But there was no attack, no sanding along the streets between here and his current home. The woman in overall charge switched off the computer and jerked her head his way, and three men with guns drawn closed on him and one said in a kindly tone, “Stay right there, sonny, and don’t worry.”
His classmates drifted away, giving puzzled backward glances and kicking the doorposts with fury as they left. Later someone else was sanded—the term came from “S-and-D,” search and destroy—and lost an eye. But by then he had arrived home in a government limo.
It was carefully explained, to him and his “parents,” that he was being requisitioned in the service of his country under special regulation number such-and-such issued by the Secretary of Defense as authorized by clause number whatever of some or other Act of Congress. … He didn’t take in the details. He was giddy. He’d been promised that for the first time in his life he could stay where he was going as long as he liked.
Next morning he woke at Tarnover, and thought he had been transported halfway to heaven.
“Now I realize I was in hell. Why are you alone? I had the vague impression that when you woke up I’d find there were two of you, even though you were doing all the talking. Is there usually someone else in here?”
Freeman shook his head, his eyes watchful.
“But there has been. I’m sure of it. He said something about the way you regard me. Said he felt scared.”
“Yes, that’s so. You had a visitor, who sat in on one day’s interrogation, and he did say that. But he doesn’t work at Tarnover.”
“The place where you take the improbable for granted.”
“So to speak.”
“I see. I’m reminded of one of my favorite funny stories when I was a kid. I haven’t told it in years. With luck it’ll have gone far enough out of style not to bore you. Seems that an oil company, back in—oh—the thirties of last century would fit, wanted to impress a sheikh. So they laid on a plane when they were few and far between in that part of the world.”
“And when he was at ten thousand feet, perfectly calm and collected, they said, ‘Aren’t you impressed?’ And the sheikh said, ‘You mean it’s not supposed to do this?’ Yes, I know the story. I learned it from your dossier.”
There was a short pause full of veiled tension. Eventually Freeman said, “What convinced you that you were in hell?”
After the legs race, the arms race; after the arms race …
Angus Porter’s epigram was not just a slick crack to be over-quoted at parties. But few people realized how literally true the bon mot had become.
At Tarnover, at Crediton Hill, at some hole in the Rockies he had never managed to identify beyond the code name “Electric Skillet,” and at other places scattered from Oregon to Louisiana, there were secret centers with a special task. They were dedicated to exploiting genius. Their ancestry could be traced back to the primitive “think tanks” of the mid-twentieth century, but only in the sense that a solid-state computer was descended from Hollerith’s punched-card analyzer.
Every superpower, and a great many second- and third-rank nations, had similar centers. The brain race had been running for decades, and some countries had entered it with a head start. (The pun was popular, and forgivable.)
In Russia, for example, great publicity had long attended the Mathematical Olympiads, and it was a signal honor to be allowed to study at Akadiemgorodok. In China, too, the sheer pressure of population had forced an advance from ad hoc improvisation along predetermined Marxist-Maoist guidelines to a deliberate search for optimal administrative techniques, employing a form of cross-impact matrix analysis for which the Chinese language was peculiarly well adapted. Well before the turn of the century a pattern had been systematized that proved immensely successful. To every commune and small village was sent a deck of cards bearing ideograms relevant to impending changes, whether social or technical. By shuffling and dealing the symbols into fresh combinations, fresh ideas could automatically be generated, and the people at a series of public meetings discussed the implications at length and appointed one of their number to summarize their views and report back to Peking. It was cheap and amazingly efficient.
But it didn’t work in any Western language except Esperanto.
The U.S.A. entered the race on the grand scale very late. Not until the nation was reeling under the impact of the Great Bay Quake was the harsh lesson learned that the economy could not absorb disasters of even this magnitude—let alone a nuclear strike which would exterminate millions plural. Even then it took years for the switch from brawn to brain to become definitive in North America.
In some ways the change remained incomplete. At Electric Skillet the primary concern was still with weaponry … but at least the stress was on defense in its literal meaning, not on counterstrike or preemptive strategies. (The name, of course, had been chosen on the frying-pan-and-fire principle.)
Newer concepts, though, were embodied at Crediton Hill. There, top-rank analysts constantly monitored the national Delphi pools to maintain a high social-mollification index. Three times since 1990 agitators had nearly brought about a bloody revolution, but each had been aborted. What the public currently yearned for could be deduced by watching the betting, and steps could be taken to ensure that what was feasible was done, what was not was carefully deeveed. It was a task that taxed the skills of top cima experts to ensure that when the government artificially cut Delphi odds to distract attention from something undesirable no other element in the mix was dragged down with it.
And newest of all was the ultra-secret work of Tarnover and those other centers whose existence, but not whose names, one was aware of. The goal?
To pin down before anybody else did the genetic elements of wisdom.
“You make wisdom seem like a dirty word, Haflinger.”
“Maybe I’m ahead of my time again. What you people are doing is bound to debase the term, and soon at that.”
“I won’t waste time by saying I disagree. If I didn’t I wouldn’t be here. But perhaps you’d define what you understand by the term.”
“My definition is the same as yours. The only difference is that I mean what I say, and you manipulate it. What a wise man can do, that can’t done by someone who’s merely clever, is make a right judgment in an unprecedented situation. A wise man would never be overloaded by the plug-in life-style. He’d never need to go get mended in a mental hospital. He’d adjust to shifts of fashion, the coming-and-going of fad-type phrases, the ultrasonic-blender confusion of twenty-first-century society, as a dolphin rides the bow wave of a ship, out ahead but always making in the right direction. And having a hell of a good time with it.”
“You make it sound eminently desirable. So why are you opposed to our work?”
“Because what’s being done here—and elsewhere—isn’t motivated by love of wisdom, or the wish to make it available to everyone. It’s motivated by terror, suspicion, and greed. You and everybody above and below you from the janitor to—hell, probably to the president himself and beyond that to the people who pull the president’s strings!—the lot of you are afraid that by taking thought someone else may already have added a cubit to his wisdom while you’re still fiddling around on the foolishness level. You’re so scared that they may have hit on the answer in Brazil or the Philippines or Ghana, you daren’t even go and ask. It makes me sick. If there is a person on the planet who has the answer, if there’s even the shadow of a chance he does, then the only sane thing to do is go sit on his doorstep until he has time to talk to you.”