"Christ," he said to Savitsky, in honest surprise. "I expected…"
Savitsky laughed. "Amazing, isn't it?"
"Smaller than I thought, for one thing. Much smaller."
Savitsky stood with his arms folded across his chest in satisfaction. "Remarkable, I think. You know, such… inconspicuity — is that what you say?"
"Inconspicuousness."
"Yes. Inconspicuousness. How easily overlooked. It was only pure luck that a specialist was on the scene."
Ryder shook his head. It really was amazing.
"Well, my friend," Savitsky said, "shall we go out and have a closer look?"
Ryder followed the Soviet out of the control booth, almost stepping on the man's heels in his excitement. His sole interest now was the subject, and he almost tripped over a coil of wires.
Savitsky made straight for the central operating table, and he hovered over the subject for a moment, waiting for Ryder to come up beside him. Ryder remained so astonished that he felt almost as though he were out of breath. It truly was amazing. Unless the Soviets had made some sort of mistake, unless this wasn't the great brain after all.
But all of Ryder's professional instincts told him that this was the genuine article, that there had been no mistake, and that the Japanese were still the best at some things, no matter how broadly U.S. technology had struggled to come back. The electronic intelligence brain that processed and stored all of the data necessary to command and control vast stretches of the front fit into a solid black brick little larger than a man's wallet.
"My God," Ryder said. "I thought… it would be at least the size of a suitcase."
"Yes," Savitsky agreed. "It's frightening. Had you been able to combine the power of every supercomputer in the world at the turn of the century, the power would not have approached… such a power as resides in this device."
Ryder possessed access to the latest classified research in the States, as well as to intelligence files on foreign developments. But no one had anticipated that the process of miniaturization had gone this far. The Japanese had pulled off another surprise, and it worried Ryder. What else might they have in store?
"It was really pure luck," Savitsky stressed, as though he still could not quite believe it himself. "Perhaps the only luck we have had in this war. Not only did we not shoot down the enemy, our systems did not even detect him. The enemy command ship experienced the simplest of mechanical malfunctions. Imagine, my friend. One of the most sophisticated tactical-operational airborne command centers in the Japanese inventory… dropping from the sky because a bolt came loose or a washer disintegrated. Such wonderful luck. Had the aircraft experienced an electronic problem, the brain would have destroyed itself to prevent capture. Computer suicide."
"There may still be active self-destruct mechanisms built into it," Ryder said, in warning.
Savitsky shrugged. "Of course it is possible. But the electronic cradle in which we have placed the subject is a good mimic. How would an American say it? 'Reflexively imitative.' The cradle continues to assure the subject that it is a part of the system for which it was designed. No matter what happens."
"And…" Ryder began carefully, "what's going to happen, Nick?"
Nick smiled. "You'll see."
Ryder stared down at the tiny brain. How on earth were the Soviets going to attack this problem? They were good.
But Ryder had yet to see them manage anything at the level of sophistication required to overcome the powerful counter-intrusion mechanisms such a system would possess.
"You know," Ryder said, "I feel almost solemn. Maybe humbled' would be a better way to say it. To stand in the presence of an intelligence so great." He put his hands in his pockets, as if to prevent himself from reaching out just to touch the device one time, the way a man might feel compelled to touch a masterpiece of art. "I don't know. I didn't get much sleep last night. But… I could swear it knows we're here. That it senses us."
Savitsky just continued to smile. "Oh," he said brightly. "It will know we're here. In a manner of speaking."
"Nick," Ryder said, choosing his words carefully, "I don't want to blow this. I mean, we can't afford to… make any mistakes. There is… a primary computer system… of which you may not be aware. It's in the United States, in Colorado. We could connect it to this. It's possible, I'd just need approval, and—"
Savitsky's smile withered slightly, like a flower at the first light hint of frost. "Perhaps that will be necessary," he said. "Later. But I think you will see… that we are not so incapable." Then his smile returned. "Come," he said. "Let's get to work."
The Soviet turned with an air of decision, heading back for the control booth. It was difficult for Ryder to leave the proximity of the brain. He wished he could simply slip it into his pocket and take it away. To where it would be safe. From foolishness.
"Come on," Savitsky called. "I want to show you something, Jeff."
Ryder moved heavily now, the sleepless night returning to haunt him after the flare of excitement he had just experienced. He stepped over electronic switching boxes and loose jacks, more of the weapons of the modem interrogator. In a moment, he was back beside the Soviet in the control booth.
"Take a look at this," Savitsky said.
Ryder glanced after Savitsky's directing hand. Nothing much. An antique-looking device of the sort that was used to measure cardiac waves or earthquakes. A crude high-resolution screen of a type no longer used in the United States. Manual controls. Knobs.
"That looks interesting," Ryder lied. "What is it?"
Savitsky waited before answering. He looked into Ryder's eyes in the weak light, and Ryder could sense a new, weighty sobriety in the man.
"It's a pain machine."
"What?"
"A pain machine." Upon repetition, the Soviet s tone had lost its heaviness, becoming almost nonchalant. But Ryder sensed that the man was still serious. As serious as possible. "You're the first outsider to be let in on this… development." Savitsky smiled slowly, as if his facial muscles had become very cold. "It's a mark of honor."
Ryder did not understand. "What does it do, exactly?"
Ryder sensed the faintest air of maliciousness about the Soviet now. It was his turn, after a host of casual humiliations at the gold-plated hands of the Americans. "It occurred to us some years ago, that… interesting possibilities might come into existence, as artificial intelligence systems and their corollaries became more sophisticated. That, to say it in simple words, these devices would develop more and more of a resembling — is that the right word?"
"Resemblance?"
"Yes. More of a resemblance to the human animal. Consequently, they might also develop the same sort of vulnerabilities as the human being. It occurred to us that there must be some way in which a computer could be made to feel pain." Savitsky considered his words for a moment. "The electronic equivalent of pain, to be most exact."
Ryder slowly moved his hands together in front of his hips, interlacing the fingers, tapping his thumbs. Waiting for information. The concept was utterly foreign to him. He looked at Savitsky.
"Of course," the Soviet continued, "it's not 'true' physical pain, as you and I would know it. Just as the computer does not perceive the physical environment as we see it.
"I am speaking of simulated pain, for a simulated mind."
Savitsky examined his American counterpart's reaction. A small, hard smile tightened his lips. "And it works."