"Yes. A courier from Terra supplied me with an FTL transmitter and receiver, contemporary data storage facilities, and additional memory capacity."
Gwen nodded. "That would have been Father Aloysius Uwell, twenty years past."
"That is an accurate observation," the computer confirmed. "but one that could be the product of conjecture coupled with knowledge of local events."
The two monks could only watch anxiously.
"You are now continually in communication with Terra," Gwen inferred.
"I am. My data banks are regularly updated."
"Then you are aware of the existence of the Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms."
"I am. It is a quasi-military body officially operated by altruistic private enterprises so that blame for its actions cannot accrue to the government of the Terran Sphere."
Gwen nodded. "My husband is an agent of that society and has spoken with me of what he knows."
The computer was silent, digesting the information. Then it said, "I have heard the gentlemen nearby addressing you as Lady Gallowglass, and the SCENT agent's local alias is Rod Gallowglass."
"Even so," Gwen said. "He was born Rodney d'Armand, though he has also some twenty middle names with which I shall not trouble you."
"They are unnecessary," the computer agreed.
"Now must you ask your question," Gwen said.
"What is the current government of the Terran Sphere?"
"The Decentralized Democratic Tribunal, which is the product of centuries of effort by an organization founded by one Charles Barman. Now to technology: Your link with Terra is accomplished by audio and video signals modulated onto waves that speed faster than light, is it not?"
"It is." The computer countered with another question. "What is the medium for these waves?"
"Tachyons, which are particles that cannot go more slowly than the speed of light. Why cannot anything made of matter accelerate to that speed?''
"Because mass increases with velocity. Accordingly, it can always approach more closely to light-speed but cannot attain it."
"Like to Achilles and the tortoise," Gwen said. "There is an old conundrum that tells of a race between Achilles, the greatest soldier of the Greeks of old, and a tortoise. If Achilles did let the tortoise come halfway to the goal, then began to run, and if, in the first ten seconds, he did cut the distance between the starting point and the turtle by half, then in the next five seconds did halve it again, and in the next two seconds did halve it yet again, and in each time period did halve the distance again and again, he might approach the turtle but would never reach it."
"An exact analogy," the computer agreed. "But in the real world, such a riddle is meaningless; it is obvious that the runner would soon pass the turtle."
"Aye, but only because he would not travel at a relativistic speed. If his velocity did approach that of the speed of light, he would indeed never attain the tortoise's position—which is analogous to light-speed."
"I am satisfied of your knowledge of modern physics," the computer answered, "yet the fields in which you requested information were neurology and psychiatry. Have you any knowledge of those areas?"
Gwen expelled an explosive sigh. "I have."
"What is the central nervous system?"
"The brain and the spinal chord." Gwen blessed the Order of Cassettes and Father Ricci for the information.
Then she began to wonder if she was doing this entirely on her own.
No, of course she wasn't. Thousands of human beings had contributed to this knowledge down through the centuries. No human endeavor could really be said to be accomplished by one single person, could it? Certainly not.
It was her turn to ask a question. "Are the psychodynamic theories of Sigmund Freud valid?"
"It is impossible to know," said the computer, "since most of them, by their very nature, cannot be tested. What is a synapse?"
And so it went for a dozen questions more. Gwen grew more and more tense; the answers and the unfamiliar words began to spin in her brain until she wondered if she were making sense. Panic seized her; she visualized Gregory and the woman who slept by him and felt renewed determination. Her thoughts stopped whirling as she clamped down on them with rigid control and answered yet another question. "The time machine was invented by Dr. Angus McAran in 1952."
The computer was silent for a far longer time than usual. Then it said, "That information is under the most restricted classification; not even my former captain knew it. How did you learn of it?"
"I travelled in time and met Dr. McAran," Gwen answered.
"I am satisfied of your right to know," the computer said. "What information do you require?"
Chapter 14
Finister woke as she always did—carefully. For a few minutes after consciousness returned, she forced her body to stay relaxed while she probed her environment, first with her mind, then with her senses.
Her mind met the usual plethora of small and wild thoughts—sharp hunger from predators, contented feeding from earthworms, anxious concern from parent birds, voracious competition from their hatchlings as a beak came in view with a tasty grub. But there was a hole in this background, a psychic vacuum that puzzled her until she recognized it as Gregory's mind. This time, though, that dark spot seemed to radiate anxiety and concern. For a moment, she was astounded to realize his concern was for her. Then her familiar cynicism came back, bearing the thought that he was, after all, entrusted with bringing her alive to Runnymede and was no doubt concerned that he fulfill his mission.
She let her eyelids flutter open, frowning as though puzzled as she looked about her, and heard Gregory's sigh of relief above. "Afternoon ..." she said, not looking at him.
"It is indeed," he answered. "You have slept long."
"Why . . . ?" Then she remembered the burst of light, her own mind-bomb reflected back at her, and fought to keep her expression confused while she trembled with anger. The swine, to strike at her so! The viper, to have seemed so enamored of her, so overcome with desire, but still be alert to attack!
"You are cold," Gregory said, and whipped his cloak from his shoulders to tuck about her.
Whom did he think he was deceiving? A master telepath certainly could not have mistaken the reason for her trembling! Then she realized that she had felt no mind probe, that he had only listened to such thoughts as she had chosen to let escape, which was to say only a sense of confusion. The more fool he, to let himself be so duped! Yet he seemed to have done so again and again—his foolish ethics, when anyone could see that the only ethic was to win!
But doubt crept in as quickly as anger had come. He had outtricked her before and might do so again. Was he truly ethical or only seeming to be so? Certainly he was never off his guard! She would have to ward herself very carefully from now on.
And dissemble even more carefully. "What... why ..."
"Bandits came," Gregory told her. "When the fighting and the outlaws sped, you most suddenly collapsed."
Again—whom did he think he was deceiving? Did he truly think she did not remember, never would? Or could it be that his defenses had been so completely automatic, so unconscious, that he had never even realized she had attacked?
She liked the sound of that, liked it very much and embraced it—but with a reserve of caution. Still, it would do no harm to let him think her completely taken in.
What persona had she been using? Oh, yes—the village girl, seduced and abandoned as a sacrifice to the outlaws ... Peregrine! That had been her name! What now, though? Peregrine had only been designed to last until the bandits' attack, and Gregory's lowering his guard enough for her assault. What now?