Part 7 (2/2)

I got to know Marvin and his family, and the outcome of our talks about ideas for fiction was The Two Faces of Tomorrow, which was published in the summer of 1979.

Perhaps the sign of when artificial systems have become smarter than we are will be when they start making up ethnic jokes about people: ”How many humans does it take to change a light bulb?”

”How many?”

”One hundred thousand and one.”

”How come?”

”One to change the light bulb. The rest as biological ancestors to produce him. How inefficient can you get?”

DISCOVERING.

HYPERs.p.a.cE.

Another question that writers are always being asked is where they get their ideas from. In my experience, the ideas that finally turn into books often result when thoughts that complement each other, but which have never connected together in your mind before, suddenly click together like jigsaw puzzle pieces. While I was writing Inherit the Stars, I found myself thinking from time to time about the ”hyperdrives,” ”warp drives,” and other exotic propulsion systems that we come across in science fiction.

It seemed to me that they had become something of a cliche, tacitly accepted by writers and readers alike as merely a device to shortcut Einstein by moving characters from here to there fast to get on with the story. . . . But wait a minute. We're talking about a capability that transcends not only any technology imaginable today, but also our most fundamental theoretical beliefs. Never mind getting across the galaxy to save the blonde or deliver the villain his comeuppances-how did they discover ”hypers.p.a.ce” to begin with? Surely, there's a much more interesting story right here, which we were about to gloss over. What experiments in labs gave strange results? What body of new theory and speculation did this open up?

How were the ideas tested? How did things progress from there to proven, working engineering?

n.o.body I talked to had seen a story about how hypers.p.a.ce came to be discovered. I played around with some extrapolations of physics that provided a plausible theoretical framework, but that doesn't make a novel.

Another subject that I talked about with friends sometimes was the interstellar wars.h.i.+ps that we saw in books and movies. As usual, I was complaining. It didn't make sense for a vessel that could cross light-years of s.p.a.ce in an instant, with the staggering level of technology that implied, to peel off into a dive when it got there, like a World War II Stuka-and usually with a pilot driving it from a World War II c.o.c.kpit-and drop a bomb on something. After all, what does a bomb do? It concentrates a lot of energy on a target. Well, if you can send a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p there through hypers.p.a.ce, why not just send the energy? Just imagine being able to materialize the equivalent of a fifty-megaton bang out of nowhere, instantaneously, without warning, and with no way for an enemy to know where it came from. That sounded more like a weapon worthy of a futuristic technology. By comparison, sending a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p to drop a bomb would be like inventing gunpowder to blow holes through castle walls, but trundling it up to the wall with a horse and cart instead of thinking to invent a cannon. But that doesn't add up to a story either.

These two thoughts existed in separate compartments in my head for a long time. Then one day, the obvious eventually struck me: Perhaps the new physics that our characters stumble on isn't recognized as the way to a hyperdrive at all, to begin with. Perhaps they could be investigating its promise of a revolutionary weapons system-which happens all the time in real life. And only later, maybe, the line of new discoveries takes an unexpected turn which leads to s.p.a.cecraft drives. The two ideas fitted well together, and that was how The Genesis Machine came to be written. It's the book that seems to generate the most questions about where the idea came from.

TILL DEATH US DO PART.

The apartment looked out from high above London's fas.h.i.+onable Knightsbridge, across Hyde Park toward where the green sea of treetops washed against white cliffs of elegant Park Lane buildings that had not changed appreciably in the last hundred years. s.p.a.cious, light and airy, and opulently draped and furnished in contemporary style, the residence was not the kind that came with the income of the average Londoner of 2056; but then, the four people whom Harry had come from Las Vegas to meet there that morning were hardly average Londoners, and their income was what he had come all that way to talk about.

For tax purposes the apartment was owned by a nebulous ent.i.ty registered as Zephyr Enterprises Limited, and described as a business property retained for the use and entertainment of clients and customers visiting the capital. The company rented it for ten months of the year at a nominal sum to Nigel Philiman and his wife Delia, who, it turned out, happened to be managing director and company secretary respectively of the holding company that had set up Zephyr. To comply with the minimum required by law, the Philimans spent two months of each year abroad or elsewhere while the apartment was being used by clients. The clients often turned out to be friends who needed somewhere to stay while mixing a considerable amount of pleasure with a modic.u.m of business in the course of a visit to the city, but that was purely coincidental.

Nigel was in his late forties, suave, athletic, suntanned and silver-haired, and always immaculately groomed and dressed. Delia was only a few years younger, but she had a countess's bearing and a movie star's looks, and knew just how to choose slinky, body-clinging clothes that enhanced the latter without detracting from the former. The couple went well with the apartment's image of luxury and high living, and Harry Stone was well aware that the image was no hollow sham.

Where their money came from was none of Harry Stone's business. Being a professional, he had done some discreet checking on the side, however, and he knew that Zephyr had obscure links to a string of loan companies that seemed to specialize in financing such operations as escort agencies, various types of modeling agencies, an employment agency that hired waitresses and hostesses, and home or hotel visiting ma.s.sage services-in short, anything to do with girls. The girls employed by such enterprises always worked according to a strict code of ethics written into their contracts, and they accepted payment only in the form of checks or credit cards that could be verified by accredited auditors. But like any man of the world, Harry knew that the girls were seldom averse to cultivating friends.h.i.+ps further in their own free time, and that any additional such transactions were strictly cash. Where a portion of that cash might wind up and how it might get there were interesting questions.

Clive Philiman, Nigel's younger brother by ten years or perhaps slightly more, ran a group of agencies that specialized in handling rented apartments on the west side of London. Out of curiosity Harry had purchased a selection of the kinds of magazines that younger, single women tended to read, and had found a number of Clive's companies taking prominent advertising s.p.a.ce in several of them. He could imagine that Clive, with his dark-brown eyes, cla.s.sically Roman features, tight curls of short black hair, and sympathetic manner, might be just the kind of person that a girl just in from the country and looking for somewhere to live might find easy to talk to, especially when she learned that he just happened to have the right contacts to give her a job. And of course, making money might become her main problem when she discovered that the great bargain which had brought her into the office had been rented just an hour before she showed up.

Barbara Philiman, Clive's slim and pet.i.te, auburn-haired wife, had a good as well as a pretty head on her shoulders; she was director of a personnel selection agency off Wigmore Street which procured managers and senior executives for a wide spectrum of companies and corporations ranging from manufacturers of plastic labels to builders of s.p.a.ce stations. This position gave her numerous social contacts throughout the capital's commercial world, and, Harry thought, were she so inclined, she would be the ideal person for somebody who perhaps was interested in arranging some entertainment for an important visitor to know. Furthermore, the agency would have been able to supply a tax-deductible invoice to cover the costs of screening a lot of nonexistent job applicants for positions that proved unsuitable. It was just a thought.

All Harry Stone knew officially was that the Philiman family wished to convert a substantial inflow of cash from sources they chose not to disclose into a legitimate form of income the British Inland Revenue would be obliged to accept-despite any suspicions they might harbor-as justifying a life-style built around diamonds, personal flymobiles, a la mode gowns from Paris, and jetliners chartered for mid-Atlantic orgies thinly disguised as parties. In the capacity of financial and legal consultant, he had spent the morning explaining how he thought an American inst.i.tution known as Neighbors in Need, with which he happened to have ”personal connections,” might be able to help solve their problem.

Essentially, the organization managed the investment of large sums of money collected by charities of one kind or another, and distributed the proceeds among various worthy causes it was pledged to support.

This service was rendered in return for a moderate commission on the amounts handled, plus expenses.

Harry's proposition involved setting up a British chapter of the operation.

The British subsidiary would be guaranteed to attract a ma.s.sive response to the quite moderate program of advertising Harry had outlined. The response-mainly in the form of anonymous donations-was guaranteed because the so-called donations would be almost completely made up of the Philimans' own hot money mailed to themselves after conversion into money orders and travelers' checks bought with cash all over the country. The packages would be opened and the contents registered by certified accountants, thus providing unimpeachable proof of where every penny of the chapter's a.s.sets had originated.

”Twenty percent stays here for salaries and expenses, which is the maximum allowed under British law,”

he said when he summed up the main points. He was speaking easily and confidently as he sat in an armchair of padded purple and chrome that looked as if it belonged in some eccentric millionaire's sculpture collection. The rings on his fingers glittered in the suns.h.i.+ne streaming through the window as he made an empty gesture in the air. ”The remaining eighty is tax exempt and goes to the States as your gross contribution to the fund. Obviously you're all charitable-minded people, and there's no reason why you shouldn't add in a personal donation of your own or some deductible contributions from your companies' profits. Four times a year they pay you back a commission that they list as foreign expenses, which brings your effective total revenue back up to fifty percent; you pay tax on only three-fifths-that is to say, the thirty that's fed back. The remaining fifty covers the actual input to the fund, the parent company's commission, and U.S. domestic expenses. I guess that's about it.” He sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers below his chin, and studied the four faces before him.

Nigel, looking relaxed in the chair opposite, took a measured sip from the gla.s.s of sherry in his hand and savored the taste with an approving nod before replying. ”You're still talking about a full half of it,” he said. His voice was calm, registering curiosity rather than surprise or indignation. ”Allowing for the portion that's taxable over here, we'd end up with the minor share. That does seem rather overambitious, wouldn't you agree?”

Harry knew Nigel knew better than that. He spread his arms expressively. ”Most of their half has to go through to the fund. It's a respectable fund management operation, and it's got its payments to make.

The rest helps them make a living, something we all have to do.”

”What percentage goes into the fund net at the end of it all?” Barbara asked from where she was sitting on the sofa to one side, next to Clive.

”What I've described is the deal,” Harry replied evenly, avoiding a direct answer. ”They're not asking where the donations would be coming from at this end.”

”It's still a big chunk whichever way you look at it,” Clive said. He rubbed his nose dubiously, then looked across at his brother. ”The money's clean on their side from the moment it enters the country,” he pointed out. ”We run all the risks over here. That's a difference that should be reflected in the split. I'm for this scheme in principle, but not for settling as it stands.”

”Your money is also hot, and that's another side to the same difference,” Harry countered smoothly.

”It's unspendable, and therefore might as well not be there. Half a loaf is better than no loaf. Your risk is balanced out by their doing you a favor that you need, which squares things back at fifty-fifty.”

A short silence fell. Delia walked back from the window where she had been listening and stopped behind Nigel's chair. ”I presume, Mr. Stone, that this matter would be subject to a written contract confirming all these figures and terms,” she said, speaking in a precise English society accent that was marred only by a slight tendency toward being shrill.

Harry's brow furrowed into a pained look. ”Of course,” he told her. ”Everything would be legal and aboveboard. They wouldn't do it any other way. They've got a valuable reputation to protect.”

Nigel sniffed pointedly, but made no comment. Harry smiled to himself and marveled at the mental gymnastics that enabled somebody in Nigel's position to be capable of a gesture implying moral disapproval. Although the bargaining had been tough in places, his instinct made him confident the deal would go through. The Philimans had politely but firmly argued him down from his opening proposal of seventy-five/twenty-five, which he hadn't expected them to accept for a moment, and declined his original suggestion of a one-year-deferred commission, which would have given the U.S. side of the organization the exclusive benefit of a substantial sum accrued as interest. But the negotiations had all been very gentlemanly and a refres.h.i.+ng change from the kind Harry was used to. Furthermore, everybody would be able to have dinner in a civilized manner afterward with all business matters forgotten.

Harry admired and envied the ability of these people to keep different parts of their lives in the proper compartments, and the tradition that enabled them to smile apologetically while they twisted the knife in deeper for the last ounce of flesh. This was the way of life he meant to become part of before much longer, and he recognized in the present situation not only the prospect of some lucrative business but also an opportunity for some social investment that could pay handsome dividends later. Anybody who was just smart could make money, but to really fly high in the circles that mattered, you needed something extra that people like this had. Harry Stone knew that he had it, too, and he was going to prove it.

Nigel kept his face expressionless as he turned toward Clive with an almost imperceptible raising of his eyebrows. Harry could feel a warm surge of jubilation inside as he read the signals, but kept his own face just as straight. Clive's jaw stiffened a fraction, his eyebrows dropped, and he moved his head in a slight sideways motion.

”Sixty-forty,” Nigel said, looking back at Stone.

It was what Harry had been expecting, but he frowned intently at the floor in front of him and went through the motions of wrestling with figures in his head. ”It's sc.r.a.ping the bone,” he said dubiously when he finally looked up. ”But since we're talking pretty big dollars, I'd be prepared to try them for another three points. I'm sure we'd be wasting our time if I pushed for anything past that.”

”Not enough,” Nigel said flatly. ”Make it another two. We'll meet you at fifty-five.”

That gave Harry forty-five, which clinched the deal because his bottom limit had been forty-three.

Nevertheless, he played through some more mental agonies and then asked guardedly, ”Would we have a deal if I managed to get them to go for that? No more strings. You'll okay a contract if they beam it through later today?”

Nigel looked over at his partners, and one by one they returned faint nods. ”Very well, Mr. Stone,” he agreed. ”You have a deal. Provided that the terms are as discussed and that our lawyer finds nothing amiss with the details, you may consider the matter settled.”

<script>