"You didn't?" Jablonsky, despite what he had just said, managed to look professionally insulted.
"I'm afraid I didn't. Multivac might seem to say, Strike here, not there; do this, not that; wait, don't act. But I could never be certain that what Multivac seemed to say, it really did say; or what it really said, it really meant. I could never be certain."
"But the final report was always plain enough, sir," said Jablonsky.
"To those who did not have to make the decision, perhaps. Not to me. The horror of the responsibility of such decisions was unbearable and not even Multivac was sufficient to remove the weight. But the point is I was justified in doubting and there is tremendous relief in that."
Caught up in the conspiracy of mutual confession, Jablonsky put titles aside, "What was it you did then, Lamar? After all, you did make decisions. How?"
"Well, it's time to be getting back perhaps but-I'll tell you first. Why not? I did make use of a computer, Max, but an older one than Multivac, much older."
He groped in his own pocket for cigarettes, and brought out a package along with a scattering of small change; old-fashioned coins dating to the first years before the metal shortage had brought into being a credit system tied to a computer-complex.
Swift smiled rather sheepishly. "I still need these to make money seem substantial to me. An old man finds it hard to abandon the habits of youth." He put a cigarette between his lips and dropped the coins one by one back into his pocket.
He held the last coin between his fingers, staring absently at it. "Multivac is not the first computer, friends, nor the best-known, nor the one that can most efficiently lift the load of decision from the shoulders of the executive. A machine did win the war, John; at least a very simple computing device did; one that I used every time I had a particularly hard decision to make."
With a faint smile of reminiscence, he flipped the coin he held. It glinted in the air as it spun and came down in Swift's outstretched palm. His hand closed over it and brought it down on the back of his left hand. His right hand remained in place, hiding the coin.
"Heads or tails, gentlemen?" said Swift.
My Son, the Physicist
Her hair was light apple-green in color, very subdued, very old-fashioned. You could see she had a delicate hand with the dye, the way they did thirty years ago, before the streaks and stipples came into fashion.
She had a sweet smile on her face, too, and a calm look that made something serene out of elderliness.
And, by comparison, it made something shrieking out of the confusion that enfolded her in the huge government building.
A girl passed her at a half-run, stopped and turned toward her with a blank stare of astonishment. "How did you get in?"
The woman smiled. "I'm looking for my son, the physicist."
"Your son, the-"
"He's a communications engineer, really. Senior Physicist Gerard Cremona."
"Dr. Cremona. Well, he's- Where's your pass?"
"Here it is. I'm his mother."
"Well, Mrs. Cremona, I don't know. I've got to- His office is down there. You just ask someone." She passed on, running.
Mrs. Cremona shook her head slowly. Something had happened, she supposed. She hoped Gerard was all right.
She heard voices much farther down the corridor and smiled happily. She could tell Gerard's.
She walked into the room and said, "Hello, Gerard."
Gerard was a big man, with a lot of hair still and the gray just beginning to show because he didn't use dye. He said he was too busy. She was very proud of him and the way he looked.
Right now, he was talking volubly to a man in army uniform. She couldn't tell the rank, but she knew Gerard could handle him.
Gerard looked up and said, "What do you- Mother! What are you doing here?"
"I was coming to visit you today."
"Is today Thursday? Oh Lord, I forgot. Sit down, Mother, I can't talk now. Any seat. Any seat. Look, General."
General Reiner looked over his shoulder and one hand slapped against the other in the region of the small of his back. "Your mother?"
"Yes."
"Should she be here?"
"Right now, no, but I'll vouch for her. She can't even read a thermometer so nothing of this will mean anything to her. Now look, General. They're on Pluto. You see? They are. The radio signals can't be of natural origin so they must originate from human beings, from our men. You'll have to accept that. Of all the expeditions we've sent out beyond the planetoid belt, one turns out to have made it. And they've reached Pluto."
"Yes, I understand what you're saying, but isn't it impossible just the same? The men who are on Pluto now were launched four years ago with equipment that could not have kept them alive more than a year. That is my understanding. They were aimed at Ganymede and seem to have gone eight times the proper distance."
"Exactly. And we've got to know how and why. They may-just-have- had-help."
"What kind? How?"
Cremona clenched his jaws for a moment as though praying inwardly. "General," he said, "I'm putting myself out on a limb but it is just barely possible non-humans are involved. Extra-terrestrials. We've got to find out. We don't know how long contact can be maintained."
"You mean" (the General's grave face twitched into an almost-smile) "they may have escaped from custody and they may be recaptured again at any time."
"Maybe. Maybe. The whole future of the human race may depend on our knowing exactly what we're up against. Knowing it now."
"All right. What is it you want?"
"We're going to need Army's Multivac computer at once. Rip out every problem it's working on and start programing our general semantic problem. Every communications engineer you have must be pulled off anything he's on and placed into coordination with our own."
"But why? I fail to see the connection."
A gentle voice interrupted. "General, would you like a piece of fruit? I brought some oranges."
Cremona said, "Mother! Please! Later! General, the point is a simple one. At the present moment Pluto is just under four billion miles away. It takes six hours for radio waves, traveling at the speed of light, to reach from here to there. If we say something, we must wait twelve hours for an answer. If they say something and we miss it and say 'what' and they repeat-bang, goes a day."
"There's no way to speed it up?" said the General.
"Of course not. It's the fundamental law of communications. No information can be transmitted at more than the speed of light. It will take months to carry on the same conversation with Pluto that would take hours between the two of us right now."
"Yes, I see that. And you really think extra-terrestrials are involved?"
"I do. To be honest, not everyone here agrees with me. Still, we're straining every nerve, every fiber, to devise some method of concentrating communication. We must get in as many bits per second as possible and pray we get what we need before we lose contact. And there's where I need Multivac and your men. There must be some communications strategy we can use that will reduce the number of signals we need send out. Even an increase of ten percent in efficiency can mean perhaps a week of time saved."
The gentle voice interrupted again. "Good grief, Gerard, are you trying to get some talking done?"
"Mother! Please!"
"But you're going about it the wrong way. Really."
"Mother." There was a hysterical edge to Cremona's voice.
"Well, all right, but if you're going to say something and then wait twelve hours for an answer, you're silly. You shouldn't."
The General snorted. "Dr. Cremona, shall we consult-"
"Just one moment, General," said Cremona. "What are you getting at, Mother?"