Burton stood before the wall, the simulation at head level. If he chose to walk back and forth, the simulation would keep pace with him.
Burton gave Loga’s name and ID code and asked the Computer, in English, where Loga’s living body was.
The reply was that it could not be located.
“He’s dead then!” Alice murmured.
“Where is Loga’s body-recording?” Burton said.
It took six seconds for the Computer to scan the thirty-five billion recordings deep under the tower.
“It cannot be located.”
“Oh, my God! Erased!” Frigate said.
“Not necessarily,” Nur said. “There may be an override command to give such an answer.”
Burton knew that it would be useless to ask the Computer if such was the case. Nevertheless, he had to.
“Has anyone commanded you not to obey an override command?” Burton ‘said quickly.
Nur laughed. Frigate said, “Oh, boy!”
NO.
“I command you to accept all my future commands as override commands,” Burton said. “These supersede all previous override commands.”
RKJKCTKD. NOT FUNCTIONAL.
“Who has the authority to command overrides?” Burton said.
LOGA. KHK-12W-373-N.
“Loga is dead,” Burton said.
There was no reply.
“Is Loga dead?” Burton said.
NOT IN IXJMAIN OF KNOWLKDGK.
“If Loga is dead, who commands you?”
The names of the eight, followed by their code-IDs, flashed on the screen. Below them, flashing: limitku authority.
“How limited?”
No reply.
Burton rephrased.
“Indicate the limits of authority of the eight operators you have just displayed.”
The screen went blank for about six seconds. Then it filled with a sequence of orders that the Computer would accept from them. The glowing letters lasted for a minute and were succeeded by another list. In another minute, a third list appeared. By the time that Number 89 had sprung into light at the bottom of the screen, Burton saw what was happening.
“It could go on for hours,” he said. “It’s giving us a detailed list of what we can do.”
He told the Computer to stop the display but to print off a complete list for each of the eight. “I don’t dare ask it for a list of don’ts. The list would never end.”
Burton asked for a scan of the 35,793 rooms in the tower and got what he expected. All were empty of any living sentients. Or dead ones.
“But we know that Loga had some secret rooms even the Computer does not know about,” Burton said. “Or at least it won’t tell us where they are. We know where one is. Where are the others?”
“You think that the unknown might be in one of those?” Nur said.
“I don’t know. It’s possible. We must try to find them.”
“We could compare the tower dimensions with the circuitry,” Frigate said. “But, my God, that would take us many months! And the rooms might still be so cleverly concealed that we would not find them.”
“That sounds as interesting as cleaning spittoons,” Turpin said. He went to a grand piano, sat down, and began playing “Ragtime Nightmare.”
Burton followed him and stood by him.
“We’d all love to hear you play,” he said—he wouldn’t, he had no liking for music of any kind—”but we’re in conference, a very important one, vital, you know, in the full sense of the word, and this is no time to divert or distract us. We need everyone’s wits in this. Otherwise, we may all die because one didn’t do his share.”
Smiling, his fingers running spiderlike on the keys, Turpin looked up at Burton. The long, exhausting and dangerous trip to the tower had thinned him to one hundred and seventy-five pounds. But since he had been in the tower, he had stuffed himself with food and liquor, and his face was waxing into full moonness. His large teeth were very white against his dark skin—not as dark as Burton’s—and his dark brown hair was wavy, not kinky. He could have passed for white, but he had chosen to stay in the black world on Earth.
“Nigger is how you was raised, how you think,” he would sometimes say. “As the Good Book says, it don’t do no good to kick against the pricks.” He would laugh softly then, not caring whether or not his hearer understood that by “pricks” he meant “whites.”