Christopher Anvil - A Question of Identity

Illustration by Laura Freas

Ed Cassetti stood before the pair of big viewscreens in the on-call cabin of the contact-ship Ambassador. The left-hand screen showed a small and shrinking image of the planet Earth. The right-hand screen showed a vague skull-like shape that loomed larger as Earth dwindled.

To Cassettis left, Sam Richards, the other human on the computer-con-trolled ship, glanced at a warning light by a small grille between the screens. This warning light glowed red, and the grille emitted an artificial voice: Contact Specialist 4 Samuel Richards: You will immediately correct nonstandard contact-suit-liner configuration.

Richards sighed, and put the hood of his khaki skisuit-like uniform back over his head.

The light faded out.

Cassetti murmured, More coming.

Naturally. But the damned hood gets hot.

The red light came back on.

Contact Specialist 4 Samuel Richards: You have committed Uniform Violation Level Three. You will immediately do forty push-ups.

Richards dropped to the deck. Keeping his back rigid and straightening his arms fully, he methodically did forty push-ups.

The red light stayed on.

Contact Specialist 4 Samuel Richards: You will repeat aloud the first three Rules For Human Contact Specialists.

Richards, his face expressionless, stood at attention.

Contact Rule One: At the earliest possible moment, transmit all relevant factual information to Computer Data Control. Rapid data transmittal is as important now as during the Accident.

Contact Rule Two: Do not attempt to judge an extraterrestrial race or its artifacts on the basis of human experience. This is the first contact with an extraterrestrial race, and human experience is irrelevant.

Contact Rule Three: During contact, do not attempt to draw independent conclusions. Human datastorage capacity and calculating ability are minimal. Prompt responses, based on complete data recognition and rapid processing, are vital. Computer control is therefore essential.

The artificial voice said, That is correct. You are warned to obey instructions promptly and exactly.

The light faded out.

Richards exhaled. Talk about user unfriendly.

Cassetti said, Before the Accident, that used to be known as Master Computer 3C, humanitys kindly guide, companion, and servant.

So I remember. Did a few circuits bum out?

I think they reprogrammed it to give orders right after the Accident, because there was no other way fast enoughand then it just drew the natural conclusion as to whos boss.

Why that interface? It would have been easy to give it a bearable voice, for a start. And this barking of orders gets wearisome.

It sure does. I suppose they were in a hurry. Cassetti glanced around at the screen. Look at this.

On the right-hand screen, the pale looming shape had become more solid, and a legend appeared:

EXTRATERRESTRIAL SHIP

ENHANCED IMAGE

ACTUAL SURFACE HIGHLY REFLECTIVE

The vague skull resolved itself into five spheres, four at the comers of a tetrahedron with its apex down, and another at the center, each joined to the others by straight cylinders. A small sixth sphere was connected only to the center sphere.

Richards tapped the edge of the screen, and a tiny oblong appeared, showing their own ship to the same scale.

Startled, he glanced at the tetrahedron. That thing is huge.

It sure is. Now, look.

As the legend, ENHANCED IMAGE, flashed repeatedly, a web of glittering braces appeared, reinforcing the extraterrestrial ship.

Cassetti said. Apparently those are so shiny as to not even be visible without enhancing the image. I wonder what that ship looks like naturally?

A blur or distortion in the star field? That would be my guess.

It would be interesting to just shut off the enhancement and see.

Richards glanced around the frame of the screen, as if for controls that werent there. He shook his head. Have to ask MC3C for permission.

No, thanks. Last time, we got one hell of a lecture.

Being a computers helper gets tiresome. Its like being apprenticed to a bloodhound, and judged accordingly.

Yes. In the computers specialty, were imbeciles. The devil with the screen.

That web of braces does tell us something, though.

That the extraterrestrial ship goes through heavy stress?

Or that the extraterrestrials believe in a good margin of safety.

Hm. Yes.

Just below the lowest of the spheres, a faint ghostly form filled in to become a corrugated curving cylinder joining their ship and the extraterrestrial. From somewhere forward came a clang and a sound of pumps.

Richards murmured, Were connected.

Cassetti shook his head. Damn it. The computer must be going to use its own mobile communicator to make the contact.

Looks like it. If we were going, wed have had to suit up by now.

Cassetti pictured the beachball-size communicator with its cable, and shook his head. With that thing, the master computer can be directly connected, and run the whole show. Were surplus baggage. Fidos going to catch the rabbits on its own.

Richards studied the monster ship on the screen. He said drily, I sure hope Fido understands what its up against.

If it wasnt going to use us, why train us and bring us along?

Richards turned away from the screen, and sat down in one of several massive heavily padded seats. My guess is, some subprogram in its operating system demands backup, just in case. Were backup.

Cassetti exhaled harshly, and sat down in another seat. What does backup do? Play cards? Shoot craps? Richards shrugged. Not ours to reason why. Who knows? It might decide to use us yet.

Generous of the s.o.b.

In the far lower comer of the right-hand screen, rapidly changing figures were now reeling off minutes, seconds, and decimal fractions of a second, apparently since the ships had joined.

As the figures spun around, Richards and Cassetti discussed what they thought of MC3C, and other computers they had known. They rehashed details of the nightmare that had followed the Accident and preceded this job. Cassetti damned employers who cut their research departments, thereby leaving him unemployed. Richards got started on his theory of the inevitability of a technological Accident, a theory so unpopular before the actual Accident as to have landed him in his department chairmans version of a dungeon.

There was a metallic smashing noise as Richards was saying, The trouble was, they didnt have the details of the Fulmar Drive worked out yet, but everybody could see how to make a fortune if the units could be linked to make a gravitic corridor from the Belt inward. So

Cassetti glanced around. What was that noise?

I dont know. It sounded fairly close.

From somewhere came a peculiar high-pitched whistle; it ran up and down the scale, as if the player of an instrument were trying to find the right note; but apparently the player couldnt find it, and the whistle faded out.

Cassetti looked exasperatedly at the screen, which showed nothing new. What the devil is going on now?

Richards became aware of a kind of rumble that was only barely audible, as much felt as heard. This vibration faded away, then came back as a kind of fast-climbing high-pitched squabbling noise.

Cassetti got up. Damn it! Weve been trained. We arent as dumb as the computer claims!

Richards settled back. Take it easy. If MC3C is doing the kind of job I think its doing, we may get a chance yet.

Cassetti glanced at the screen, which still showed only the outside of the gigantic extraterrestrial ship. Richards waited patiently.