The trick, Kevin told himself as he stood poised on the edge of a cliff in Neurodyne’s wooden-block benchtop test ground, was to imagine that he was swimming in a dense fluid that amplified the effects of his movements. In fact, they had tried to write the microprogram to make the feedback feel just that way, with the perceived force serving as an analog of the wing speed that was impossible to register directly. Then, what felt like deliberate motion of an imaginary limb in a tangible medium would be converted insensibly into the appropriate vibrations. Having got that firmly fixed in his mind, he extended his virtual appendages and launched off.
The problem, he admitted as he found himself spinning and gyrating erratically across the floor, was that the system also amplified every error a hundredfold before you could do anything to correct it. It was like the old adage about the computer as something that can make mistakes a million times faster than the worst imbecile on the payroll: by the time you got to know that something was going wrong, it was already history.
He flipped out of visual to become himself again, viewing the Training Lab from one of the couplers. There were several techs in the vicinity, engaged at various tasks. Patti Jukes was nearest, clicking through report screens on a terminal. “Hey, Patti,” Kevin said. “Can you pick me up off the floor and save me having to get out of this? I’m a couple of feet to your left, by the bottom of the bench.”
“Sure, no problem.” The lab staff who had been with the company for any time at all were used to having Kevin around, and sometimes Taki also. Kevin knew most of them. Patti listened to classical music and owned a dog called Bach. Kevin had told her once that Beethoven had had a dog with a wooden leg. That was where he’d gotten his inspiration when it walked across the room: dah-dah-dah-dah.
Patti got up and picked the mec off the floor. “I wouldn’t want you to get trodden on down there.” She held it over the landscape of blocks and terraces. “Where do you want to be—back on the big flat one at the end?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Kevin had come in after school to use some of the firm’s microcode utilities that he couldn’t run at home. Taki was at his own place that evening, ensnared in some family function that had proved impossible to escape from.
“The way you guys have done this is terrific,” Patti said, examining the mec before she replaced it. “How’s it coming along?”
“Oh, slow, but I think we’re getting there. The problem is finding a program to give just the right wing twist. Right now, it’s spiraling and losing lift. That’s why I ended up where I did. You want to try it?”
“I’d love to, but not right now. Maybe later, when I’m done with this. Will you still be around after five?”
“Probably. . . . No, more than probably. I’m supposed to be riding home with Dad, and he’s with a couple of prospective customers. You’ll have time for dinner, then come back.”
“Is Kevin in here?” It was Doug Corfe’s voice, from the doorway. “Ah yes, there he is.” He came on in and approached across the lab area. “How’s the magnificent man in his flying machine getting on?”
“I think he’s amazing,” Patti said. “They’re going to crack it, you know, Doug.”
“Did Stewart put that new lens in the Liga?” Corfe asked her.
“I’m pretty sure he did. He looked like he was aligning it the last time I was in there. That was about an hour ago.”
“Good.” Corfe turned to Kevin. “Can we wrap it up for now, Mr. Wright-brother-the-second? I need to talk to you.”
“Well, I’d say it’s still mostly Mr. Wrong-brother at the moment,” Kevin said. “What’s up?”
“Well . . . let’s go to my office.”
“Oh—sure.” Kevin removed the headpiece and collar, and stood up from the coupler. “Shall I leave all this as is?”
“I’d shut it down and pick up your stuff,” Corfe said.
Kevin saved his updated files onto a removable disk pack, ejected it, and collected together his coding charts and notes. He put the mec in its container and stowed everything back in his school bag, which he had left on a chair. “That’s it,” he announced.
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