"What did he find out?"
"Nothing, it looks like. A 16-bit unit is more complex than a neuron, and no computer is in the same galaxy as an organic brain. But see, the words get tricky. I said an Atari is more complex than a neuron, but it's hard to really compare them. It's like comparing a direction with a distance, or a color with a mass. The units are different. Except for one similarity."
"What's that?"
"The connections. Again, it's different, but the concept of networking is the same. A neuron is connected to a lot of others. There are trillions of them, and the way messages pulse through them determines what we are and what we think and what we remember. And with that computer I can reach a million others. It's bigger than the human brain, really, because the information in that network is more than all humanity could cope with in a million years. It reaches from Pioneer Ten, out beyond the orbit of Pluto, right into every living room that has a telephone in it. With that computer you can tap tons of data that have been collected but nobody's even had the time to look at.
"That's what Kluge was interested in. The old 'critical mass computer' idea, the computer that becomes aware, but with a new angle. Maybe it wouldn't be the size of the computer, but the number of computers. There used to be thousands of them. Now there's millions. They're putting them in cars. In wristwatches. Every home has several, from the simple timer on a microwave oven up to a video game or home terminal. Kluge was trying to find out if critical mass could be reached that way."
"What did he think?"
"I don't know. He was just getting started." She glanced down at me. "But you know what, Yank? I think you've reached critical mass while I wasn't looking."
"I think you're right." I reached for her.
Lisa liked to cuddle. I didn't, at first, after fifty years of sleeping alone. But I got to like it pretty quickly.
That's what we were doing when we resumed the conversation we had been having. We just lay in each other's arms and talked about things. Nobody had mentioned love yet, but I knew I loved her. I didn't know what to do about it, but I would think of something.
"Critical mass," I said. She nuzzled my neck, and yawned.
"What about it?"
"What would it be like? It seems like it would be such a vast intelligence. So quick, so omniscient.
Godlike."
"Could be."
"Wouldn't it... run our lives? I guess I'm asking the same questions I started off with. Would it take over?"
She thought about it for a long time.
"I wonder if there would be anything to take over. I mean, why should it care? How could we figure what its concerns would be? Would it want to be worshipped, for instance? I doubt it. Would it want to 'rationalize all human behavior, to eliminate all emotion,' as I'm sure some sci-fi film computer must have told some damsel in distress in the fifties.
"You can use a word like awareness, but what does it mean? An amoeba must be aware. Plants probably are. There may be a level of awareness in a neuron. Even in an integrated circuit chip. We don't even know what our own awareness really is. We've never been able to shine a light on it, dissect it, figure out where it comes from or where it goes when we're dead. To apply human values to a thing like this hypothetical computer-net consciousness would be pretty stupid. But I don't see how it could interact with human awareness at all. It might not even notice us, any more than we notice cells in our bodies, or neutrinos passing through us, or the vibrations of the atoms in the air around us."
So she had to explain what a neutrino was. One thing I always provided her with was an ignorant audience. And after that, I pretty much forgot about our mythical hyper-computer.
"What about your captain?" I asked, much later.
"Do you really want to know, Yank?" she mumbled sleepily.
"I'm not afraid to know."
She sat up and reached for her cigarettes. I had come to know she sometimes smoked them in times of stress. She had told me she smoked after making love, but that first time had been the only time.
The lighter flared in the dark. I heard her exhale.
"My major, actually. He got a promotion. Do you want to know his name?"
"Lisa, I don't want to know any of it if you don't want to tell it. But if you do, what I want to know is did he stand by you?"
"He didn't marry me, if that's what you mean. When he knew he had to go, he said he would, but I talked him out of it. Maybe it was the most noble thing I ever did. Maybe it was the most stupid.
"It's no accident I look Japanese. My grandmother was raped in '42 by a Jap soldier of the occupation. She was Chinese, living in Hanoi. My mother was born there. They went south after Dien Bien Phu. My grandmother died. My mother had it hard. Being Chinese was tough enough, but being half Chinese and half Japanese was worse. My father was half French and half Annamese.
Another bad combination. I never knew him. But I'm sort of a capsule history of Vietnam."
The end of her cigarette glowed brighter once more.
"I've got one grandfather's face and the other grandfather's height. With tits by Goodyear. About all I missed was some American genes, but I was working on that for my children.
"When Saigon was falling I tried to get to the American Embassy. Didn't make it. You know the rest, until I got to Thailand, and when I finally got Americans to notice me, it turned out my major was still looking for me. He sponsored me over here, and I made it in time to watch him die of cancer. Two months I had with him, all of it in the hospital."
"My God." I had a horrible thought. "That wasn't the war, too, was it? I mean, the story of your life—"
"—is the rape of Asia. No, Victor. Not that war, anyway. But he was one of those guys who got to see atom bombs up close, out in Nevada. He was too regular army to complain about it, but I think he knew that's what killed him."
"Did you love him?"
"What do you want me to say? He got me out of hell."
Again the cigarette flared, and I saw her stub it out.
"No," she said. "I didn't love him. He knew that. I've never loved anybody. He was very dear, very special to me. I would have done almost anything for him. He was fatherly to me." I felt her looking at me in the dark. "Aren't you going to ask how old he was?"
"Fiftyish," I said.
"On the nose. Can I ask you something?"
"I guess it's your turn."
"How many girls have you had since you got back from Korea?"
I held up my hand and pretended to count on my fingers.
"One," I said, at last.
"How many before you went?"
"One. We broke up before I left for the war."
"How many in Korea?"
"Nine. All at Madam Park's jolly little whorehouse in Pusan."
"So you've made love to one white and ten Asians. I bet none of the others were as tall as me."
"Korean girls have fatter cheeks too. But they all had your eyes."
She nuzzled against my chest, took a deep breath, and sighed.
"We're a hell of a pair, aren't we?"
I hugged her, and her breath came again, hot on my chest. I wondered how I'd lived so long without such a simple miracle as that.
"Yes. I think we really are."
Osborne came by again about a week later. He seemed subdued. He listened to the things Lisa had decided to give him without much interest. He took the printout she handed him, and promised to turn it over to the departments that handled those things. But he didn't get up to leave.
"I thought I ought to tell you, Apfel," he said, at last. "The Gavin case has been closed."
I had to think a moment to remember Kluge's real name had been Gavin.
"The coroner ruled suicide a long time ago. I was able to keep the case open quite a while on the strength of my suspicions." He nodded toward Lisa. "And on what she said about the suicide note.