Yes, thought Duncan, I can understand that. I’m sure you must have been tempted to do some interrogation already, but are scared of possible ERASE circuits and want to explore other alternatives first…. He stared thoughtfully at that little box on the table, with its multitudinous studs and its now darkened read-out panel. There lay a device of a complexity beyond all the dreams of earlier ages-a virtual micro simulacrum of a human brain. Within it were billions of bits of information, stored in endless atomic arrays, waiting to be recalled by the right signal—or obliterated by the wrong one. At the rhoment it was lifeless, inert, like consciousness itself in the profoundest depths of sleep. No-not quite inert; the clock and calendar circuits would still be operating, ticking off the seconds and minutes and days that now were no concern of Karl’s.
Another voice broke in, this time from the right.
“We have asked Mr. Armand Helmer if his son left any code words with him, as is usual in such cases. You may be hearing more on the matter shortly.
Meanwhile, no attempt will be made to obtain any read-outs. With your permission, we would like to retain the Minisec for the present.”
Duncan was getting a little tired of having decisions made for him-and the
Helmers had apparently stated that he was to take possession of Karl’s effects. But there was no point in objecting; and if he did, some legal formality would undoubtedly materialize out of the same thin air as these mysterious voices.
Mr. Smith was digging into his case again.
“Now there is a second matter-I’m sure you’ll also recognize this.”
“Yes. Karl usually carried a sketchbook. Is this the one he had with him when-“
“It is. Would you like to go through it, and see if there is anything
that strikes you as unusual-note255 worthy-of any possible value to this investigation? Even if it seems utterly trivial or irrelevant, please don’t hesitate to speak.”
What a technological gulf, thought Duncan, between these two objects! The
Minisec was a triumph of the Neoelectronic Age; the sketchbook had existed virtually unchanged for at least a thousand years -and so had the pencil tucked into it. It was very true, as some philosopher of history had once said, that mankind never completely abandons any of its ancient tools. Yet
Karl’s sketchbooks had always been something of an affectation; he could make competent engineering drawings, but had never shown any genuine sign of artistic talent.
As Duncan slowly turned the leaves, he was acutely conscious of the hidden eyes all around him. Without the slightest doubt, every page here had been carefully recorded, using all the techniques that could bring out invisible marks and erasures. It was hard to believe that he could add much to the investigations that had already been made.
Karl apparently used his sketchbooks to make notes of anything that interested him, to conduct a sort of dialogue with himself, and to express his emotions. There were cryptic words and numbers in small, precise handwriting, fragments of calculations and equations, mathematical sketches
And there were spaces capes obviously rough drawings of scenes on the outer moons, with the formalized circle-and-ellipse of Saturn hanging in the sky . circuit diagrams, with more calculations full of lambdas and omegas, and vector notations that Duncan could recognize, but could not understand . and then suddenly, bursting out of the pages of impersonal notes and rather inept sketches, something that breathed life, something that might have been the work of a real artist-a portrait of Calindy, drawn with obvious, loving care.
It should have been instantly recognizable; yet strangely enough, for a fraction of a second, Duncan stared at it blankly. This was not the
Calindy he now knew, for the real woman was already obliterating the image from the past. Here was Calindy as they had both remembered her-the girl frozen forever in the bubble stero, beyond the reach of Time.
Duncan looked at the picture for long minutes before turning the page. It was really excellent-quite unlike all the other sketches. But then, how many times had Karl drawn it, over and over again, during the intervening years?
No one spoke from the air around him or interrupted his thoughts. And presently he moved on. . more calculations… patterns of hexagons, dwindling away into the distance-why, of course!
“ThaVs the titanite lattice-but the number written against it means nothing to me. It looks Eke a Terran viddy coding.”
“You are correct. It happens to be the number of a gem expert here in
Washington. Not Ivor Mandel’stahm, in case you’re wondering. The person concerned assures us that Mr. Helmer never contacted him, and we believe him. It’s probably a number he acquired somehow, jotted down, but never used.” more calculatiogs, now with lots of frequencies and phase angles.
