Sullamora felt his mouth go dry. He felt he should say something, but for some reason he was suddenly afraid. And then the moment passed. The Emperor took Sullamora's glass and put it and the bottle away. Sullamora was being dismissed.
"Plan on a five-minute speech tomorrow, Tanz," the Emperor said. "My flack can get together with your flack tonight. Put what I want you to say in your own words."
Sullamora rose. He started to say his good-byes, then paused. With some amusement, the Emperor watched the other man screw up his courage to speak. He kept silent, deciding not to help him.
"I've, uh... Ah. Your Majesty, I've been wondering," Sullamora finally got out.
"Yes?" The Emperor's voice was flat; he was still not helping.
"After the war, uh... What do you plan to do?"
"Get very drunk," the Emperor said. "It's a good habit to get into before you count the dead."
"No, sir. That's not what I meant... uh, sir. See, I've been talking to the other members of the privy council, and... What I mean to say is... What do you intend to do with us?"
The Emperor had created the privy council just after the outbreak of war. On it he had placed Sullamora and several other beings important to his cause. In theory they were supposed to advise him. The Eternal Emperor had never meant to listen to them. It was just his way of making them feel important and keeping them out of his hair. Like the Imperial Parliament. The Eternal Emperor was a great believer in the trappings of democracy. It was one of the essential underpinnings of an absolute monarchy.
He pretended to consider Sullamora's question.
"I don't know," he said. "Disband the council, I guess. Why?"
"Well, we think that if we've been of use to you during war, then think what we can do during peace. I mean, there are certain concerns we have, Your Majesty, that it would be impossible for you to be aware of."
Riigght, the Emperor thought. I'll bet you'd just love that. No way was he going to have an advisory body with any kind of official recognition. But why tell Sullamora that? He also tucked aside the man's comment that the privy council members had even been suggesting such a thing among themselves. Perhaps he had better start keeping closer track of them.
The Eternal Emperor smiled his most charming smile. "That is a thought, Tanz," he said. "I'll be sure to keep it in mind."
He wore the smile until Sullamora had exited. The smile disappeared when the door closed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Tahn had unwittingly provided the prisoners of Koldyeze with the ideal hiding place for their reinvented computer: the general-purpose sanitation facility. The Tahn had approached the problem of sanitation for so many prisoners with typical single-minded efficiency. Thirteen cells had been turned into one huge room by the simple application of sledgehammers to the walls. One area was devoted to lavatory facilities. Another contained half a dozen gigantic and ancient industrial washing machines. A third was to be used for showering. And on another were nearly 100 washbasins. Above those were an equal number of large mirrors sunk into the stone wall.
Alex had replaced thirty-six of them with the mirror-surfaced chips that made up the computer. They swung out on hinges designed by Hernandes after pictures he recalled from a course he had taken on "Ancient Engineers" in his student days. They were linked together by cryogenic wire scavenged by St.
Clair from the motor coils of abandoned gravsleds.
Next problem: software. Despite the size of the computer, it was a basic pea brain. It would not be able to handle too many facts at a time, much less compare and analyze them against a mounting pile of data being gathered by Sten's surveyors, scavengers, and work-party spies.
The solution required two very different but equally elegant minds: Sorensen and Kraulshavn. The big farm boy boiled everything down to the smallest possible level of expression. That reduced everything by about eighty percent. Still too much. Then Kraulshavn performed the impossible. He created a symbol language in which a single squiggle might represent a hundred screens of data. The written language of the ancient Chinese was a mere glimmer of Kraulshavn's art.
Next came the difficult problem of communication with the electronic moron. In such primitive conditions, how did one send and receive symbols? Oddly enough, the answer came rather simply. Why not a spark transmitter? Sten had asked. Alex had just gaped at him a moment and then put his little team to work on it. They quickly broke Kraulshavn's symbol language down into dots and dashes. A simple key—a spring device manipulated by hand—was used to transmit. A tiny speaker was used to receive the computer's buzzing response.
The memory banks had created the biggest problem. No one had been able to offer even a silly suggestion for storing the data. Alex had lied to Kraulshavn and Sorensen, telling them that he had the solution in mind and urging them to press on with the computer. As the on-line date grew closer and closer, Alex found himself growing increasingly frustrated.
Ibn Bakr gave him the answer. The big tailor needed to age cloth to make Tahn peasant costumes. He used a mild caustic in near-boiling-temperature water and washed the cloth over and over again in one of the huge industrial washing machines. One day Alex found himself considering the problem as he stood in front of the machine, hypnotized by the twin agitators chugging back and forth. His jaw dropped as he realized he was staring at the answer. If he played with the gearing... spooled wire from one spindle to another... reversed the polarity of the wire... then fed the data from the computer to the wire... Voila! After several thousand years, Kilgour had reinvented the wire recorder.
Finally the big moment had come. Sten and Alex hovered over Sorensen and Kraulshavn as they got ready to fire up the computer. Sorensen wagged his fingers for Kraulshavn to start. The being shook its head. No. Finger wagging came back.
"What's the problem?" Sten asked.
"He says it needs a name." Sorensen laughed. "Otherwise it won't know who we're talking to."
Sten buried a groan of impatience. It was obviously important to Kraulshavn. The last thing he needed was a big pouting bird for a programmer.
"How about Brainerd?" Sten suggested. "Wasn't he the guy way back when who got us all into this computer mess?"
Sorensen ran it through for Kraulshavn. No problem. Brainerd it was. Feathered appendages manipulated the key. Tiny sparks began rhythmically leaping between the gap. Sten imagined the dot-dash symbols flowing along the wire. Unconsciously he found himself leaning over the small speaker, waiting for the crackling response of the computer.
Nothing. More flying ringers. More sparks.
"Come on, you little clot," Sten breathed. "Wake the hell up... Come on... Come on... Speak to us..."
There was a crackling stutter. Then silence.
"Clot! What the hell's wrong with it?"
"Patience, young Horrie," Alex said. "Maybe the wee beastie is afeared to wake up."
After all the time and energy invested, Sten failed to see any humor in the situation. He was all for putting the boot into it—and he did not mean the electronic variety. A big, heavy leather boot was more along his line of thinking.
The one-sided conversation continued for many more long minutes. Finally, Kraulshavn leaned back. There was some finger wagging, silent quizzing from Sorensen, then more finger wagging.
"What's he saying?" Sten asked.
"It doesn't like its name," Sorensen said. "He says we should try something else."
"I don't clotting care what we clotting call it," Sten gritted out.