“It’s talking it over with you,” Bickel said. “It’s asking your opinion. Cut in on it and eliminate the obvious dead ends as you see them.”
Prudence scanned back along the strip viewer, checked off useless sequences. Hydrogen catalysis … obviously not. Too much opportunity for contamination. She cut into the output tape, began deleting and feeding the tape back into the computer.
Output went suddenly silent, but the play of lights against the computer wall raised to a new frenzy. Power drain showed a new surge with a pulse in it.
“Are you feeding a resonant cycle into the system?” Prudence asked. She was surprised at how much effort it took to hold her voice level.
“That pulse is identical to the timing of the Ox’s response loops,” Bickel said.
As he spoke, the output beside Prudence renewed its chattering. Tape surged into the strip viewer.
Prudence stared at it silently.
“Well, what is it?’ Bickel demanded.
The output tape rolled to a stop. In the abrupt hush, Prudence said: “It’s linked to acid phosphatase … amino acid catalysis in the DNA coils.” And she made the functional comparison, relating this to her tests on her own body. Adrenochrome—if she filled out the OH to C5H, i(n) … would that take it through the blood-brain barrier at a less-than-fatal dosage?
“Is it … conscious?” Flattery whispered.
Bickel looked up at the computer wall where lights were winking out, leaving only that somnolent play of telltales—green … mauve … gold …
“No,” Bickel said. “We’ve merely produced a computer that can program itself, concentrate all its bits of information on a problem … hunt for data even if that data comes from outside its banks. It knew when to ask a question of one of us.”
“And that isn’t conscious?” Timberlake demanded.
“Not the way we are,” Bickel said. “You have to ask it a question before it … comes to life.”
r /> “Acid phosphatase,” Prudence mused. “What do we know about acid phosphatase?” She knew she was asking questions about the DNA language of life, questions pertinent to their consciousness problem. And she longed to confide in the others, discuss her experiments openly … but more than worry about the inhibitions of her companions held her to silence. In some way, she had gone too far down a road that she had to continue on … alone.
“Acid phosphatase is widely distributed in the body,” Flattery said. He turned, looked at Prudence as though seeing her for the first time. She would understand, of course—almost at once. He looked up to the screen at Timberlake and Bickel. They might have to have it explained to them. He returned his attention to Prudence. How thin and tired she looked.
Prudence nodded to herself, eyes glazed in thought. “Body chemisty, yes,” she said. “Male prostate’s rich in acid phosphatase. Males store more of it than females.”
And she thought: Testosterone! The male hormone’s level in the body was directly related to position in a hierarchy. Bickel would have the crew’s highest T-level.
Flattery spoke cautiously: “Body tissue requires a minimum level before a person can be awakened.”
She jerked upright, met his gaze. “An enzyme involved in the physiology of sex and awakening.” She turned away, thinking: Sex and awakening.
“Is that what anti-S suppresses?” Bickel asked.
“Not directly,” Timberlake answered. “A-S works primarily on serum phenolsulfatase discrimination. It inhibits transfer and action.”
Timberlake, the life-systems specialist, the biophysicist, would see it, too, Flattery thought.
Flattery looked into the screen, seeing Bickel standing there so silent and thoughtful, feeling a sudden pity for the man. Such a simple fact: Awakening and sex are tied together.
Prudence kept her face turned toward the big control board, studied it without really seeing it. The ship could have gone into wild gyrations at the moment and she would have been seconds responding. As she had looked at Flattery, she had seen what he was thinking as though there were words written on his forehead.
Consciousness linked to reproduction.
