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outlived its usefulness. Now it strangled, restricted, limited humanity. The computer and its subordinate machines still enforced the dictates and would do so indefinitely, perhaps continuing to refine the system as they spread their influence across the galaxy and even beyond. Every extraterrestrial civilization would be a potential threat to humanity, as would every new idea or old yearning. But the same imperatives would mandate that the rings continue to exist in the hands of "humans with authority." He knew computers well and knew how they thought. If any of the rings had been lost or destroyed over the centuries, duplicates would actually have been made. Still, a machine that had killed its creators would not surrender its authority easily. There was no mandate that the possessors of the rings know what they were or how they might be used. There was no mandate to reveal the locations of the rings or the interface between ring faces and computer. A treasure hunt, indeed. Someone, or some group, had obviously stumbled on the secret of the rings and amassed all the additional data the notebooks and papers represented. All in longhand so that no computer would have access to them or know that they existed. Clearly, that dead woman had been part of this, or was perhaps a courier for an illegal tech group. Something had gone wrong. The system had discovered that such information existed. And one woman had escaped with the key, only to die here in this remote land. But where were the rings today? Who had them? If they could be assembled, as dangerous as that would be, and if the interface point could be discovered, whoever had them would be able to control... everything. Clearly the project had not been intended solely to assemble this information but to locate the rings. This woman and her associates, if any, were clearly out to track down those rings, the greatest treasure in the universe. There was in fact only one clue in the papers, a single scribbled entry in the margin of a middle sheet. In faded red ink, it was an original inscription, not a copy or part of a copy. It said: Chen has the three songbirds. Chen. A common enough name, but the common had to be discarded. This had to be a "human with authority." A human with authority named Chen. Lazlo Chen. It had to be him. The mixed-breed administrator for the nomadic tribes of the east. Hawks sat back, thinking hard. They had disguised their modules as rings, officer's insignia in a social club of scientists and technicians. Might that tradition have also come down? Even if the five originators had been killed, there were associates who might have escaped, associates who would know the rings' value and power. If the tradition had survived, even if the knowledge of its origins had not, then Chen might just know who wore the other four. And that, unfortunately, was the problem. Back at Council, he could have managed some excuse to catch a ride over to Chen's Tashkent base or at least to the regional center out of which he worked in Constantinople. What could he do now? He had but sixty-seven days of Leave to go, and it might well take longer than that to get anywhere near Chen. In sixty-seven days they would come to pick him up, take a readout before he'd even be allowed back into Council "decontamination" they cynically called it and in seconds he'd be tried, convicted, and executed by the machines who looked out for such things. And if he wasn't here to get picked up, they'd know immediately why, and a Val would be sent on his trail armed with his memories and the way he thought and with access to all the technology he lacked. His eyes strayed to the dog-eared atlas that had also been in the case. He Page 34 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html picked it up and found the overview of central North America, then traced the river systems, looking for something that would strike a chord. There were ports allowed, small enclaves that handled the small but steady trade between foreign shores and here, but he was separated from the eastern ports by many weeks of riding through unfamiliar territory held by eastern nations friendly to no stranger. To the south was Nawlins, of course, but it was small, controlled by the Caje, and its business was almost entirely with Central and South America. He suddenly stopped and sat upright. Mud Runner! He had almost forgotten about him! A few years ago Mud Runner had been expelled from Council due to some scandal never made public and appointed Resident Agent at Nawlins, where he'd come from, and where he'd be out of the Council's way. Hawks thought furiously. Was Mud Runer still there? Was he still alive? And if so, would he remember the eager young warrior who'd covered his watch many [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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