Of course his recollection of that other supercomputer long ago might have been colored by time. Cyclops and its Servants had accomplished so much here. He was not one to judge.
Gordon looked around as he and his escort walked past a cluster of burned out structures. “It looks like there was a lot of fighting here once,” he commented aloud.
Peter frowned, remembering. “We pushed back one of the AntiTech mobs right over there, by the old utility shed. You can see the melted transformers and the old emergency generator. We had to switch over to wind and water power after they blew it up.”
Blackened shreds of power-converting machinery still lay in shriveled heaps where the technicians and scientists had fought desperately to save their lifework. It reminded Gordon of his other worry.
“I still think more ought to be done about the possibility of a survivalist invasion, Peter. It’ll come soon, if I overheard those scouts right.”
“But you admit you only heard scraps of conversation that could have been misinterpreted.” Aage shrugged. “We’ll beef up our patrols, of course, as soon as we have a chance to draw up plans and discuss the matter some more. But you must understand that Cyclops has his own credibility to consider. There hasn’t been a general mobilization in ten years. If Cyclops made such a call, and it turned out to be a false alarm…” He let the implication hang.
Gordon knew that local village leaders had misgivings over his story. They didn’t want to draw men from the second planting. And Cyclops had expressed doubts that the Holnist gangs really could organize for a truly major strike several hundred miles upcoast. It just wasn’t in the hyper-survivalist mentality, the great machine explained.
Gordon finally had to take Cyclops’s word for it. After all, its superconducting memory banks had access to every psychology text ever written — and all the works of Holn himself.
Perhaps the Rogue River scouts were merely on a small-time raid, and had talked big to impress themselves.
Perhaps.
Well, here we are.
The stable hands took his satchels, containing a few personal possessions and three books borrowed from the community library. They had already saddled his new mount, a fine, strong gelding. A large, placid mare carried supplies and two bulging sacks of hope-filled mail. If one in fifty of the intended recipients still lived, it would be a miracle. But for those few a single letter might mean much, and would begin the long, slow process of reconnection.
Maybe his role would do some good — enough at least to counterbalance a lie. …
Gordon swung up onto the gelding. He patted and spoke to the spirited animal until it was calm. Peter offered his hand. “We’ll see you again in three months, when you swing by on your way back East again.”
Almost exactly what Dena Spurgen said. Maybe I’ll be back even sooner, if I ever come up with the courage to tell you all the truth.
“By then, Gordon, Cyclops promises to have a proper report on conditions here in north Oregon worked up for your superiors.”
Aage gripped his hand for another moment. Once again Gordon was puzzled. The fellow looked as if, somehow, he were unhappy about something — something he could not speak of. “Godspeed in your valuable work, Gordon,” he said earnestly. “If there’s ever anything I can do to help, anything at all, you have only to let me know.”
Gordon nodded. No more words were needed, thank Heaven. He nudged the gelding, and swung about onto the road north. The pack horse followed close behind.
9. BUENA VISTA
The Servants of Cyclops had told him that the Interstate was broken up and unsafe north of Corvallis, so Gordon used a county road that paralleled not far to the west. Debris and potholes made for slow going, and he was forced to take his lunch in the ruins of the town of Buena Vista.
It was still fairly early in the afternoon, but clouds were gathering, and tattered shreds of fog blew down the rubble-strewn streets. By coincidence, it was the day when area farmers gathered at a park in the center of the unpopulated town for a country market. Gordon chatted with them as he munched on cheese and bread from his saddlebags.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with the Interstate up here,” one of the locals told him, shaking his head in puzzlement. “Them perfessers must not get out this way much. They aren’t lean travelin’ men such as yourself, Mr. Krantz. Must’ve got their wires crossed, for all their buzzin’ brains.” The farmer chuckled at his own wit.
Gordon didn’t mention that his itinerary had been planned by Cyclops itself. He thanked the fellow and went back to his saddlebags to pull out the map he had been given.
It was covered with an impressive array of computer graphics, charting out in fine symbols the path he should take in establishing a postal network in northern Oregon. He had been told the itinerary was designed to take him most efficiently around hazards such as known lawless areas and the belt of radioactivity near Portland.
Gordon stroked his beard. The longer he examined the map, the more puzzled he grew, Cyclops had to know what it was doing. Yet the winding path looked anything but efficient to him.
Against his will he began to suspect it was designed instead to take him far out of his way. To waste his time, rather than save it.
But why would Cyclops want to do such a thing?
It couldn’t be that the super machine feared his interference. By now Gordon knew just the right pitch to ease such anxiety… emphasizing that the “Restored U.S.” had no wish to meddle in local matters. Cyclops had appeared to believe him.
Gordon lowered the map. The weather was turning as the clouds lowered, obscuring the tops of the ruined buildings. Drifts of fog flowed along the dusty street, pushing puffy swirls between him and a surviving storefront win-dowpane. It brought back a sudden, vivid recollection of other panes of glass — seen through scattered, refracting droplets.
Death’s head… the postman grinning, his skeletal face superimposed on mine.
He shivered at another triggered recognition. The foggy wisps reminded him of superchilled vapor — his reflection in the cool glass wall as he met with Cyclops back in Corvallis — and the strangeness he had felt watching the rows of little flashing lights, repeating the same rippling pattern over and over… …
Repeating …
Suddenly Gordon’s spine felt very cold.
“No,” he whispered. “Please, God.” He closed his eyes and felt an almost overwhelming need to change his thoughts to another track, to think about the weather, about pesterous Dena or pretty little Abby back in Pine View, about anything but …
“But who would do such a thing?” he protested aloud. “Why would they do it?”
Reluctantly, he realized he knew why. He was an expert on the strongest reason why people told lies.
Recalling the blackened wreckage behind the House of Cyclops, he found himself all at once wondering how the techs could possibly have accomplished what they claimed to have done. It had been almost two decades since Gordon had thought about physics, and what could or could not be achieved with technology. The intervening years had been filled with the struggle to survive — and his persistent dreams of a golden place of renewal. He was in no position to say what was or was not possible.
But he had to find out if his wild suspicion was true. He could not sleep until he knew for sure.
“Excuse me!” he called to one of the farmers. The fellow gave Gordon a gap-toothed grin and limped over, doffing his hat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Inspector?”