Frank Herbert Destination Vo

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Timberlake swallowed. His cheeks felt damp and cold. A place between his
shoulder blades itched.
Quite abruptly, he found himself remembering Professor Aldiss Warren, the
lecturer in biophysics back at UMB. He was a goat-bearded old man with a
senile-sounding voice and a mind like a scimitar.
Why do I think of old Warren -- now? Timberlake wondered.
As though the question released a hidden awareness, he recalled the old man
diverging from a seminar discussion to talk about moral strength.
"You wish to test moral strength?" he'd asked. "Simple. Construct a
med-computer with a public callbox attachment. Set it so that anyone
submitting to the computer's probes can find out to within a day or so when
he'll die . . . of natural causes, of course. If you wish to call old age
natural. Then you step back and see who uses the thing."
Someone -- a female student, had asked, "Wouldn't it take a kind of courage
not to use this computer?"
"Pah!" old Warren had exploded.
Another student had said, "Hypothetical questions like this always bore the
hell out of me."
"Sure," old Warren had answered. "You young toughs haven't faced the fact we
could build such a med-computer -- right now, today. We've had the ability to
build it for more than thirty years. It wouldn't even be very costly -- as
such things go. But we don't build it. Because very few people -- even among
those who could build it -- have the moral strength to use it."
Timberlake held himself still and silent in the hyb tank, realizing why he had
remembered that incident. Coming into this cold-lighted tank was like using
old Warren's hypothetical death predictor.
Bickel infected me with the certainty that this ship is not what it seems to
be, Timberlake thought. He took over command, pushed me aside. The only
reason for being that was left me -- He looked up and around the tank -- was
in here. If this is taken from me, then I'm truly useless . . . except as a
kind of computer-shop flunky for
Bickel.
Yes, Bickel. Right away, Bickel. Is there anything else, Bickel?
With a sense of astonishment at how he had unconsciously dramatized the change
of relationships within the crew, Timberlake rolled this realization over and
over in his mind. There was a kind of pride in the awareness of his inner
workings, the quirks his mind possessed, and an understanding that this
stemmed in part from his conditioning.
Presently, he launched himself up to an individual tank hanging low on the
left center. The tank was like all the others racked in curving rows around
it. He activated the inner cold light, caught a handhold, and bent close to
the tank's inspection port.
The light flickered, glowed. It illuminated the metered master tubes dropping
from the tank's other side, a color-coded sheaf of spaghetti that trailed down
left and right to the figure under the light.
A man's craggy profile lay there, waxy skin and faint black beard. He was
like a mannequin figure -- and Timberlake thought immediately of elaborate
human-size dolls racked here to maintain the pretense.
The man's name was there on the tank's identification plate immediately below
the place where the spaghetti of life-support connections entered.
"Martin Rhoades." And the code number which identified the specialties
conditioned into him. He was an organizer, an executive . . . and another
medical person.
If that were a real person.
Timberlake found his thoughts flitting from concept to concept. Person.
Persona. Does a Persona provide a Raison d'etre? That meant "a reason to
be."
What's my reason for being?
Timberlake studied the life-systems telltales above the spaghetti sheaf. They
registered a faint flame of life within the tank. Timberlake made a tiny
adjustment in the oxygen meter, caught the immediate feedback surge on the
tank's electroencephalographic coupling.
The oxygen meter reset itself.
This, then, was a hybernating man. That feedback reaction, with its elaborate
encephalographic play, could not be programmed for the unexpected. The oxygen
shift at this moment in time obviously could not have been anticipated. A
human homeostat had detected it, though, and reacted correctly.
Timberlake dropped down to the gridded catwalk, checked a tank opposite, and
another farther down the line.
He went through them at random, pausing only to check that each held a living
human.
Names leaped out at him from the I.D. tags:
"Tossa Lon Nikki."
"Artemus Lon St. John."
"Peter Lon Vardack."
"Legata Lon Hamill."
One of them he recognized -- black hair, olive skin with its waxy undertone,
chiseled features -- Frank Lipera, a fellow student in human engineering.
Presently, Timberlake went on to the next section . . . and the next. He
found he recognized many of the occupants. This filled him with a feeling of
loneliness. He felt that he might be the keeper of a museum, guarding old
relics for a brief human life span, sequestering beneath these blue cold
lights a share of man's culture and knowledge.
He came at last to a corner of section seven, another recognizable face from
his UMB past -- blond and Germanic, pale wax skin. Timberlake read the name
etched above the inspection port: "PEABODY, Alan -- K7a."
Yes, it was Al Peabody, Timberlake agreed. Yet, in a way it wasn't Al. . . .
It was as though the companion of Timberlake's gym classes, his opponent in
handball and moon tennis, had gone away somewhere to wait.
But Peabody, Alan -- K-7a proved to be a viable human with individual
homeostatic reactions. He could be awakened to speak and act and think. He
could be awakened to consciousness.
And consciousness is a thing beyond speaking and acting and thinking,
Timberlake thought.
He loosed the handhold, dropped lightly back to the catwalk, feeling no
particular need to check further. He knew with an inner certainty that all
the tanks held hybernating humans. Bickel might be correct about the Tin Egg
being an elaborate simulation, but in here the simulation went too far to be
anything other than what it seemed. The hyb tanks had not been larded with
obvious deception.
I was supposed to come through here, surprise Bickel and stop him, Timberlake
thought. Stop him from what?
Some tiny, unregistered perception worked on the edge of Timberlake's
awareness, assuring him that whatever Bickel was doing right now in the shop
held no immediate danger to these helpless sleepers.
Whatever Bickel's doing, he must be doing it right now, Timberlake thought.
I've been gone . . . almost an hour.
He looked up at the rows of tanks. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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