The Mind Pool

components. When there is much, much time available, and the problem is large, we combine more units in us. More join, to make one body. But then the integration time can become so long that individual components begin to starve. We cannot, when connected, search for food. So components must leave, or die.

“What you see now is the most effective form, our preferred compromise between speed of thought and depth of thought. The free components that you see now will eat, rest, and mate. When the right time comes there will be exchange. Rested-and-fed-of-us will take the place of tired-and-hungry-of-us.”

Chan had a score more questions, although they were already late for take-off. How did a Composite decide when and how to form? Was it adopting a human shape only for his convenience? How intelligent were the components, if at all? (He had the feeling that question had been answered during his early briefings on Horus, but anything told to him before the Tolkov Stimulator worked its miracle felt vague and unreliable.) How did the components know whether to join the Composite or stay away? Most important of all, if a Tinker was varying its composition all the time, how could there possibly be a single self-awareness and a specific personality? Shikari had all that, and claimed a sense of humor, too.

So many questions, and every one of them surely vital to the Pursuit Team’s success — not to mention Chan’s personal curiosity. But they would have to wait until the rendezvous with the other team members.

Chan prepared to take off, then decided he ought to consult Shikari. After all, if they were to be called a team, they ought to act as one.

“Shikari, are you ready to go?”

“We are very ready.

“Then would you like to move up front? If you want to study the landscape, you’d be better off sitting” — ( Could a Tinker sit?) — “next to me.”

“That will be very good.” The Tinker changed shape. It came slithering forward like a giant purple-black pancake, over and around the back of the passenger seat and around Chan’s legs. The speaking funnel emerged briefly from the center.

“And perhaps when we are on our way,” Shikari said, “we can talk some more. When opportunity arises, we have innumerable questions concerning the strange form and functions of humans.”

Chapter 19

To a visitor, all the inhabitants of a foreign country are apt to look the same.

The Sargasso Dump was as foreign a place as Phoebe Willard had ever been. For her first week or two, the brain-shattered guards at Sargasso were distinguished by little more than their sex. Two things changed her attitude. The first was Luther Brachis’s insistence that the two of them attend the guard review and follow it by a formal reception and dinner. It was possible to regard men and women as identical and anonymous when you merely passed them in corridors or took trays of food from them, but it was far more difficult when you stood or sat face to face and made (or attempted) conversation.

Many of the guards found speech beyond them. Luther Brachis ignored that fact. He knew every one of the hundred residents, he talked to them easily, and he told Phoebe of the deeds that had brought them to the Dump. It was a shock for her to realize that many of the blank-eyed dreamers at the long table were true heroes, the derelict remnants of daredevil men and women who had saved ships from disaster and whole colonies from collapse. They wore their medals at the dinner, but most of them seemed oblivious to former glories. Only a couple brightened and smiled when Brachis called them by their old titles.

The reception and dinner was a one-time event, but after it was over Phoebe began to notice individual guards, and address them by name.

That led to a bigger change in her attitude, although the next event had nothing to do with social behavior. It was a matter of simple necessity. Phoebe had a task that could not be accomplished with just one pair of hands. She left the nitrogen bubble, checked the guard roster, and headed for a remote region of the Dump.

He was there, sitting in a habitation bubble and staring at the stars (or at nothing). He knew Phoebe was present, she was sure of it, but he did not turn his head at her approach.

“Captain Ridley. Are you busy?” (An idiot question; he didn’t know what busy was any more.) “I need help. Will you come and help me?”

He had been the guard who above all others had seemed to respond at the dinner. He had even said a few words to her. But now he did not move and he did not reply.

Phoebe, angry at her own stupidity in even asking, went back into the habitation lock; and found that Ridley was following her.

It was a beginning. He scarcely said a word, but he could and did follow directions. Within a few days he had taken over the routine of temperature checking within the bubble as his own, and he shook his head vehemently when she tried to help. It was Ridley who, near the end of one of Phoebe’s long work sessions, left the bubble and then thirty minutes later was back.

“No more for today,” said Phoebe. He shook his head, took her arm, and tugged it. He had never done that before.

“What’s wrong, Ridley?”

His mismatched eyes rolled. She knew that one of them was a replacement. The original, like his lower jaw, had been the casualty of a violent space explosion and decompression. “Brargas.”

“Brachis?”

Ridley nodded. He watched impassively as Phoebe turned off all inputs to the sealed nitrogen balloon that held the brain of the Morgan Construct, closed her suit, and followed him back to the main Dump control area. She was oddly gratified when she entered and saw the image of Luther Brachis on the communication display.

“Thank you, Captain Ridley.” And to Brachis, smugly, as he stared at the other man, “My assistant, Blaine Ridley. Are you all right?” She noticed that Brachis was not wearing his uniform, and one arm was bare and bandaged.

“Sure, I’m fine. Little incident in a restaurant.”

“In a restaurant! I’ve heard of bad service, Commander, but this is ridiculous.”

Apparently it was again not a day for joking, for Brachis went on as though he had not heard her, “I’ve been downed for a few days, and I finally had time to do some thinking. I know what’s been going on with M-26A.”

“You’re ahead of me. I’ve been getting nothing sensible. Either the Construct’s brain wasn’t working right before its body was destroyed on Cobweb Station, or the blow-up there was too much for it. It’s certainly crazy now.”

“It may seem crazy, but it’s quite logical. Do you have the complete record of your interactions with M- 26A?”

“Not right here in front of me. But I have them all.”

“Then I want you to check them, every one, and see if the pattern that I noticed always holds. It’s quite simple. If you ask a question, you always get the same use-less response: More information must be provided before that question can be answered. But if you give a piece of information, and then ask a question, you get a real answer — it can be what you just fed in, or something different. But it’s just one answer. If you want information — even if it’s no more than a repeat of an answer that you just received — you have to provide a piece of information. One question, one answer. No exceptions.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Neither did I. But it works for every case. You can go back and try it, feed in anything you like, then ask any question you like. I don’t know if you’ll get the answers you want, but I’ll bet you get something. Hold on now!”

Phoebe was moving away from the camera, obviously itching to get back to test the idea that Brachis had been proposing.

“What else?”

“Assume that I’m right, and we have a way of genuine communication with M-26A. I want to know if it will