"Maybe you're right," Lole agreed, but he looked uncertain.
"Of course I'm right. I never said the grid and its nodes weren't smart, or subtle. Devious, even. But they just aren't... human."
"Is anybody else thirsty?" Ellen asked, to change the subject. "I sure am."
When Demeter was really tired, or had a few drinks in her—or both, as now—she couldn't focus enough to compose an intelligible report. So, instead of trying to gather her own thoughts, she put the hotel room's terminal in interrogation mode. The machine would ask her what she had seen and done during the day's safari, then it would prepare a draft report taking cues from her previous conversational style. In the morning she could review and edit the final version before sending it off.
Concept-processing was a function Coghlan had long ago installed in Sugar. Hell, Sugar could probably write up the day from her own aural recordings— except for the time she'd spent tucked in a pocket. Relying on machines like this would eventually turn Demeter into a moron, she knew, unable to think sequentially or remember more than two ideas at one sitting. But tonight the program was a godsend.
"Where did you go?" the terminal asked.
"Some place called Har-something Monday, map reference . . . well, look it up yourself. We were going to do geolog—no, hydrological exploration, looking for possible subsurface water." Demeter's jaw quivered as she stifled a yawn.
"What did you find?"
"Nothing. We met—or rather, saw in the distance— some Cyborgs who warned us off. Lole says they were having a coffee klatsch of some kind. I didn't talk to them.... Yee-hetviv!" She yawned again, opening her mouth until the top of her head was like to fall off.
"What did Lole Mitsuno say about the Cyborgs?"
"That they were dangerous . . . difficult, short-tempered. Strong, too."
"We know all that. But later, when he was talking about their origins—?"
"Oh ... that making them was some kind of mistake, that the computers on Earth had screwed up the projections." Demeter could hardly keep her eyes open. This was going to be one garbled report, despite the terminal's best efforts. "A lot of old wives' stuff . . . actually."
She yawed again. Rather than try to sit up, Demeter lay down on the bed and crawled toward her pillow
"Now listen very closely..." the machine suggested.
Demeter was already asleep and snoring.
That didn't matter.
Chapter 7
Cries and Whispers
"Revolution is not in their programming, Roger."
Fetya hadn't spoken in more than three hours. She had simply kept pace with him as Roger Torraway put long distance between himself and that embarrassing confrontation. Together their clublike feet stamped over the wind-packed sand.
"I wasn't talking about 'revolution,'" he objected. "Just some kind of concerted action. A protest march. A demonstration of strength. After all, they benefit from the Deimos generator, too."
"Protest implies power shifting."
"That's deep!" He could hear the bitterness in his own voice, slopping over onto the closed signal that carried between them. He detested the feelings that were now bubbling up in him: of dependence and obligation.
"Is true!" the other Cyborg said. "We were made for exploration. For observation. For description. We serve human needs on Mars, in support of colonizing efforts. Our purpose is not dictating terms to human settlements. Now you want we should damage colonials."
"Not damage! Just. . . withhold our counsel and advice. We have to show the burgomasters how much they need us. How they need us as free and independent beings. Show them how scary and hostile a place this planet can potentially be without us."
"Implies somebody has to die first, yes?"
"Well..."
'Tell me story of omelets and eggs again, Roger." She let out a grating chuckle.
"Damn it, this is serious!" He stamped the ground in midstride.
"Serious to you means obvious to everybody else?"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You figure out...."
The pair plodded along in silence for another hour, good for an additional eight kilometers. With Rogers compressed time-sense, it passed inside a few gliding seconds. Only the scenery was different: steeper hills, more exposed bedrock, the beginnings of erosion gullies.
"Make their problems your problem," Fetya said at last. "Not other way around."
"How do I do that?"
"Find out what humans need."
"I've already tried that. They just weren't buying any."
"No, Roger. You made offer to sell what you had, not what they need. Is difference."
"But I offered to sell myself, my innermost—"
"Still not what they need."
"Yeah."
Fetya was right, of course. But what the hell did the humans on Mars need? Something that only he, or one of the other Cyborgs, could supply. And, of course, something they weren't already supplying, according to their "programming."
That was the stumper.
Sometime during the previous afternoon as the conversation wandered from this to that, Ellen Sorbel had mentioned another Earth-based casual who was interested in hydrology and the workings of the Resources Department—a Mr. Sun from United Korea.
Demeter was resigned to finally having to meet the man in the flesh. So she had asked Sorbel to arrange an introduction. Demeter supposed she could always share her experiences at Harmonia Mundi as an icebreaker.
The hydrologist met Demeter at the Golden Lotus and walked her up two levels and across the complex to brunch at Tharsis Montes's most fashionable tearoom.
"They actually do serve tea there," Sorbel explained. "Thick brown stuff they've been bubbling for a week or more in a genuine Russian samovar, imported from Petrograd, solid silver and heavy. Then they dilute it with vodka, whiskey, lemon juice, or whatever you want. It's really disgusting."
"Why does anyone go there?' Demeter asked, curious.
"Because it's ..." Ellen shrugged. "Where you can be seen, I guess. The tourists all love it."
"I've never heard of the place."
"Their little cakes are famous. Very crumbly, mostly sugar and butter—well, sorghum extract and some kind of saturated lipid, but you get the idea." Ellen gave a wicked grin.
"You sure know how to whet my appetite."
"That reminds me____If you're getting tired of tooting around the Martian surface, you really ought to take a tour of the orbital power satellites. Especially the new one they've got under construction over Schiaparelli. Taking a V/R of microgravity can be a real kick. I can arrange a hookup for you, if you want."
Demeter paused before replying. What would remind Ellen of such a thing? Had Demeter said something about it yesterday? Why should Sorbel be so interested in feeding her this new experience? Maybe .. . Demeter's head whirled. It was culture-lag or time-shock or something. It was making her suspicious of the simplest friendly overtures. Or possibly she was just keyed up about meeting up her first foreign-national spy.
The Russian Tearoom's decor was all white cloth and porcelain, bright silver and chiming crystal. The walls had been whitewashed and then painted in stark black lines that were supposed to be barren trees in a Russian winter—from the perspective of an artist who had never seen a living tree. Somewhere in the background a recording of violins played Zigeunenveisen—Gypsy music for a Czarist setting. Oh, well, it could easily have been a chorus of Cossack voices. Next, Demeter expected to find waiters dressed in black jodhpurs, waist sashes, and red-silk blouses. Fortunately, however, the service was both automated and unobtrusive.