James P. Hogan by Migration Read Free Book Online Page B

to open the door and lower the access steps. One of Masumichi Shikoba’s robots was sitting in the copilot’s seat, taking in the view outside. It had come down from the ship as an observer. A still-unsolved problem with trying to develop artificial intelligences was finding an effective way to equip them with the “world knowledge” that came naturally to humans as a consequence of growing up and living in it. One of Masumichi’s strategies was to expose them to as wide a range of experiences as possible as a way of getting them to form the conceptual associations necessary for inferential reasoning.
    The pilot glanced back at the cabin through the open door behind Lois, winked at her, and said to the robot in a carrying voice, “You did real well. Ten out of ten. Now let’s see how you handle docking when we take her back up.”
    That got Quentago’s attention. “ What?! ” came his strangled voice from the rear. “ That was flying us? I don’t care how the talks go. I’m not going back up.”
    “Easy,” one of the escorts cautioned.
    The robot turned its head to look at the pilot. “Please explain reason for asserting as true what must be known to be false,” it requested.
    “I see they haven’t programmed you for getting a joke yet,” the pilot said, grinning.
    “Please explain ‘joke.’”
    “Catch you later,” Lois said and left them to it.
    The air outside as she descended the steps was cool with a touch of dampness. It carried a whiff of sulfurous odor from somewhere, probably an industrial emission. The vehicle was some kind of oil-or gasoline-powered passenger car, shiny black, heavy, and boxy, with three doors on each side, large wheels with what looked like internally sprung tires, and a motor compartment at the rear. The Tranthians had a trading arrangement with oil producers to the south, on the neck connecting Merka to the southern half of the continent. They operated their own mines for coal, ores, and other minerals, most of them reopened workings from the old-world era.
    One of the two men standing in front of the car approached. Lois assumed him to be Gratz. She hadn’t been given all the details of the Directorate’s prior dealings with Tranth, but apparently he was a state attorney. He struck her more as a hired bruiser or political policeman, with his blockish build, long coat of gray rubberized material, brimmed hat set squarely above craglike features, and expression of studied opacity. He drew up without offering a hand or other form of salutation.
    “Lois Iles?”
    “Attorney Gratz.”
    “Quentago is not with you?”
    “He will remain aboard the lander until I’ve met Clure and can verify the deal – as was agreed. I take it that Clure is elsewhere.”
    “Not far from here. We will drive, yes?”
    Gratz turned and let her follow him back. The other man, wearing an olive tunic with a black leather cap, held the door for them and then went around to the rear. The interior was quilted, with leather seats, the dash panel in front of the driver’s seat cut from wood or an imitation. Noises that sounded like a hand crank being turned came from behind, and the motor started, settling down after a few seconds to a steady clickety-clack chugging. Moments later, the driver reappeared, climbed in at the front, and engaged gear.
    They drove out through the gate, past a gaggle of onlookers who had seen the lander come down and stayed to gawk despite shouts from the guards to move on. As they turned onto the street of drab stone frontages to what looked like official buildings, an escort car that had been waiting a short distance back moved out to follow them. The few people about were also drab, wrapped in dark, enveloping garb that insulated them from the world and conferred anonymity, their eyes turned toward the ground or trained straight ahead, avoiding contact that might invite attention. From ground level, the indifferent quality of architecture and the poor state of