Foundation Fear by Gregory Benford Page B

research interests of mine.
     Will that be possible, Mr ... ?”
    “Marq Hofti. We'd be honored, sir, if you could spare the project some time. I'll do my
     best -- ”
    “And I.” A young woman stood at his other elbow. “Sybyl,” she said, and shook hands. They
     both appeared quite competent, neat, and efficient. Hari puzzled at the looks bordering on
     reverence they gave him. After all, he was just a mathist, like them.
    Then he laughed again, heartily, a curiously liberating bark. He had just thought of what
     it would be like to tell Dors about the data-cores.
    Part 2
    The Rose Meets The Scalpel
    COMPUTATIONAL REPRESENTATION -- ... it is clear that, except for occasional outbursts, the
     taboos against advanced, artificial intelligences head throughout the Empire through the
     great sweep of historical time. This uniformity of cultural opinion probably reflects
     tragedies and traumas with artificial forms far back in pre-Empire ages. There are records
     of early transgressions by self-aware programs, including those by “sims,” or
     self-organizing simulations. Apparently the pre-ancients enjoyed recreating personalities
     of their own past, perhaps for instruction or amusement or even research. None of these
     are known to survive, but tales persist that they were once a high art.
    Of darker implication are the narratives which hypothesize self-aware intelligences lodged
     in bodies resembling human. While low-order mechanical forms are customarily allowed
     throughout the Empire, these “tiktoks” constitute no competition with humans, since they
     perform only simple and often disagreeable tasks ...
    -- ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA
    1.
    Joan of Arc wakened inside an amber dream. Cool breezes caressed her, odd noises
     reverberated. She heard before she saw --
    -- and abruptly found herself sitting outdoors. She noted things one at a time, as though
     some part of herself were counting them.
    Soft air. Before her, a smooth round table.
    Pressing against her, an unsettling white chair. Its seat, unlike those in her home
     village of Domremy, was not hand-hewn of wood. Its smooth slickness lewdly aped her
     contours. She reddened.
    Strangers. One, two, three ... winking into being before her eyes.
    They moved. Peculiar people. She could not tell Woman from man, except for those whose
     pantaloons and tunics outlined their intimate parts. The spectacle was even more than
     she'd seen in Chinon, at the lewd court of the Great and True King.
    Talk. The strangers seemed oblivious of her, though she could hear them chattering in the
     background as distinctly as she sometimes heard her voices. She listened only long enough
     to conclude that what they said, having nothing to do with holiness or France, was clearly
     not worth hearing.
    Noise. From outside. An iron river of self-moving carriages muttered by. She felt surprise
     at this -- then somehow the emotion evaporated.
    A long view, telescoping in --
    Pearly mists concealed distant ivory spires. Fog made them seem like melting churches.
    What was this place?
    A vision, perhaps related to her beloved voices. Could such apparitions be holy?
    Surely the man at a nearby table was no angel. He was eating scrambled eggs -- through a
     straw.
    And the women -- unchaste, flagrant, gaudy cornucopias of hip and thigh and breast. Some
     drank red wine from transparent goblets, different from any she'd seen at the royal court.
    Others seemed to sup from floating clouds -- delicate, billowing mousse fogs. One mist,
     reeking of beef with a tangy Loire sauce, passed near her. She breathed in -- and felt in
     an instant that she had experienced a meal.
    Was this heaven? Where appetites were satisfied without labor and toil?
    But no. Surely the final reward was not so, so ... carnal. And perturbing. And
     embarrassing.
    The fire some sucked into their mouths from little reeds -- those alarmed her. A cloud of
     smoke drifting her way flushed birds of