‘I don’t wish to pour cold water on the idea,’ Jafferjee said. ‘But surely, even if you can revive the body — won’t there be irreversible brain damage after a hundred years?’
‘That’s exactly what I was afraid of, when I started thinking about it. But there’s a great deal of research that makes it very plausible — I’ve been quite surprised. More than that — impressed. Have you ever heard of Professor Ralph Merkle?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘More than thirty years ago, he and a couple of other young mathematicians revolutionized cryptography by inventing the public-key system — I won’t bother to explain that, but it made every cipher machine in the world, and a lot of spy networks, obsolete overnight.
‘Then, in 1990 — sorry, 1989 — he published a classic paper called ‘Molecular Repair of the Brain’ — ‘
‘Oh, that fellow!’
‘Good — I was sure you must have heard of his work. He pointed out that even if there had been gross damage to the brain, it could be repaired by the molecule-sized machines he was quite certain would be invented in the next century. Now.’
‘And have they been?’
‘Many of them. Look at the computer-controlled microsubs the surgeons are using now, to ream out the arteries of stroke victims. You can’t watch a science channel these days without seeing the latest achievements of nanotechnology.’
‘But to repair a whole brain, molecule by molecule! Think of the sheer numbers involved!’
‘About ten to the twenty-third. A trivial number.’
‘Indeed.’ Jafferjee was not quite sure whether Edith was joking; no — she was perfectly serious.
‘Very well. Suppose you do repair a brain, right down to the last detail. Would that bring the person back to life? Complete with memories? Emotions? And everything else — whatever it is — that makes a specific, self-conscious individual?’
‘Can you give me a good reason why it wouldn’t? I don’t believe the brain is any more mysterious than the rest of the body — and we know how that works, in principle if not in detail. Anyway, there’s only one way to find out — and we’ll learn a lot in the process.’
‘How long do you think it will take?’
‘Ask me in five years. Then I may know if we’ll need another decade — or a century. Or forever.’
‘I can only wish you luck. It’s a fascinating project — and you’re going to have lots of problems beside the purely technical ones. Her relations, for example, if they’re ever located.’
‘It doesn’t seem likely. The latest theory is that she was a stowaway, and so not on the passenger list.’
‘Well, the church. The media. Thousands of sponsors. Ghost writers who want to do her autobiography. I’m beginning to feel sorry for that poor girl already.’
And he could not help thinking, though he did not say it aloud: I hope Dolores won’t be jealous.
Donald, of course, had been both astonished and indignant: husbands (and wives) always were on such occasions.
‘She didn’t even leave any message?’ he said unbelievingly.
Dr. Jafferjee shook his head.
‘There’s no need to worry. She’ll contact you as soon as she’s settled down. It will take her a while to adjust. Give her a few weeks.’
‘Do you know where she’s gone?’
The doctor did not answer, which was answer enough.
‘Well, are you quite sure she’s safe?’
‘No doubt of it; she’s in extremely good hands.’ The psychiatrist made one of those lengthy pauses which were part of his stock-in-trade.
‘You know, Mr. Craig, I should be quite annoyed with you.’
‘Why?’ asked Donald, frankly astonished.
‘You’ve cost me the best member of my staff — my right-hand woman.’
‘Nurse Dolores? I wondered why I’d not seen her — I wanted to thank her for all she’d done.’
Another of those calculated pauses; then Dr. Jafferjee said: ‘She’s helped Edith more than you imagine. Obviously, you’ve never guessed, and this may be a shock to you. But I owe you the truth — it will help you with your own adjustment.
‘Edith’s prime orientation isn’t toward men — and Dolores actively disliked them, though she was sometimes kind enough to make an exception in my case. . . .
‘She was able to contact Edith on the physical level even before we connected on the mental one. They will be very good for each other. But I’ll miss her, dammit.’
Donald Craig was speechless for a moment. Then he blurted out: ‘You mean — they were having an affair? And you knew it?’
‘Of course I did; my job as a physician is to help my patients in any way I can. You’re an intelligent man, Mr. Craig — I’m surprised that seems to shock you.’
‘Surely it’s . . . unprofessional conduct!’
‘What nonsense! Just the reverse — it’s highly professional. Oh, back in the barbarous twentieth century many people would have agreed with you. Can you believe it was a crime in those days for the staff of institutions to have any kind of sex with patients under their care, even though that would often have been the best possible therapy for them?
‘One good thing did come out of the AIDS epidemic — it forced people to be honest: it wiped out the last remnants of the Puritan aberration. My Hindu colleagues — with their temple prostitutes and erotic sculpture — had the right idea all the time. Too bad it took the West three thousand years of misery to catch up with them.’
Dr. Jafferjee paused for breath, giving Donald Craig time to marshal his own thoughts. He could not help feeling that the doctor had lost some of his professional detachment. Had he been erotically interested in the inaccessible Nurse Dolores? Or did he have deeper problems?
But, of course, everyone knew just why people became psychiatrists in the first place. . . .
With luck, you could cure yourself. And even if you failed, the work was interesting — and the pay was excellent.
FINALE
38 RICHTER EIGHT
Jason Bradley was on the bridge of Glomar Explorer, monitoring J.J.’s progress on the seabed, when he felt the sudden sharp hammerblow. The two electronics technicians watching the displays never even noticed; they probably thought it was some change in the incessant rhythm of the ship’s machinery. Yet for a chilling instant Jason was reminded of a moment almost a century ago, equally unnoticed by most of the passengers. . . .
But, of course, Explorer was at anchor (in four kilometers of water, and how that would have astonished Captain Smith!) and no iceberg could possibly creep undetected through her radar. Nor, at drifting speed, would it do much worse than scrape off a little paint.
Before Jason could even call the communications center, a red star began to flash on the satfax screen. In addition, a piercing audio alarm, guaranteed to set teeth on edge as it warbled up and down through a kilocycle range, sounded on the unit’s seldom-used speaker. Jason punched the audio cutoff, and concentrated on the message. Even the two landlubbers beside him now realized that something was wrong.
‘What is it?’ one of them asked anxiously.
‘Earthquake — and a big one. Must have been close.’
‘Any danger?’
‘Not to us. I wonder where the epicenter is. . . .’
Bradley had to wait a few minutes for the seismograph-computer networks to do their calculations. Then a message appeared on the fax screen:
SUBSEA EARTHQUAKE ESTIMATED RICHTER 7
EPICENTER APPROX 55 W 44 N.
ALERT ALL ISLANDS AND COASTAL AREAS
NORTH ATLANTIC
Nothing else happened for a few seconds; then another line appeared:
CORRECTION: UPDATE TO RICHTER 8
Four kilometers below, J.J. was patiently and efficiently going about its business, gliding over the seabed at an altitude of ten meters and a speed of a comfortable eight knots. (Some nautical traditions refused to die; knots and fathoms still survived into the metric age.) Its navigation program had been set so that it scanned overlapping swaths, like a plowman driving back and forth across a field being prepared for the next harvest.
The first shock wave bothered J.J. no more than it had the Explorer. Even the two nuclear submarines had been completely unaffected; they had been designed to withstand far worse — though their commanders had spent a few anxious seconds speculating about depth charges.
J.J. continued its automatic quest, collecting and recording megabytes of information every second. Ninety-nine percent of this would never be of the slightest interest to anyone — and it might be centuries before scientific gold was found in the residue.
To eye or video camera, the seabed here appeared almost completely featureless, but it had been chosen with care. The original ‘debris field’ around the severed stern section had long ago been cleared of all interesting items; even the lumps of coal spilled from the bunkers had been salvaged and made into souvenirs. However, only two years ago a magnetometer search had revealed anomalies near the bow which might be worth investigating. J.J. was just the entity for the job; in another few hours it would have completed the survey, and would return to its floating base.