«In yonder office is a highly specialized computer. It is built from solid-state units, analogous to neurons, but in spite of being able to treat astromilitary problems, it is comparatively small, simple, and sturdy device. Why? Because it is used in connection with my brain, which directs it. The normal computer must have its operational patterns built in. Mine develops synapse pathways as needed, just as a man’s lower brain can develop skills under the direction of the cerebral cortex. And these pathways are modifiable by experience; the system is continually restructuring itself. The normal computer must have elaborate failure detection systems and arrangements for rerouting. I in the hookup here sense any trouble directly, and am no more disturbed by the temporary disability of some region than you are disturbed by the fact that most of your brain cells at any given time are resting.
«The human staff becomes superfluous here. My technicians bring me the data, which need not be reduced to standardized format. I link myself to the machine and… think about it… there are no words. The answer is worked out in no more time than any other computer would require. But it comes to my consciousness not as a set of figures, but in practical terms, decisions about what to do. Furthermore, the solution is modified by my human awareness of those factors too complex to go into mathematical form—like the physical condition of men and equipment, morale, long-range questions of logistics and strategy and ultimate goals. You might say this is a computer system with common sense. Do you understand, Captain?»
Diaz sat still for a long time before he said, «Yes. I think I do.»
Rostock had gotten a little hoarse. He poured himself a fresh cup of tea and drank half, struck another cigarette and said earnestly: «The military value is obvious. Were that all, I would never have revealed this to you. But something else developed as I practiced and increased my command of the system. Something quite unforeseen. I wonder if you will comprehend.» He finished his cup. «The repeated experience has… changed me. I am no longer human. Not really.»
The ship whispered, driving through darkness.
«I suppose a hookup like that would affect the emotions,» Diaz ventured. «How does it feel?»
«There are no words,» Rostock repeated, «except those I have made for myself.» He rose and walked restlessly across the subdued rainbows in the carpet, hands behind his back, eyes focused on nothing Diaz could see. «As a matter of fact, the emotional effect may be a simple intensification. Although… there are myths about mortals who became gods. How did it feel to them? I think they hardly noticed the palaces and music and feasting on Olympus. What mattered was how, piece by piece, as he mastered his new capacities, the new god won a god’s understanding. His perception, involvement, detachment, totalness… there are no words.»
Back and forth he paced, feet noiseless but metal and energies humming beneath his low and somehow troubled voice. «My cerebrum directs the computer,» he said, «and the relationship becomes reciprocal. True, the computer part has no creativity of its own; but it endows mine with a speed and sureness you cannot imagine. After all, a great part of original thought consists merely in proposing trial solutions—the scientist hypothesizes, the artist draws a charcoal line, the poet scribbles a phrase—and testing them to see if they work. By now, to me, this mechanical aspect of imagination is back down on the subconscious level where it belongs. What my awareness senses is the final answer, springing to life almost simultaneously with the question, and yet with a felt reality to it such as comes only from having pondered and tested the issue thousands of times.
«Also, the amount of sense data I can handle is fantastic. Oh, I am blind and deaf and numb away from my machine half! So you will realize that over the months I have tended to spend more and more time in the linked state. When there was no immediate command problem to solve, I would sit and savor total awareness. Or I would think.»
In a practical tone: «That is how I perceived that you were about to sabotage us, Captain. Your posture alone betrayed you. I guessed the means at once and ordered the guards to knock you unconscious. I think, also, that I detected in you the potential I need. But that demands closer examination. Which is easily given. When I am linked, you cannot lie to me. The least insincerity is written across your whole organism.»
He paused, to stand a little slumped, looking at the bulkhead. For a moment Diaz’s legs tensed. Three jumps and I can be there and get his gun! But no, Rostock wasn’t any brainheavy dwarf. The body in that green uniform was young and trained. Diaz took another cigarette. «Okay,» he said. «What do you propose?»
«First,» Rostock said, turning about—and his eyes kindled—«I want you to understand what you and I are. What the spacemen of both factions are.»
«Professional soldiers,» Diaz grunted uneasily. Rostock waited. Diaz puffed hard and plowed on, since he was plainly expected to, «The last soldiers left. You can’t count those ornamental regiments on Earth, nor the guys sitting by the big missiles. Those missiles will never be fired. World War Three was a large enough dose of nucleonics. Civilization was lucky to survive. Terrestrial life would be lucky to survive, next time around. So war has moved into space. Uh… professionalism… the old traditions of mutual respect and so forth have naturally revived.» He made himself look up. «What more clichés need I repeat?»
«Suppose your side completely annihilated our ships,» Rostock said. «What would happen?»
«Why… that’s been discussed theoretically… by damn near every political scientist, hasn’t it? The total command of space would not mean total command of Earth. We could destroy the whole Eastern Hemisphere without being touched. But we wouldn’t, because Unasia would fire its cobalt weapons while dying, and we’d have no Western Hemisphere to come home to, either. Not that that situation will ever arise. Space is too big; there are too many ships and fortresses scattered around; combat is too slow a process. Neither fleet can wipe out the other.»
«Since we have this perpetual stalemate, then,» Rostock pursued, «why do we have perpetual war?»
«Um… well, not really. Cease-fires—»
«Breathing spells! Come now, Captain, you are too intelligent to believe that rigmarole. If victory cannot be achieved, why fight?»
«Well, uh, partial victories are possible. Like our capture of Mars, or your destruction of three dreadnaughts in one month, on different occasions. The balance of power shifts. Rather than let its strength continue being whittled down, the side which is losing asks for a parley. Negotiations follow, which end to the relative advantage of the stronger side. Meanwhile the arms race continues. Pretty soon a new dispute arises, the cease-fire ends, and maybe the other side is lucky that time.»
«Is this situation expected to be eternal?»
«No!» Diaz stopped, thought a minute, and grinned with one corner of his mouth. «That is, they keep talking about an effective international organization. Trouble is, the two cultures are too far apart by now. They can’t live together.»
«I used to believe that myself,» Rostock said. «Lately I have not been sure. A world federalism could be devised which would let both civilizations keep their identities. Many such proposals have in fact been made, as you know. None has gotten beyond the talking stage. None ever will. Because you see, what maintains the war is not the difference between our two cultures, but their similarity.»