43 Interrogation And now Magellan had a new crewmember, untimely awakened from his slumber and still adjusting to the realities of the situation – as Kaldor had done a year ago. Nothing but an emergency justified such action. But according to the computer records only Dr Marcus Steiner, once Chief Scientist of the Terran Bureau of Investigation, possessed the knowledge and skills that, unfortunately, were needed now. Back on Earth, his friends had often asked him why he had chosen to become a professor of criminology. And he had always given the same answer: ‘The only alternative was to become a criminal.’ It had taken Steiner almost a week to modify the sickbay’s standard encephalographic equipment and to check the computer programs. Meanwhile, the four Sabras remained confined to their quarters and stubbornly refused to make any admission of guilt. Owen Fletcher did not look very happy when he saw the preparations that had been made for him; there were too many similarities to electric chairs and torture devices from the bloodstained history of earth. Dr Steiner quickly put him at ease with the synthetic familiarity of the good interrogator. ‘There’s nothing to be alarmed at, Owen – I promise you won’t feel a thing. You won’t even be aware of the answers you’re giving me – but there’s no way you can hide the truth. Because you’re an intelligent man, I’ll tell you exactly what I’m going to do. Surprisingly enough, it helps me do my job; whether you like it or not, your subconscious mind will trust me – and cooperate.’ What nonsense, thought Fletcher; surely he doesn’t think he can fool me as easily as that! But he made no reply, as he was seated in the chair and the orderlies fastened leather straps loosely around his forearms and waist. He did not attempt to resist; two of his largest ex-colleagues were standing uncomfortably in the background, carefully avoiding his eye. ‘If you need a drink or want to go to the toilet, just say so. This first session will take exactly one hour; we may need some shorter ones later. We want to make you relaxed and comfortable.’ In the circumstances, this was a highly optimistic remark, but no one seemed to think it at all funny. ‘Sorry we’ve had to shave your head, but scalp electrodes don’t like hair. And you’ll have to be blindfolded, so we don’t pick up confusing visual inputs … Now you’ll start getting drowsy, but you’ll remain conscious … We’re going to ask you a series of questions which have just three possible answers – Yes, No, Don’t Know. But you won’t have to reply; your brain will do it for you, and the computer’s trinary logic system will know what it’s saying. ‘And there’s absolutely no way you can lie to us; you’re very welcome to try! Believe me, some of the best minds of Earth invented this machine – and were never able to fool it. If it gets ambiguous answers, the computer will simply reframe the questions. Are you ready? Very well… Recorder on high, please … Check gain on Channel 5 … Run program.’ YOUR NAME IS OWEN FLETCHER … ANSWER YES … OR NO… YOUR NAME IS JOHN SMITH … ANSWER YES … OR NO … YOU WERE BORN IN LOWELL CITY, MARS … ANSWER YES…OR NO…. YOUR NAME IS JOHN SMITH … ANSWER YES … OR NO … YOU WERE BORN IN AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND… ANSWER YES … OR NO … YOUR NAME IS OWEN FLETCHER … YOU WERE BORN ON 3 MARCH 3585 … YOU WERE BORN ON 31 DECEMBER 3584 … The questions came at such short intervals that even if he had not been in a mildly sedated condition, Fletcher would have been unable to falsify the answers. Nor would it have mattered had he done so; within a few minutes, the computer had established the pattern of his automatic responses to all the questions whose answers were already known. From time to time the calibration was rechecked (YOUR NAME IS OWEN FLETCHER … YOU WERE BORN IN CAPETOWN, ZULULAND …), and questions were occasionally repeated to confirm answers already given. The whole process was completely automatic, once the physiological constellation of YES – NO responses had been identified. The primitive ‘lie detectors’ had tried to do this with fair success – but seldom complete certainty. It had taken no more than two hundred years to perfect the technology and thereby to revolutionize the practice of law, both criminal and civil, to the point when few trials ever lasted more than hours. It was not so much an interrogation as a computerized – and cheat-proof- version of the ancient game Twenty Questions. In principle, any piece of information could be quickly pinned down by a series of YES – NO replies, and it was surprising how seldom as many as twenty were needed when an expert human cooperated with an expert machine. When a rather dazed Owen Fletcher staggered from the chair, exactly one hour later, he had no idea what he had been asked or how he had responded. He was fairly confident, however, that he had given nothing away. He was mildly surprised when Dr Steiner said cheerfully, ‘That’s it, Owen. We won’t need you again.’ The professor was proud of the fact that he had never hurt anybody, but a good interrogator had to be something of a sadist – if only a psychological one. Besides, it added to his reputation for infallibility, and that was half the battle. He waited until Fletcher had regained his balance and was being escorted back to the detention cell. ‘Oh, by the way, Owen – that trick with the ice would never have worked.’ In fact, it might well have done; but that didn’t matter now. The expression on Lieutenant Fletcher’s face gave Dr. Steiner all the reward he needed for the exercise of his considerable skills. Now he could go back to sleep until Sagan 2. But first he would relax and enjoy himself, making the most of this unexpected interlude. Tomorrow he would have a look at Thalassa and perhaps go swimming off one of those beautiful beaches. But for the moment he would enjoy the company of an old and beloved friend. The book he drew reverently out of its vacuum-sealed package was not merely a first edition; it was now the only edition. He opened it at random; after all, he knew practically every page by heart. He started to read, and fifty light-years from the ruins of Earth, the fog rolled once more down Baker Street. ‘The cross-checking has confirmed that only the four Sabras were involved,’ Captain Bey said. ‘We can be thankful that there’s no need to interrogate anyone else.’ ‘I still don’t understand how they hoped to get away with it,’ Deputy Captain Malina said unhappily. ‘I don’t believe they would, but it’s lucky it was never put to the test. Anyway, they were still undecided. ‘Plan A involved damaging the shield. As you know, Fletcher was on the assembly crew and was working out a scheme to reprogram the last stage of the lifting procedure. If a block of ice could be allowed to impact at just a few metres a second – you see what I mean? ‘It could be made to look like an accident, but there was risk that the subsequent inquiry would soon prove it was nothing of the sort. And even if the shield was damaged, it could be repaired. Fletcher hoped that the delay would give time to acquire more recruits. He might have been right; another year on Thalassa … ‘Plan B involved sabotaging the life-support system, so that the ship had to be evacuated. Again, the same objections. ‘Plan C was the most disturbing one because it would have terminated the mission. Luckily, none of the Sabras was in propulsion; it would have been very hard for them to get at the drive…’ Everyone looked shocked – though none more so than Commander Rocklyn. ‘It would not have been at all difficult, Sir, if they were sufficiently determined. The big problem would have been to arrange something that would put the drive out of action -permanently – without damaging the ship. I very much doubt if they’d have the technical knowledge necessary.’ ‘They were working on it,’ the captain grimly said. ‘We have to review our security proceedings, I’m afraid. There will be a conference on that tomorrow for all senior officers – here, at noon.’ And then Surgeon-Commander Newton put the question that everyone hesitated to ask. ‘Will there be a court martial, Captain?’ ‘It’s not necessary; guilt has been established. According to Ship’s Orders, the only problem is the sentence.’ Everyone waited. And waited. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ the captain said, and his officers left in silence. Alone in his quarters, he felt angry and betrayed. But at least it was over; Magellan had ridden out the man-made storm. The other three Sabras were – perhaps – harmless; but what about Owen Fletcher? His mind strayed to the deadly plaything in his safe. He was captain: it would be easy to arrange an accident … He put the fantasy aside; he could never do it, of course. In any event, he had already made up his mind and was certain that there would be universal agreement. Someone had once said that for every problem there is a solution that is simple, attractive – and wrong. But this solution, he was certain, was simple, attractive – and absolutely right. The Sabras wanted to remain on Thalassa; they could do so. He did not doubt that they would become valuable citizens – perhaps exactly the aggressive, forceful type that this society needed. How strange that History was repeating itself; like Magellan, he would be marooning some of his men. But whether he had punished them or rewarded them, he would not know for three hundred years.