will guide you through the rest if you simply talk to it."
She looked uncertainly at the console. Finally she said, "Turn on."
There was no discernible difference, and she wondered if she'd done it right. Then she saw that the screen showed a small word in its center—"READY!" When she didn't respond for a few seconds, there was a sudden vanishing of the letter, and a voice from the screen said, "Good morning. Miss Montagne. I am SAINT. How may I be of service to you?" The voice was normal, very human, and sounded something like a Shakespearean actor.
"He recognizes you through sensors and has checked you out and decided you are authorized,"
Sir Reginald told her. "Let's say you want to look up something. Just ask him, and he'll find it and either tell you or put it on the screen or print it out as you instruct. If you're unsure of whether or not he has something, just ask."
Her mind was blank. "Uh—do you have a file on me?"
"Of course," SAINT replied. "There is a biographical sketch of you, lots of subordinate files and evaluations, and a complete profile and medical history, among other things. The total length, printed out in standard typewriter, would be approximately four thousand two hundred and sixty single-spaced pages. Would you like a copy or would you rather obtain more specific information?"
"Um—biographical sketch. On the screen, please, if it's not too long."
"Certainly. Just state when you wish to go to the next page."
And, just like that, up came a neat, formal-looking report on the large screen looking just like a page from a large typeset book.
"I.think you've got it now," Sir Reginald told her. "If you'll pardon me, there's a fellow rather insistently attempting to get my attention for some minor emergency or something. When you're through just tell him so and leave. If I may?"
"Yes, certainly," she said, happy to have him off her back. She proceeded to read the file and found it uncannily accurate, including some incidents and friends she herself had forgotten.
Clearly a lot of people were keeping a close eye on her. It went on and on, but it finally finished with, in fact, her coming to the island and attending her father's funeral. It was amazingly up-to-date and she wasn't certain she liked it.
"Uh—SAINT?"
"Yes, Miss?"
"You said my file ran thousands of pages. Is there a table of contents that would let me see the topics in it?"
"Yes. Scrolling on the screen now."
She read off the amazing specifics, but finally halted it. "Give me the Psychological Profile,"
she instructed. "Summary only."
It made fascinating reading, and somewhat uncomfortable reading as well. It accurately pinpointed her lifelong lack of a sense of roots, of belonging, and suggested she had a strong need for a father or authority figure. Her IQ was above the norm but she was hardly a genius. Reading and language skills far above the norm but mostly within the past three or four years, when they were the only ones available. Able to control or even fool people as to her true feelings. Strong romantic and mystic streaks; emotionally immature. ... It was strong stuff. It did, however, state that she was highly adaptable, practical about her situation, including her disability, and had a logical and orderly mind about things in which she was not emotionally involved.
Physiologically, she confirmed that Sister Maria had been right. But for the fact that orders from her brain were not transmitted past a certain point in her upper spinal column, her body was perfectly normal. The muscles were weak from disuse, but showed, oddly, no signs of deterioration. All bodily organs and functions were normal. She menstruated normally and was capable of child-bearing, although, with no ability to push, she would require a Caesarean. It concluded, as had the psychological, with the notation that there was nothing that known medical science could find wrong with her, and certainly no signs of dramatic injury anywhere in the
She looked uncertainly at the console. Finally she said, "Turn on."
There was no discernible difference, and she wondered if she'd done it right. Then she saw that the screen showed a small word in its center—"READY!" When she didn't respond for a few seconds, there was a sudden vanishing of the letter, and a voice from the screen said, "Good morning. Miss Montagne. I am SAINT. How may I be of service to you?" The voice was normal, very human, and sounded something like a Shakespearean actor.
"He recognizes you through sensors and has checked you out and decided you are authorized,"
Sir Reginald told her. "Let's say you want to look up something. Just ask him, and he'll find it and either tell you or put it on the screen or print it out as you instruct. If you're unsure of whether or not he has something, just ask."
Her mind was blank. "Uh—do you have a file on me?"
"Of course," SAINT replied. "There is a biographical sketch of you, lots of subordinate files and evaluations, and a complete profile and medical history, among other things. The total length, printed out in standard typewriter, would be approximately four thousand two hundred and sixty single-spaced pages. Would you like a copy or would you rather obtain more specific information?"
"Um—biographical sketch. On the screen, please, if it's not too long."
"Certainly. Just state when you wish to go to the next page."
And, just like that, up came a neat, formal-looking report on the large screen looking just like a page from a large typeset book.
"I.think you've got it now," Sir Reginald told her. "If you'll pardon me, there's a fellow rather insistently attempting to get my attention for some minor emergency or something. When you're through just tell him so and leave. If I may?"
"Yes, certainly," she said, happy to have him off her back. She proceeded to read the file and found it uncannily accurate, including some incidents and friends she herself had forgotten.
Clearly a lot of people were keeping a close eye on her. It went on and on, but it finally finished with, in fact, her coming to the island and attending her father's funeral. It was amazingly up-to-date and she wasn't certain she liked it.
"Uh—SAINT?"
"Yes, Miss?"
"You said my file ran thousands of pages. Is there a table of contents that would let me see the topics in it?"
"Yes. Scrolling on the screen now."
She read off the amazing specifics, but finally halted it. "Give me the Psychological Profile,"
she instructed. "Summary only."
It made fascinating reading, and somewhat uncomfortable reading as well. It accurately pinpointed her lifelong lack of a sense of roots, of belonging, and suggested she had a strong need for a father or authority figure. Her IQ was above the norm but she was hardly a genius. Reading and language skills far above the norm but mostly within the past three or four years, when they were the only ones available. Able to control or even fool people as to her true feelings. Strong romantic and mystic streaks; emotionally immature. ... It was strong stuff. It did, however, state that she was highly adaptable, practical about her situation, including her disability, and had a logical and orderly mind about things in which she was not emotionally involved.
Physiologically, she confirmed that Sister Maria had been right. But for the fact that orders from her brain were not transmitted past a certain point in her upper spinal column, her body was perfectly normal. The muscles were weak from disuse, but showed, oddly, no signs of deterioration. All bodily organs and functions were normal. She menstruated normally and was capable of child-bearing, although, with no ability to push, she would require a Caesarean. It concluded, as had the psychological, with the notation that there was nothing that known medical science could find wrong with her, and certainly no signs of dramatic injury anywhere in the
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