However, when Brian touched it the green indicator flashed and there was a clack as the door unlocked. He pushed it open and they followed him in.

With great enthusiasm Evgeni pointed out all of the equipment that he had installed, the latest computers.

Brian looked about but did not recognize most of the machines- finding out about them would be the first order of business. There was a good view from the large window that looked out onto the desert.

"I thought the lab was underground," he said-pointing at the roadrunner that scuttled by.

"It is," Ben said. "That is a five-thousand line high resolution TV screen. The camera is mounted on the wall outside. This screen used to be in the Chairman's office but I thought that it had more practical value here."

"It does, many thanks."

"I'll leave you to it," Major Wood said. "Will you let me out, please, Brian? You are also the only one who can ever open that door. It may be a pain-but it is damn good security."

"No complaints. And thanks for what you have done."

"That's my job. You'll be safe here."

"Okay. Then I better get started working on my old AI ideas. I mean not my ideas, the ideas the old Brian was working on." Many of the sketches were bits of code in a language he did not recognize. It must have been written in some computer language that his earlier self, the old Brian, had designed for the purpose.

Brian walked over to the computer, took the GRAM from his pocket and plugged it in. The screen came to life and the computer spoke with a clear contralto voice.

"Good morning. Will you be operating this machine?"

"Yes. My name is Brian. Speak in a deeper voice."

"Is this satisfactory?" it said, now a deep baritone.

"Yes. Keep it at that." He turned to Evgeni. "Looks good."

"Is good. Latest model. Costs millions in Russia except not available there. Boy will I have stories for the hackers in Tomsk when I get home. I got other work to do if you don't need me."

"No, I'm fine. I'll give a shout if I have any questions."

"The same goes for me," Ben said, looking at his watch. "I make it over four hours since we started this trip-which is deadline time."

"What do you mean?"

"Your orders from Dr. Snaresbrook. This is when you stop working for the day and lie down. No excuses accepted, she said-but there is no reason you can't lie down with your portable computer."

Brian knew better than to protest. He gave one last long, lingering look at the laboratory-then led the way to the door and locked them all out. Major Wood was waiting outside.

"Just coming to get you," he said. "I had a call from Dr. Snaresbrook that if you were not yet in your quarters that you were to be taken there immediately."

"We're on the way," Brian said, putting up his hands in surrender. "The long arm of the doctor reaches everywhere."

"You better believe it," Ben agreed. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Brian was not surprised to discover that he was quartered in the barracks with the troops. "Right in the middle of the building," Woody said. "You've got dogfaces on all sides, not to mention the guard stations.

Here we are."

The apartment was small but comfortable; sitting room, bedroom, kitchen and bath. His computer was on the worktable and his bag had been unpacked.

"Just pick up the phone when you want dinner-it will be brought up to you. Tonight's meat loaf," the Major added as he closed the door.

21

February 16, 2024

Brian could not fall asleep. It was the excitement of the move, the new bed perhaps, all of the things that had happened that day conspired to keep him awake. At midnight he decided to stop twisting and turning and do something about it. He threw back the covers and got out of bed. The room circuitry detected this, checked the time, then turned on the dimmed lights that were just enough to enable him to walk without stumbling. The medicine chest was not as kind to him. It had been programmed not to let anyone take medicine in the dark-and he blinked in the sudden glare when he opened the door. If you can't sleep take two with a glass of water, the doctor had printed on the label. He did as instructed and made his way back to bed.

The dreams began as soon as he fell asleep. Confused happenings, bits of school, Paddy appeared in one of them, Texas sunshine, the glare of the sun on the Gulf. Blinking into its glare. Rising in the morning, setting in the evening. How beautiful, how wrong. Just an illusion. The sun stays where it is. The earth goes around the sun, around and around.

Darkness and stars. And the moon. Moving moon, spinning around the earth. Rising and setting like the sun. But not like the sun. Moon, sun, earth. Somet imes all three lined up and there was an eclipse. Moon in front of sun.

Brian had never seen a total eclipse. His father had, told him about it. Eclipse: La Paz, Mexico, in 1991. On July 11 the day became dark, moon in front of sun.

Brian stirred in his sleep, frowning into the darkness. He had never seen an eclipse. Would he ever? Would there ever be an eclipse here in the Anza-Borrego desert?

The equation to answer this should be a simple one. Just a basic application of Newton's laws. The acceleration is inverse to the square of the distance.

Each object pulled by the other two.

Sun, earth, moon. A simple differential equation.

With just eighteen variables.

Set up the coordinates.

Distances.

The earth was how far from the sun?

The Handbook of Astronautics, figures swimming before him, glowing in the dark.

The distance from the earth to the sun at its nearest point.

The axes and degrees of inclinations of the earth and the moon's orbits...

The precise elements of these orbits-their perihelions, velocities and eccentricities.

Figures and numbers clicked into place-and then it happened.

The differential equation began working itself out before him. Within him? Was he watching, living, experiencing? He murmured and twisted but it would not go away or stop.

Streaming by, number by number.

"November 14, 2031," he shouted hoarsely.

Brian found himself shouting, sitting up in bed and soaked with sweat, blinking as the lights came on.

He fumbled for the glass of water on the night table, drained most of it and dropped back onto the crumpled bed. What had happened? The experience had been so strong, the racing figures so clear that he could still see them. Too strong to be a dream- "The IPMC. The implant processors!" he said aloud.

Had that been it? Had he in the dreaming state somehow accessed the computer that had been planted in his brain? Could he possibly have commanded it to run some procedure? Some program for solving the problem?

This seemed to be what had happened. It had apparently solved the problem, then fed the solution back to him. Is this what had happened? Why not? It was the most logical, plausible, least frightening explanation. He called out to his computer to turn on, then spoke a description of what had happened into its memory, adding his theory as well. After this he fell into a deep and apparently dreamless sleep. It was well after eight before he woke again. He turned the coffeemaker on, then phoned Dr. Snaresbrook. Her phone answered him and said that she would ring him back. Her call came as he was crunching into a second slice of toast.

"Morning, Doc. I have some interesting news for you." After he finished describing what had happened there was a long silence on the line. "You still there?"

"Yes, sorry, Brian, just thinking about what you said- and I believe you might very well be right.''

"Then it is good news?"

"Incredibly good. Look-I'm going to shift some appointments around and see if I can't get out there by noon. Is that all right with you?"

"Sounds great. I'll be in the lab."

He spent the morning skimming through his recovered backup notes, trying to get a feel for the work he had done, the research and construction-all of the memories the bullet had destroyed. It was a strange sensation reading what he had written, almost a message from the grave. Because the Brian who had written these notes was dead and would remain dead forever. He knew that there was no way that he at the age of fourteen would ever grow into the very same man of twenty who had written this first report, based on several years of research. In the end to build the world's first humanlike intelligence.

Nor could he understand any of the shorthand notes and bits of program that his twenty-year-old self had written. He smiled ruefully at this and turned back to the first page. The only way to proceed was to follow everything, step by step. He would read ahead, whenever he could, to avoid dead ends and false starts. But basically he would have to recreate everything that he had done, do it all over again.

Dr. Snaresbrook phoned him at twelve-thirty when she arrived: he shut down his work and joined her in the Megalobe clinic.

"Come in, Brian," she said, looking him up and down with a critical eye. "You're looking remarkably fit."

"I'm feeling that way as well. An hour or two reading in the sun every day-and a short walk like you said."

"Eating well?"

"You bet-the army rations are very good. And look at this..." He took off his cap and rubbed the fuzz growing there. "A mini crew cut. It'll be real hair one day soon."

"Any pain from the incisions?"

"None."

"Dizziness? Shortness of breath? Fatigue?"

"No, no and no."

"I'm immensely pleased. Now-I want you to tell me exactly what happened, every detail."

"Listen to this first," he said, passing over a disk. "I recorded this just after I had the dream. If I sound sort of stoned it's because I took that sleeping potion you gave me."

"That fact alone is interesting. It was a tranquilizer and that might have been one of the contributing factors to the incident."

Snaresbrook listened to the recording three times, making notes each time. Then she questioned Brian closely, going over the same ground again and again until she saw that he was tiring.

"Enough. Let's have a cup of coffee and I'll let you go."

"Aren't you going to see if I can do it again-but consciously this time?"

"Not today. Get some rest first-"

"I'm not tired! I was just falling asleep from saying the same things over and over again. Come on, Doc, be a sport. Let's try it now while the whole thing is fresh in my mind."

"You're right-strike while the iron is hot! All right- let's start with something simple. What would be the square o f . . . of 123456?"

Brian visualized the number, tried to find somewhere to put it. He pulled and pushed mentally, twisting his thoughts about it. Tried harder, grunted aloud with the effort.

"15522411383936! That's the square, I'm sure of it!"

"Do you know how you did it?" she asked excitedly.

"Not really. It was sort of like groping for a memory, something like a word almost on the tip of one's tongue. Reaching and finding it."

"Can you do it again?"

"I hope so-yes, why not? I don't know how it worked in the dream, but I think that I can do it again. But I have no idea how I do it."

"I think I know what is happening. But in order to verify my diagnosis I'll have to hook you up to the connection machine again. See what is going on in your brain. Will that be all right?"

"Of course. I must find out how this is happening."

She turned on the connection machine while he settled into the chair. The delicate fingers made their adjustments and he leaned back, ordered his thoughts.

"Then here is what we will do." She moved the cursor through the menu on her screen. "Here is an article I downloaded into my computer yesterday from a journal. It's titled 'Protospecialist Intensities in Juvenile Development.' Do you know anything about the subject?"

"I know a bit about what protospecialists are. The nerve centers located in the brain stem that are responsible for most of our basic instincts. Hunger, rage, sex, sleep-things like that. But I don't think that I ever read any article like that."

"You couldn't have, it was only published a few months ago. Then I am going to load it into your implant CPU's memory-under that title." She quickly touched the keys, then turned back to him. "It should be there now. See if you are aware of it. Are you?"

"No, not really. I mean I can remember the title because I just heard it."

"Then try to do what you did a little while ago, what you did in the dream. Tell me about the article."

Brian's lip tightened as he frowned, struggling inside his brain with invisible effort.

"Something-I can't tell. I mean there is something there if I can only get close to it. Get a handle on it..."

His eyes opened wide and he began to speak, the words tumbling from his lips.

"...as the child grows, each primitive protospecialist grows level after level of new memory and management machinery and, at the same time, each of them tends to find new ways to influence and exploit what the others can do. The result of this process is to make the older versions of those specialists less separate and distinct. Thus, as those different systems learn to share their cognitive attachments, the resulting cross-connections lead to the more complex mixtures of feelings characteristic of more adult emotions. And by the time we're adults, these systems have become too complicated even for ourselves to understand. By the time we've passed through all those stages of development, our grown-up minds have been rebuilt too many times to remember or understand much of how it felt to be an infant."