know the computers; we can set up the programs. You just tell us what it is a computer must be made to do so that it will work like a brain and not like a computer.”
“I’m not sure I know enough about how a brain works to be able to tell you that, Dmitri,” said William.
“You are the foremost homologist in the world,” said Dmitri. “I have checked that out carefully.” And that disposed of that.
William listened with gathering gloom. He supposed it was inevitable. Dip a person into one particular specialty deeply enough and long enough, and he would automatically begin to assume that specialists in all other fields were magicians, judging the depth of their wisdom by the breadth of his own ignorance . . . And as time went on, William learned a great deal more of the Mercury Project than it seemed to him at the time that he cared to.
He said at last, “Why use a computer at all, then? Why not have one of your own men, or relays of them, receive the material from the robot and send back instructions.”
“Oh, oh, oh,” said Dmitri, almost bouncing in his chair in his eagerness. “You see, you are not aware. Men are too slow to analyze quickly all the material the robot will send back—temperatures and gas pressures and cosmic—ray fluxes and Solar-wind intensities and chemical compositions and soil textures and easily three dozen more items—and then try to decide on the next step. A human being would merely guide the robot, and ineffectively; a computer would be the robot.
“And then, too,” he went on, “men are too fast, also. It takes radiation of any kind anywhere from ten to twenty-two minutes to take the round trip between Mercury and Earth, depending on where each is in its orbit. Nothing can be done about that. You get an observation, you give an order, but much has happened between the time the observation is made and the response returns. Men can’t adapt to the slowness of the speed of light, but a computer can take that into account. . . . Come help us, William.”
William said gloomily, “You are certainly welcome to consult me, for what good that might do you. My private TV beam is at your service.”
“But it’s not consultation I want. You must come with me.”
“Mass-wise?” said William, shocked.
“Yes, of course. A project like this can’t be carried out by sitting at opposite ends of a laser beam with a communications satellite in the middle. In the long run, it is too expensive, too inconvenient, and, of course, it lacks all privacy—”
It was like a thriller, William decided. “Come to Dallas,” said Dmitri, “and let me show you what we have there. Let me show you the facilities. Talk to some of our computer men. Give them the benefit of your way of thought.”
It was time, William thought, to be decisive. “Dmitri,” he said, “I have work of my own here. Important work that I do not wish to leave. To do what you want me to do may take me away from my laboratory for months.”
“Months!” said Dmitri, clearly taken aback. “My good William, it may well be years. But surely it will be your work.”
“No, it will not. I know what my work is and guiding a robot on Mercury is not it.”
“Why not? If you do it properly, you will learn more about the brain merely by trying to make a computer work like one, and you will come back here, finally, better equipped to do what you now consider your work. And while you’re gone, will you have no associates to carry on? And can you not be in constant communication with them by laser beam and television? And can you not visit New York on occasion? Briefly.”
William was moved. The thought of working on the brain from another direction did hit home. From that point on, he found himself looking for excuses to go—at least to visit—at least to see what it was all like. . . . He could always return.
Then there followed Dmitri’s visit to the ruins of Old New York, which he enjoyed with artless excitement (but then there was no more magnificent spectacle of the useless gigantism of the pre-Cats than Old New York). William began to wonder if the trip might not give him an opportunity to see some sights as well.
He even began to think that for some time he had been considering the possibility of finding a new bedmate, and it would be more convenient to find one in another geographical area where he would not stay permanently.
—Or was it that even then, when he knew nothing but the barest beginning of what was needed, there had already come to him, like the twinkle of a distant lightning flash, what might be done—
So he eventually went to Dallas and stepped out on the roof and there was Dmitri again, beaming. Then, with eyes narrowing, the little man turned and said, “I knew—What a remarkable resemblance!”
William’s eyes opened wide and there, visibly shrinking backward, was enough of his own face to make him certain at once that Anthony was standing before him.
He read very plainly in Anthony’s face a longing to bury the relationship. All William needed to say was “How remarkable!” and let it go. The gene patterns of mankind were complex enough, after all, to allow resemblances of any reasonable degree even without kinship.
But of course William was a homologist and no one can work with the intricacies of the human brain without growing insensitive as to its details, so he said, “I’m sure this is Anthony, my brother.”
Dmitri said, “Your brother?”
“My father,” said William, “had two boys by the same woman—my mother. They were eccentric people.”
He then stepped forward, hand outstretched, and Anthony had no choice but to take it. . . . The incident was the topic of conversation, the only topic, for the next several days.
5
It was small consolation to Anthony that William was contrite enough when he realized what he had done.
They sat together after dinner that night and William said, “My apologies. I thought that if we got the worst out at once that would end it. It doesn’t seem to have done so. I’ve signed no papers, made no formal agreement. I will leave.”
“What good would that do?” said Anthony ungraciously. “Everyone knows now. Two bodies and one face. It’s enough to make one puke.”
“If I leave—”
“You can’t leave. This whole thing is my idea.”
“To get me here?” William’s heavy lids lifted as far as they might and his eyebrows climbed.
“No, of course not. To get a homologist here. How could I possibly know they would send you?”
“But if I leave—”
“No. The only thing we can do now is to lick the problem, if it can be done. Then—it won’t matter.” (Everything is forgiven those who succeed, he thought.)
“I don’t know that I can—”
“We’ll have to try. Dmitri will place it on us. It’s too good a chance. You two are brothers,” Anthony said, mimicking Dmitri’s tenor voice, “and understand each other. Why not work together?” Then, in his own voice, angrily, “So we must. To begin with, what is it you do, William? I mean, more precisely than the word ‘homology’ can explain by itself.”
William sighed. “Well, please accept my regrets. . . . I work with autistic children.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”
“Without going into a long song and dance, I deal with children who do not reach out into the world, do not communicate with others, but who sink into themselves and exist behind a wall of skin, somewhat unreachably. I hope to be able to cure it someday.”
“Is that why you call yourself Anti-Aut?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
Anthony laughed briefly, but he was not really amused.
A chill crept into William’s manner. “It is an honest name.”
