“How expensive would it be to just Link everybody? Every Boosted Olympic contender. That’s the price we’re trying to undercut.”
Holly laughed. She had a number already in file… a ballpark guess. A good deal of what made the Linked what they were, was proprietary. But it was an outrageous sum.
“Sonofagun—”
“Gun? Come on, will you. Try again. Rhymes with witch—”
“Holly!”
“Oh, all right.”
“Now, let’s see. We shouldn’t have trouble beating that. How about prosthetics?”
“Haven’t you noticed Abner’s prosthetics? The trouble is, when your nerves go, they don’t reach the prosthetics.”
“Mmm. Waldos? Teleoperated limbs. Transmitter in the brain. Send signals directly to the limbs.”
“Losing your limbs isn’t the biggest problem, Jillian. Deterioration goes on. I’m trying to… Well, one thing at a time. Waldos?”
“Yeah. What’s the state-of-the-art with waldos? Why don’t they see more use? I used to wonder why the old Rockwell Shuttle didn’t have a waldo hand in the cargo bay. Do they cost too much? How dependable are they?”
They probed.
Your basic waldo was a hand-shaped machine that moved the way your hand moved. It could be any size; it could be inhumanly strong or inhumanly delicate. Waldos were generally used in the most alien environments: the Moon, asteroids, underseas, the ground receptors for orbiting solar collectors (patches of desert running at 360 degrees Fahrenheit), the interiors of fusion plants.
The tractor-mounted waldos used undersea seemed the best model. Those would not be subject to lightspeed delays or deterioration due to radiation. They weren’t cheap, as it turned out. Still… arms and legs moved by transmitters in the brain should cost factor-of-fifty less than continually monitoring a Donny Crawford from orbit.
“But waldos aren’t that dependable, either,” Holly pointed out.
“Let’s get some figures on that.”
“What kind?”
“Holly, if my waldo sometimes spills the coffee, that’s okay. I might accept low reliability there, even if a bigger waldo would be spilling molten metal all over a foundry.”
“Well, darn. See what you mean.” Holly went after industrial accident reports, current.
“How fast is this technology improving?”
Holly summoned older records. Industrial accidents seemed to come in spurts. Holly said, “Graphs of chaotic events tend to have spikes in them, don’t they?”
“Yeah. Say you’re inoculating against AIDS or cancer. All of a sudden people are getting sick again, and you can’t figure why. It’s just the way of things. Let’s print these out, shall we?” The graphs didn’t look quite right.
Chaos tends to come in double parallel curves; look closer and they double again, and again. These didn’t. You could find the usual doubling pairs, but Jillian could see other lines.
During the past twenty years there had been waves of accidents, six tall spikes, with not much between. Lilith Shomer had died right at the peak of one of those spikes.
Jillian didn’t have to watch the old tapes again. She’d memorized them long ago.
Lilith Shomer, marine biologist for Agricorp, had died in an undersea mining accident due to the failure of a waldo. A pillow lava hill had crumbled, the signal to a waldo had been interrupted, the waldo arm hadn’t shut off. Huge steel fingers had ripped a dome open and spilled its air.
It was an accident. Sure it was. But a great many accidents had happened in the shellfish ranches offshore from the California coast, in April of 2049.
Beyond that Jillian would be guessing. From the way things were reported, you’d think intercorporate conflict was dissolved with a wave of the Counselor wand. But enough government and civilian craft, services, and products had been involved to leave traces.
Holly asked, “You getting anything?”
“I’ve gotten us way off the subject, is what. We need Link technology to make waldo limbs work. And that’s classified.”
She was pretty good, Saturn thought. Holly Lakein’s thesis, Holly’s equipment, Holly’s tappity-tap style… her “fist,” an old-time telegraph operator would have said. But certain topics had been flagged by Mining and Forestry (which was what Saturn noticed first) and Holly and Jillian Shomer were Olympic contenders living in the same dorm.
Two minutes ago, Saturn had been involved in calculations involving a malfunctioning solar station. But a citizen had made inquiries that touched on a certain topic, and correlations had been made, and a moment later Jillian Shomer came to Saturn’s attention for the third time.
Jillian was an interesting woman. They’d blocked her good, and she hadn’t stayed blocked. Of course she’d underestimated her opponents. Mining and Forestry would notice any second now: fish farming, North American southwest shelf, April 2049, Bingo.
They’d notice the instant Saturn tampered with the data, too. What to do, what to do?
He could… no, the coincidence would be noted too, if he acted now.
He could wait and… not good enough.
Retroactively?
If nobody was looking. Wherever nobody was looking. Before the flags were set in place, four days ago.
To think was to act:
Ten days ago, an expose on failures in teleoperated equipment was on record as suppressed by Saturn himself.
A novel about the battle between Agricorp and Mining and Forestry was ready for publication, as listed in the Pocket Books prospectus of last week. Saturn sequestered printing presses, trucks, bookstore space. Outlining, quotes, facts were the work of minutes. Writing it would take longer, but such a book needed his conscious attention. Otherwise the prose would come out flat.
A joke during the Tonight show monologue, not caught in time, last night. Edit those tapes. The reference had reached only the Eastern time zone, North America, and that was why it hadn’t been flagged.
Memo to Mining and Forestry, direct from Saturn. They weren’t used to that. It would shake them. “You fucked up, citizens. Remember that minor quarrel in which minor people died? Everybody wants to know more about it. Why don’t you forget the Shomer girl and try to figure out what went wrong? An Olympic contender’s likely to be too busy to write her memoirs, at least for a bit.” Leave out mention of the book; “discover” it later. The book was half written; the style needed improving; fiddle with the program…
Nine days after the operation, Jillian began the first fledgling efforts to exercise, to reestablish contact with her body.
She was made of spun glass, cobwebs, and rusty iron filaments, infinitely fragile.
Suryanamaskar, hatha yoga’s Sun Salutation, is a series of ten movements linked together with precise breathing. It, and the ancient Chinese movements of T’ai Chi Ch’uan are probably the exercises most expedient for recovery from debilitating illness.
Under Abner’s precise direction, she learned it: inhale, reaching high. Exhale, extending the trunk forward and down. Inhale. Exhale as the legs go back in push-up position. Inhale as she straightened her arms into a Cobralike position called Upward Facing Dog. Exhale and lift the hips high, making a pyramid of your body. Inhale as the feet come forward next to the hands. Exhale. Inhale as you return to standing position.
Abner corrected her minutely at every bend and breath. His thin hands changed her posture, spinal alignment, depth of breath, checked her degree of muscle tone. And when he was satisfied, he made her do another one.
She forced it. Sweat exploded from her brow and drooled into her eyes.
The next day, she managed four repetitions. And the next, seven.
Within five more days, her energy level approached normal, and most of her flexibility had returned. And there was something else: her balance had improved noticeably. And concentration. And that peculiar effect known
