logistic, mark that word, logistic computer.
The other side of my brain, perhaps not quite as pinched, would argue that it doesn't matter what name you give to a computer, it's a pile of memory crystals, logic banks, nuts and bolts… If you program it to be Genghis Khan, it is a tactical computer, even if its usual function is to monitor the stock market or control sewage conversion.
But the other voice was obdurate and said by that kind of reasoning, a man is only a hank of hair and a piece of bone and some stringy meat; and no matter what kind of a man he is, if you teach him well, you can take a Zen monk and turn him into a slavering bloodthirsty warrior.
Then what the hell are you, we, am I, answered the other side. A peace-loving, vacuum-welding specialist cum physics teacher snatched up by the Elite Conscription Act and reprogrammed to be a killing machine. You, I have killed and liked it.
But that was hypnotism, motivational conditioning, I argued back at myself. They don't do that anymore.
And the only reason, I said, they don't do it is that they think you'll kill better without it. That's logic.
Speaking of logic, the original question was, why do they send a logistic computer to do a man's job? Or something like that … and we were off again.
The light blinked green and I chinned the switch automatically. The pressure was down to 1.3 before I realized that it meant we were alive, we had won the first skirmish.
I was only partly right.
4
I was belting on my tunic when my ring tingled and I held it up to listen. It was Rogers.
'Mandella, go check squad bay 3 . Something went wrong; Dalton had to depressurize it from Control.'
Bay 3 – that was Marygay's squad! I rushed down the corridor in bare feet and got there just as they opened the door from inside the pressure chamber and began straggling out.
The first out was Bergman. I grabbed his arm. 'What the hell is going on, Bergman?'
'Huh?' He peered at me, still dazed, as everyone is when they come out of the chamber. 'Oh, s'you, Mandella. I dunno. Whad'ya mean?'
I squinted in through the door, still holding on to him. 'You were late, man, you depressurized late. What happened?'
He shook his head, trying to clear it. 'Late? Whad' late. Uh, how late?'
I looked at my watch for the first time. 'Not too – ' Jesus Christ. 'Uh, we zipped in at 0520, didn't we?'
'Yeah, I think that's it.'
Still no Marygay among the dim figures picking their way through the ranked couches and jumbled tubing. 'Um, you were only a couple of minutes late … but we were only supposed to be under for four hours, maybe less. It's 1050.'
'Um.' He shook his head again. I let go of him and stood back to let Stiller and Demy through the door.
'Everybody's late, then,' Bergman said. 'So we aren't in any trouble.'
'Uh – ' Non sequiturs. 'Right, right – Hey, Stiller! You seen–'
From inside: 'Medic! MEDIC!'
Somebody who wasn't Marygay was coming out. I pushed her roughly out of my way and dove through the door, landed on somebody else and clambered over to where Struve, Marygay's assistant, was standing over a pod and talking very loud and fast into his ring.
'–and blood God yes we need–'
It was Marygay still lying in her suit she was '
–got the word from Dalton–'
covered every square inch of her with a uniform bright sheen of blood
'–when she didn't come out–'
it started as an angry welt up by her collarbone and was just a welt as it traveled between her breasts until it passed the sternum's support
'–I came over and popped the–'
and opened up into a cut that got deeper as it ran down over her belly and where it stopped
'–yeah, she's still–'
a few centimeters above the pubis a membraned loop of gut was protruding
'–OK, left hip. Mandella–'
She was still alive, her heart palpitating, but her blood-streaked head lolled limply, eyes rolled back to white slits, bubbles of red froth appearing and popping at the corner of her mouth each time
The other side of my brain, perhaps not quite as pinched, would argue that it doesn't matter what name you give to a computer, it's a pile of memory crystals, logic banks, nuts and bolts… If you program it to be Genghis Khan, it is a tactical computer, even if its usual function is to monitor the stock market or control sewage conversion.
But the other voice was obdurate and said by that kind of reasoning, a man is only a hank of hair and a piece of bone and some stringy meat; and no matter what kind of a man he is, if you teach him well, you can take a Zen monk and turn him into a slavering bloodthirsty warrior.
Then what the hell are you, we, am I, answered the other side. A peace-loving, vacuum-welding specialist cum physics teacher snatched up by the Elite Conscription Act and reprogrammed to be a killing machine. You, I have killed and liked it.
But that was hypnotism, motivational conditioning, I argued back at myself. They don't do that anymore.
And the only reason, I said, they don't do it is that they think you'll kill better without it. That's logic.
Speaking of logic, the original question was, why do they send a logistic computer to do a man's job? Or something like that … and we were off again.
The light blinked green and I chinned the switch automatically. The pressure was down to 1.3 before I realized that it meant we were alive, we had won the first skirmish.
I was only partly right.
4
I was belting on my tunic when my ring tingled and I held it up to listen. It was Rogers.
'Mandella, go check squad bay 3 . Something went wrong; Dalton had to depressurize it from Control.'
Bay 3 – that was Marygay's squad! I rushed down the corridor in bare feet and got there just as they opened the door from inside the pressure chamber and began straggling out.
The first out was Bergman. I grabbed his arm. 'What the hell is going on, Bergman?'
'Huh?' He peered at me, still dazed, as everyone is when they come out of the chamber. 'Oh, s'you, Mandella. I dunno. Whad'ya mean?'
I squinted in through the door, still holding on to him. 'You were late, man, you depressurized late. What happened?'
He shook his head, trying to clear it. 'Late? Whad' late. Uh, how late?'
I looked at my watch for the first time. 'Not too – ' Jesus Christ. 'Uh, we zipped in at 0520, didn't we?'
'Yeah, I think that's it.'
Still no Marygay among the dim figures picking their way through the ranked couches and jumbled tubing. 'Um, you were only a couple of minutes late … but we were only supposed to be under for four hours, maybe less. It's 1050.'
'Um.' He shook his head again. I let go of him and stood back to let Stiller and Demy through the door.
'Everybody's late, then,' Bergman said. 'So we aren't in any trouble.'
'Uh – ' Non sequiturs. 'Right, right – Hey, Stiller! You seen–'
From inside: 'Medic! MEDIC!'
Somebody who wasn't Marygay was coming out. I pushed her roughly out of my way and dove through the door, landed on somebody else and clambered over to where Struve, Marygay's assistant, was standing over a pod and talking very loud and fast into his ring.
'–and blood God yes we need–'
It was Marygay still lying in her suit she was '
–got the word from Dalton–'
covered every square inch of her with a uniform bright sheen of blood
'–when she didn't come out–'
it started as an angry welt up by her collarbone and was just a welt as it traveled between her breasts until it passed the sternum's support
'–I came over and popped the–'
and opened up into a cut that got deeper as it ran down over her belly and where it stopped
'–yeah, she's still–'
a few centimeters above the pubis a membraned loop of gut was protruding
'–OK, left hip. Mandella–'
She was still alive, her heart palpitating, but her blood-streaked head lolled limply, eyes rolled back to white slits, bubbles of red froth appearing and popping at the corner of her mouth each time
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