Helpless, dumb, the cortex faced the recurrent cycle of insanity in full awareness, and the mere intensity of its longing for a return to the orderly past began to solve its problem.
This was where Conrad, even though he had experienced the actuality, began to lose his grip on the slippery concepts. It seemed, he thought, that there were-perhaps had always been-people slightly sensitive to the thoughts of others. At some time, somewhere, a person so gifted thought with longing of the happier past of which legends had survived, and responded to the neural currents-subliminally faint-generated by the organochemic cortex. Its maximum power consumption was on the machine level; its signals might be as strong as a radio’s.
Relaxed, in an autohypnotic state, someone like Granny Jassy or Conrad could tap the very thought-stream of the cortex in its lucid moments. Pictures of the past mingled with pictures of the present, but the present was hateful and discoloured by frustration, whereas the cortex was yearning for the past, and so little attention was paid to the available knowledge that people survived in the barrenland. Conrad had opened his mind to impressions of that sort only because he was thinking of growing up to kill devils like the one which had come to Lagwich, and had glimpsed Nestamay’s likeness and later dredged it from his subconscious; however, like most people, he abandoned pursuit of barrenland images and preferred to seek visions of the distant past.
But today, within a shorter distance of the point of origin of the signals than anyone else with his gift had ever reached, he had happened to turn his maximum concentration on the idea of the organochemic cortex at precisely the moment when it realised the mounting power level made its return to insanity imminent.
As though a bolt of lightning had flashed between his mind and the artificial brain, the truth had stormed in and taken possession of him.
He stopped talking. There was much more that he hadn’t said, but his sense of urgency was growing. He looked at his hearers. Nestamay, withdrawn into a corner, was staring at him with round-eyed wonder. Yanderman, his forehead etched with a deep frown, was biting the back of his knuckles and wrestling with the facts Conrad had offered. Maxall had his head forward and his fingers buried in the thick hair at the back of his scalp.
“It makes a kind of sense,” Yanderman ventured at last. He glanced at Maxall.
“But why him?” the old man groaned. “He was never here before! I know you told me he was right about water in the desert and helped you to find your way here-” He checked, raising his head.
“Now explain that!” he challenged. “You’ve said that these visions of yours are messages from the cortex here; well, how is it that the cortex happened to think about the location of water so conveniently for you? Hey?”
Sickly, Conrad realised the old man was looking for any excuse to avoid believing the story he’d heard. It was too great a blow to his vanity to accept that a total stranger could cut through the fog of mystery which had baffled him a lifetime long, and his ancestors before him.
“It was a total awareness!” he exclaimed. “It’s not limited the way you and I are. It’s got usable senses still-it can see outside the dome, for instance. And not just that. If it sees you, it automatically pictures to itself what you can see from your point of view, and the same applies to all the other people around it. Similarly, when it remembers the past, it remembers in a way which is much fuller and more comprehensive than we can manage. It remembers everything simultaneously. After all, if it was designed to direct literally hundreds of processes at once-Oh, what’s the use? You’re not even trying to follow what I’m saying, are you?”
He put his head in his hands.
Unexpectedly, Nestamay moved in her corner. She said in a low voice, “Grandfather, you should be ashamed of yourself.”
“What?” the old man started and looked around.
“I said you should be ashamed!” The girl gathered courage and her tone grew firmer. “You’ve taught me all you were able to, and you never managed to show me an explanation which all fitted together. Conrad’s does fit. It may not be right, but it’s got to be tried. You said yourself we were at the end of our resources here. If you were desperate enough to spare Jasper till he couldn’t be spared any longer, just to give us a chance of going on, then you can get desperate enough to do as Conrad tells you!”
She set her chin mutinously and met the old man’s gaze fair and square.
After a long moment, Maxall said, “But-but we don’t know how to cut back the power as he wants us to.”
“I do,” Conrad repeated. “The cortex has always known what had to be done. It just hasn’t any way of doing it by itself.”
XXIV
Rather sullen, some of them visibly scared, the people of the barrenland community stood around Conrad. In the forefront of the group were the thin, tired-faced men and childless women who had spent their adult lives on endless routine working parties, checking the spread of the vegetation, salvaging scrap, clearing up after the destructive passage of alien monsters. Behind were the mothers and children, gazing at him almost without expression.
For a dreadful moment it came home to Conrad that their lives depended on him. They hung on the thread of his supposed insight into the secret of the Station. He quailed, horrified at the possibility of having to answer to them for a failure.
But he caught at memory, rigid as an iron bar, and found something less than confidence but more than mere hope. He drew a deep breath and glanced at Yanderman.
“Everything’s ready,” Yanderman confirmed. He hesitated, then drew closer to Conrad and added in a voice not meant to be overheard, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“You seemed pretty confident I was right when you decided to cross the barrenland on the strength of what I could tell you.”
“So if you’re wrong I can take the blame. I see.” Yanderman’s cynical words were belied a moment later by a wry smile. He clapped Conrad on the shoulder and turned to pick up the awkward bulk of one of the heatbeam projectors. Keefe had instructed him in its use, with the warning that below a certain power level it would cease to operate altogether; this fitted with Conrad’s idea of a kind of idling condition of the organochemic cortex.
There was no longer any reason for delay. He squared his shoulders and walked towards the huge rent in the side of the dome left by the monster of yesterday afternoon. He would have liked to have his gun with him-it had dealt with that monster in a reassuringly efficient manner-but the most important aid inside the gloomy dome was sure to be a handlight, and he would need his other hand free.
Already the twining stems of the alien plants were reaching out across the gap the thing had torn in their tangled masses. Cautiously Conrad turned the beam of his handlight upwards, in case there were any of the deadly black clusters of seeds nearby. He could see none, and the pseudo-leaves with their toothed edges which were everywhere on the ground had been crushed and ripped by the passing thing. It was safe to proceed.
The twilight of the dome interior closed around him. This was not one of the long-ago reclaimed areas, through which even young girls could safely pass at night on their way to keep watch in the office. The office was an improvisation, like the alarm Jasper had disconnected and then, at the cost of his life, wired up again. Presumably the repair team had been already unable to get to the cortex itself, and had needed a remote base of operations.
But Conrad had to go to the cortex, or at least to a point very close. It was a minor miracle disguised as a disaster, the fact that yesterday’s intruder had been so big and had cut such a clear swathe through the jungle.