Part 6 (1/2)

”Replimaticon research, advanced cybercoding.” Sarvik showed his teeth. ”And you are Doctor Sulinam Queezt, specialist in cerebral augmentation implants and now offering replacement modules for impaired brains. Surgeon's degree from Stellem Academy of s.p.a.ce Medicine, 218; neural systems simulation, Porgarc Oceanic University, 224; seven years with MZB Psylog division, the rest in private consultancy; part-timing deals here at Central during the last two years, probably because of the use it gets you of their nanometric holoplex a.n.a.lyzer.” In other words, Sarvik was from an outfit that didn't fool around with public-hospital-grade kiddy-toy computers when it came to code cracking. Two-all, game even. They sat down.

Queezt acknowledged this with the invitation, ”A cup of graff, maybe?” Graff was a hot beverage made from a variety of dried ground seaweed and drunk universally around Turle.

”I will. As it comes.” Sarvik set his briefcase down on the edge of the desk.

Queezt called to the room's domestic manager. ”House. Two graffs, one plain, unsweetened. Hold calls.”

”Okay,” a synthetic female voice answered from the panel by the desk.

The desk was untidy with jottings and forms. There was a well-worn physiological reference work lying open; a receptacle for pens, fasteners, and office oddments fas.h.i.+oned from an animal skull; a vacation guide to one of Turle's submarine cities; and a book about how to outcon used furniture dealers by spotting valuable antiques-probably worthless, since dealers no doubt read the same books. A large chart on the wall, heavily annotated with handwritten notes, showed in detail the parts of the Borijan brain.

Queezt leaned his stick-limbed frame back in the chair and regarded his visitor unblinkingly with both eyes. ”Very well, Dr. Sarvik,” he said finally. ”What's your deal?”

Sarvik extended a perfunctory hand to indicate the specimen jars and wired crystals at the other end of the room. ”Why mess about with add-ons that just duplicate parts of brains? I can give us the whole thing: transfer of the complete personality into an artificial host. Think what you'd be able to offer with a capability like that.”

”You mean a purpose-designed host? With augmented physical capabilities? Extended senses, maybe? Additional senses?”

Sarvik shrugged. ”Whatever's possible. Anything you like.”

Such a speculation was not exactly new, but that didn't make it any the less interesting. Queezt nodded to say that the implied possibilities didn't need to be spelled out. Specially built bodies forextreme environments was one area where it could be applied. s.p.a.ceworks riggers that wouldn't need the complications of suits and biological life support was another. Or perhaps those who wanted to could try being birds again and fly as their distant ancestors had. Or try becoming fish or experiment with being insects. Sarvik said nothing about his thoughts of achieving immortality. If he could gain Queezt's cooperation without it, what would be the point in giving such information away free? The two scientists regarded each other for a few seconds with cordial, mutual mistrust.

A light came on over the small worktop in the corner behind Queezt's desk, and the domestic manager's voice announced, ”Two graffs, one regular, one plain, unsweetened.” The hatch from the building's utility conveyor system opened and delivered a white plastic tray carrying two filled cups, a part.i.tioned dish of flavor additives, and spoons. A service dolly, resembling an upright vacuum cleaner with arms and a metal basket on top, rolled out from its stowage s.p.a.ce a few feet away and transferred the tray to the end of Queezt's desk.

”A silly fantasy,” Queezt declared, reaching for a cup. ”We evidently read the same fiction. Now tell me what you're really offering.”

Sarvik shrugged indifferently. ”I've told you. If you don't want to come in, it'll be your loss. There are plenty more headwirers I can go to.”

”You've probably already been to them and they threw you out,” Queezt suggested.

”Aha!” Sarvik chortled. ”So you put yourself last on the list, then, do you? It seems that I had a greater opinion of your ability than you have yourself. Maybe I will take it somewhere else. Who'd want to work with a self-admitted second-rater?”

”I admitted nothing of the kind. Who'd want to work with a crank?” Queezt retorted.

”Whenyou can quotemy resume,then you might be qualified to judge who's a crank,” Sarvik threw back.

”I tell you it's not feasible.”

”If you had anything to do with it, I'm beginning to suspect, it wouldn't be.”

”Grmmph.”

”Hmmm?”

Queezt picked up his cup, tracking his hand with one eye and contemplating Sarvik with the other.

”Just supposing-purely for the sake of argument-that I believed you. What would you want from me?”

Sarvik replied by leaning forward to open his briefcase and taking out a wallet of the kind used to carry circulating charge-array microrecording capsules. He selected one of the b.u.t.ton-size disks and pa.s.sed it to Queezt, who inserted it into a socket in the deskside panel. Sarvik gave him the coded key to unlock the contents, and a moment later one of the screens on the panel began showing a replay of later test runs with the mechanical veech. The animal ran up the wooden steps, turned and ran down again, tumbled the blocks about playfully, and tried to climb up the transparent wall of its enclosure.

With full transfer of the veech's psyche, the umbilical wiring had been removed, and every detail of the surrogate's behavior was authentic.

”A toy veech,” Queezt agreed condescendingly, and gave Sarvik a so-what look.

”Ah, but more than just that,” Sarvik said. ”It isn't running a clever simulation synthetic. It's hosting a direct transcription of the neural configuration extracted from a live animal. It's a real veech transposed into specially modified and extended Optronics. Now who are you calling a crank?”

Queezt did a good job of hiding his surprise and looked pained. ”Very well, so you managed to transfer a veech ident.i.ty. But that wasn't what you said this was all about. You said you could do it with a Borijan. What do you take me for?”

”I didn't say I could do it.” Sarvik clucked. ”If you'd listened, I said that I can get us there.”

”Why use a veech, anyway?” Queezt objected. ”Better to stay within the avian lineage. If you knew anything about comparative neural anatomy, you'd be aware that the organization of the mammalian third to fifth middle lobes is completely different.”

”Nonsense,” Sarvik answered dismissively. ”A simple software transform handles it.””What's the point?” Queezt challenged. ”Why complicate things?”

”Greater generalization. Try thinking beyond your bits-of-brains horizon for a change.”

Queezt sniffed. ”Well, it appears that your own wider thinking hasn't proved adequate to the task; otherwise you wouldn't be here, would you? What do you want from me? It appears that you already have a source of suitable hardware and mental circuitry.”

Sarvik indicated the screen again. ”So far we have experimented only with animals. To extend the process farther and verify it at the Borijan level will obviously require Borijan subjects. However, we experience a distinct lack of ready volunteers.” Sarvik rubbed his chin and curled his epaulets into a parody of a smile. ”The, ah . . . the process is destructive to the original, you see. There isn't any way back, as it were.”

Queezt thought for a few seconds and then nodded solemnly. ”Oh, I see.” It was all beginning to make more sense now.

Sarvik went on. ”I thought of working out something along the lines of offering it to convicted criminals as an option, but you know how difficult the authorities can be to deal with.” He gestured to indicate the surroundings generally. ”Then it occurred to me that in a medical environment such as this, with people in all kinds of conditions . . .” He left it unfinished and repeated his crooked smile again.

”It might be possible to work out some kind of agreement with terminal patients.” Queezt completed the thought for him. The proposition was clear now. Queezt sat back to consider it.

”They'd have nothing to lose,” Sarvik said after a short silence, voicing the obvious for both of them.

”Hm. And on the other hand, they could gain a whole new extension,” Queezt mused. ”A somewhat unconventional one, maybe, I agree . . .”

”True.”

”But an extension nonetheless.”

Sarvik gave it a few more seconds to simmer. Then he asked, c.o.c.king an eye, ”And do you know some that might be suitable, by any chance?”

Queezt nodded. ”Oh, yes. And in some cases their impairment is purely physical. The neural codes could probably be extracted complete.”

”That would be perfect.”

Which left only one more immediate point to be sure they were clear about. ”What would be my side of this?” Queezt inquired.

Sarvik shrugged. ”Whatever you can work with the patients and their attorneys, I presume.”

”Better than that, please, Dr. Sarvik,” Queezt said in a forced weary tone.