And what had VJSAR called that vessel-the perceptron? The pieces started dropping into place.
“Just keep talking to VISAR,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Lyn smiled the kind of smile that said she knew everything would work out okay; Hunt winked, then cut off the screen.
“Would you mind telling us what’s going on?” the controller asked. “I mean. . . we’re only supposed to be running this operation.”
“Just give me a second,” Hunt said, entering the code to reactivate the channeL He turned his face toward the grille. “VIsAR?”
“You rang?”
“That place we walked out of the perceptron into-does it exist, or did you invent it?”
“It exists. It’s part of a place called Vranix, which is an old city on Thurien.”
“Did we see it the way it is right now?”
“Yes, you did.”
“So you have to be relaying instantly between here and Thurien.”
“You’re getting the idea.”
Hunt thought for a second. “What about the room with the carpet?”
“I invented that. A special effect-faked. We thought that maybe some familiar-looking surroundings would help you get used to how we do things. Figured the rest out yet?”
“I’ll try a long shot,” Hunt said. “How about total sensory stimulation and monitoring, plus an instant communications link. We never went to Thurien; you brought Thurien here. And Lyn never answered any phone call. You pumped it straight into her nervous system along with everything else she thinks she’s doing, and you manufactured all the appropriate AV data to send through the local beam. How’s that?”
“Pretty good,” VISAR replied, managing to inject a strong note of approval into its voice. “So are you ready to rejoin the party? You’re due to meet the Thuriens in a few minutes.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Hunt said, and cut the connection.
“Now would you mind telling us what the hell this is all about?” the controller invited.
Hunt’s expression was distant, his voice slow and thoughtful. “That’s just a flying phone booth out there on the apron. It’s got equipment inside that somehow couples directly into the perceptual parts of the nervous system and transfers a total impression from a remote place. What you saw on the screen a minute ago was extracted straight out of Lyn’s mind. A computer translated it into audiovisual modulations on a signal beam and directed it into your antenna. It processed the transmission from here in the opposite direction.”
Ten minutes later Hunt reentered the perceptron and sat down in the same recliner that he had occupied before. “What do I say- ‘Home, James’?” he asked aloud.
This time there were no preliminary sensory disturbances. He was instantly back in the room with Lyn, who seemed to have been expecting him to reappear; VISAR had evidently forewarned her. He looked around the room curiously to see if he could detect any hint of its being a creation manufactured by a computer, but there was nothing. Every detail was authentic. It was uncanny. As with VISAR’S command of English and the data needed to disguise
the perceptron as a Boeing, all the information must have been extracted from Earth’s communications links; practically everything necessary had been communicated electronically from somewhere to somewhere at some time or another. No wonder the Thuriens had been particular about keeping everything connected with this business out of the network!
He reached out and ran a finger experimentally down Lyn’s arm. It felt warm and solid. The whole thing was exactly what he had said to VISAR-a total sensory stimulation process, probably acting on the brain centers directly and bypassing the neural inputs. It was astounding.
Lyn glanced down at his hand, then looked up and eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t know if it’s that authentic, either,” she told him. “And right now I’m not that curious. Forget it.”
Before Hunt could reply, the phone rang again. He answered it. It was Danchekker, looking ready to commit mayhem.
“This is monstrous! Outrageous!” The veins at his temples were throbbing visibly. “Have you any idea of the provocation to which I have been subjected? Where are you in this computerized lunatic asylum? What kind of-“