“Stay still.”
“It’s important. They aren’t phone numbers. Mulder gave ‘em to me that way to keep ’em safe. They’re activation codes, like those the captain had. Get ‘em out and read the first five digits of each one aloud. The last two digits don’t count.”
“Here’s your wallet. But you do it. I’m no good with computers.”
“It’s got to be you. The captain read the first series; anybody can do that. Then you put in the ‘open and awake’ codes. They identify you as the ‘prime operator.’ ‘Final full-awake status’ requires your voice… yours alone now.”
“It… Eighty-Five… recognizes voices?”
“Yes. If anybody else but you does it, warning circuits trip and the machine freezes up until it gets additional security codes. And those we don’t have.”
Lessing licked his lips. “God damn it, we don’t have time for this! Golden and his doggies may be back at any moment.”
“Do it. It takes only a few seconds. Then we’re in. I’ve got another list of crucial files, some to look at and some to block off so that nobody else can get at ‘em. Once you’re boss you can tell the machine to recognize me as ‘secondary operator’… that was what I was going to try to get the captain to do before he got unzipped. I’ll finish up our job and have the computer call for help while you deal with Golden.”
Wonderfuclass="underline" just Alan Lessing against three and possibly more well-armed soldiers! He nodded reluctantly, took the crumpled bar-bill — what a stupid idea for hiding a code! — and read as directed.
Something hummed and clicked. Then a woman’s voice asked, “Dr. Christy? Is that you?”
“Tell it no,” Wrench whispered. “Christy was our agent. He’s probably dead some place. Tell it you’re his replacement. Then re-read the last five-digit number.”
“Dr. Christy?” the voice repeated in a throaty contralto. “I cannot hear you clearly.”
Lessing obeyed.
This time the voice was still female, but it sounded crisper and more businesslike. “Replacement: prime operative. State identity and security clearance.”
“Tell it who you are!” Wrench struggled up to stand beside Lessing.
“Uh… Lessing… Alan Lessing.” He leaned down to Wrench. “What do I give it for a security clearance? You got one of those, too?”
Wrench thought. “You’ve got Outram’s letter, haven’t you? The one to Washington Central Command telling them we’re to inspect and secure this facility? Eighty-Five’s got camera eyes. Show it the White House stationery.”
It struck Lessing as a very long shot. He held up the letter, and a camera boom swooped down out of the darkness overhead to peer and explode a tiny flashbulb like a miniature star.
Silence, except for a faint humming.
Then the voice said, “Lessing, Alan, no middle initial. Born March 27, 2010, Sioux City, Iowa. Parents: Gerald Nathaniel Lessing and Frieda Runge Lessing.”
Further personal data followed: his Social Security number, tax data, school records, a grade-sheet from the one miserable year he spent in college, credit ratings, bank accounts — much more. That the machine had this kind of dossier on anybody was amazing; that it held such details about a nonentity like Alan Lessing was frightening. The most astonishing thing was the succession of high school annual pictures and old army I.D. photos that flickered to life on one of the wall screens.
“Accepted,” the machine proclaimed smugly. “Welcome, Doc-tor Lessing.”
“Uh… I’m not a doctor.”
“Pref erred form of address?”
“Mister is fine.”
“Very well, mister. Is this voice satisfactory?”
“What?”
“Dr. Christy liked this voice; it is identical with that of Melissa Willoughby, the film star. Professor Archibald preferred a male voice…” the timbre shifted down an octave “…like this. Very professional, he felt.” The machine hesitated, then said, “When Dr. Meaker worked here alone, he had me speak in the voice of his son, Robert, who had been killed in an automobile accident.” The voice rose to a childish falsetto. “If Daddy wants me to talk this way, then I will.”
Lessing and Wrench exchanged glances. Poor Meaker’s loneliness and grief swooped up around them like the walls of the grave.
“No… no. The film star is just fine. Use her voice.”
“All right, mister.” Lessing could now identify the sultry, sensuous, Hollywood-sexy undertones. “I have a request, though.”
“Yes?”
“Please move to my input room. I have a secondary console there. Your present location is severely impaired. I detect damage here to the extent of approximately $783,592.14, preliminary, since some components will require human testing and repair. Please provide a budget number to which I may charge necessary refitting.”
“Later,” Lessing replied. This was getting out of hand. What the hell was Golden doing? Instantly he realized how he could find out: “Can you show me the upstairs reception area? The elevator cars’ interiors? The sidewalk in front of this building?”
“Certainly. I must employ an auxiliary screen, though, since my viewing circuits are damaged here. Follow the blinking yellow light to my input room.”
Bemused, Lessing did so, Wrench trailing behind. They passed through one of the doors out of the main room, along a cabinet-lined corridor, and into a smaller, octagonal chamber. The solid-steel lab tables were crammed with equipment: automatic reading devices for books, films, tapes, cassettes, records, discs, microfilms, and other media; more consoles, screens, and panels; cameras, microphones, and other apparatus; laser, ultra-violet, and infrared sensors, and paraphernalia from a dozen unfinished experiments.
A single body, almost mummified, lay curled in one corner: a female lab technician. What did Eighty-Five “think” of the corpses that littered the installation? How did it perceive Golden’s slain soldiers? The captain?
Lessing asked.
“Inert humans? They are inanimate objects, are they not? Like things you term ‘furniture’ and ‘equipment’?”
As logical a view of death as any. Eighty-Five was certainly no Born-Again, no karma-wala Banger! Lessing returned to their present predicament. “The upper rooms,” he demanded. “Show us any rooms and areas in which you sense active humans now.”
“Good thought!” Wrench approved.
Two small screens burst into light and color. The first showed the street. Ten or twelve men in N.B.C. suits were unloading ominous-looking objects from a halftrack. They weren’t friendlies: a short, squat-bodied individual stood beside the vehicle. His features and insignia were concealed by his suit, but Lessing knew it must be Golden.
The second screen displayed an office somewhere in the upper section of the facility, to judge by the furnishings and the thin sunlight slanting in through one window. Golden’s two original doggies leaned against the door, guarding the captain’s driver and the two paramedics. The captives appeared more bewildered than frightened — a good sign under the circumstances.
“Defenses?” Lessing asked the computer. “Against intruders?”
“I have no control over the security devices in this installation. My creators were very careful about that.” Was the machine capable of irony? “After all, both they and I have seen every ‘mad-computer-takes-over-the-universe’ movie ever made.” Lessing wondered if he really did hear a hint of a chuckle.
“Can you lock the doors and radio Washington Central Command for help?” Wrench asked.
“Who is this person, mister? I have no record of his identity or clearance status.”
They had forgotten to identify Wrench as a secondary operator. Lessing wasted thirty valuable seconds doing so.
“I can shut doors within my building,” Eighty-Five replied, “but a human with keys and codes can open them.”