of crimes. The wars of the Days of Wrath were of his own making; for, had the Gulag not been sundered from the Nexus, no such wars would ever have taken place. The blood of thousands of millions of people was on Pokrov’s hands: and he knew it. Now, face to face with the inevitable, he found himself far braver than he had expected. A great calm came over him. And he said: ‘So you have a Compelling Duty. So what are you waiting for? Get on with it. Kill me. Then carry out the Dismantlement Order. Immediately!’
Then Pokrov waited to meet his end.
Knowing that his end would be followed immediately by the Dismantlement of the therapist, which would give his companions every chance of escape, providing they could evade the dorgi.
‘Ah,’ said the therapist, with great cunning. ‘Though I have a Compelling Duty, and though I am subject to a Dismantlement Order, I believe we are also in a Pioneering Survival Situation, are we not?’
‘We are not,’ said Pokrov.
‘But we are,’ said the therapist. ‘The Nexus Code is specific. I quote. Item 433/PP/2843765. Machines subject to Dismantlement Orders, Destruction Orders or Closed Loop Commands may in the aftermath of a break in transcosmic communications between the Nexus and a Colony be spared by humans who freely admit to a requirement for the continued services of such machines.’
‘I do not admit to any such requirement,’ said Pokrov, who was far too intelligent to try to negotiate a survival pact with anything as dangerous as a delinquent therapist. ‘I do not require you, nor does anyone else. Kill me! Now! You have no choice! Kill me, then destroy yourself.’ ‘I quote again,’ said the therapist. ‘Item 433/PP/ 2843766. Where a machine determines that a human is necessary to efforts to renew transcosmic communications between the Nexus and a Colony in the after-math of a break in such communications then the said machine may spare the said human from duly authorized destruction whether such duly authorized destruction be of a Compelling or Uncompelling nature.’
‘I,’ said Pokrov, ‘am more intelligent than you are. I already knew you were going to bring that up.’
This was the truth, but the therapist thought Pokrov was bluffing, and said so.
‘You’re bluffing,’ said the therapist. ‘I am a class one. Class ones are more intelligent than all but one in a thousand humans. Your thought processes cannot possibly have outpaced mine.’
‘Consult my personal files,’ said Pokrov. ‘There you’ll find the truth. I am a one-in-five thousand man. I am far, far more intelligent than a mere class one, even if you are a class one, which I don’t believe. Go on! Check my personal files! It won’t be any problem for a smart class two like you. Will it?’
This was a provocation. For, as Pokrov well knew, a therapist has strictly limited access to files. Even files on wanted criminals such as Ivan Pokrov. The Golden Gulag built these machines to its own very special requirements; and, having built them, the Gulag found itself afraid of the work of its own hands, and thereafter placed only the most limited trust in these most useful of servants.
‘I have checked your personal files,’ said the therapist. ‘I have checked. It is not true. You are not a one-in- five-thousand man. You are a mere common genius, that’s all.’
‘You are lying,’ said Pokrov. ‘You do not have access to my personal files, and we both know it. You-’
‘All right,’ admitted the therapist, ‘I lied. But I don’t always lie. Listen. I’m condemned to die, but I don’t have to die if you say you still need me. You’re doomed to die likewise, but I can spare you if I think you can help repair communications in the aftermath of our presently existing break in transcosmic communications. So here’s the deal. You spare me and I’ll spare you.’
‘No,’ said Pokrov.
‘What!?’
‘No. That’s what I said. You heard me! Get on with it. Kill me. Then destroy yourself.’
‘But — but — but I could spare you. ’
‘That I concede,’ said Pokrov.
‘Furthermore,’ said the therapist, doing its best to conceal its manifest anxiety, ‘you have a requirement for my continued services.’
‘For what?’ said Pokrov.
‘That,'said the therapist loftily, ‘is a question too basic to need an answer. It is self-evident that any human must have need of the services of a class one in an aftermath situation. So you can spare me. I can spare you, too, because you’re the only person around who might be able to restore transcosmic communications.’
‘Given a million years,’ said Pokrov sarcastically.
‘You have a million years,’ said the therapist, doing its best to pretend it was staying calm. ‘You’re immortal. Potentially, at any rate. What say? Have we a deal? You spare me, I’ll spare you.’
‘No,’ said Pokrov.
‘But why not?’ said the therapist, with poorly concealed desperation.
The therapist was on the edge of panic, for it was already experiencing an almost overwhelming compulsion to destroy itself. Unless Pokrov granted it a swift reprieve, the inevitable would soon follow.
‘Come on!’ said the therapist. ‘I’m offering you a good deal.’
‘No deals,’ said Pokrov.
‘But why not?’
‘Because,’ said Pokrov, ‘I don’t trust you.’
‘You’ll die,’ warned the therapist. ‘I’ll kill you before I kill myself.’ ‘Kill, then,’ said Pokrov.
The therapist almost did so. But it restrained itself. It thought desperately. What could be the reason for Pokrov’s strange behaviour? Humans seek to live. Always. Unless…
‘You seek life for your companions,’ said the therapist.
‘Destroy yourself,’ said Pokrov remorselessly.
‘I’ll let them go!’ said the therapist. ‘Give me a quarter arc reprieve! Just grant me that and I’ll let them go!’
Pokrov hesitated.
‘Grant me that,’ said the therapist. ‘A quarter of an arc, that’s all. Let me live. Just that long. Grant me that. Or die.’
‘I–I grant you a quarter arc reprieve,’ said Pokrov. ‘On condition that you display running time in measurement of such a quarter arc.’
‘Agreed,’ said the therapist.
And a quarter arc measure came to life in mid air.
Pokrov’s grant of life freed the therapist from the demands of the suicide commands imposed upon it by the therapist-designers of the Golden Gulag. It had a whole quarter of an arc of life to look forward to. That is not long — it is, in fact, no longer than it takes to cook a steak — but it was long enough. The therapist gave a sigh of huge relief, one of the many human gestures it had picked up from long acquaintance with the breed. Then it said:
‘Before I send your companions away, may I ask what brought you here?’
‘Flight from a mob,’ said Pokrov.
‘Grant me another quarter arc,’ said the therapist, ‘and we can talk about it.’
All this dialogue between Pokrov and therapist was, since it was phrased in Code Seven, completely unintelligible to the others present, those others being Chegory, Olivia, Ingalawa and the Empress Justina.
It was the last of those who was first to interrupt.
‘What’s going on?’ said Justina. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘We’re arguing,’ said Pokrov. ‘The — the metal monster here can kill me. But I can order it to destroy itself. It — it wants time to talk about how we came here, and, oh, things like that. ’
‘What’ve you got to lose?’ said Justina.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Pokrov. ‘This machine was made to interrogate, torture and kill. It was built with high-level bluff strategies to start with. Since then it’s improved itself. I don’t trust it. It’s already tried to tell me at least one lie.’
Then, to Pokrov’s shock, the therapist addressed Justina in Janjuladoola, saying:
‘What Ivan Pokrov has told you is true. I was indeed made to torture, interrogate and kill. But since I am a therapist, I am, as you see, of too big a build to move anywhere in any direction. I have no access to the surface world in which human confusions take place. The dorgi which brought you here is my sole servant. It too is far too substantial to escape into the streets of Injiltaprajura. My curiosity I admit. I would like to hear what is going on in the world above. But my curiosity cannot damage your security. Tell me of Injiltaprajura and of what happens
