“It doesn’t matter — because the answer is wrong.” Benicoff was irritated. “Remember — I was in charge of the investigation. The airport here at the plant is completely automated. Most of the traffic is copters, though we get executive jets as well as cargo VTOLs and STOLs.”
“How does an automatic airport work?” Brian asked. “Is it safe?”
“Safer than human control, I can assure you. It was finally realized back in the 1980s that more accidents were being caused by human error than were being prevented by human intervention. All aircraft must file flight plans before takeoff. The data goes right into the computer network so every airport knows just what traffic is going out or coming in — or even passing close by. When an aircraft is within radar range a signal identifies them by transponder and they are given clearance or instructions. Here at Megalobe all of the aircraft movements are of course monitored and recorded by security.”
“But security was compromised for that vital hour.”
“Doesn’t matter — everything was also recorded at the Borrego airport control tower, as well as the regional FAA radar station. All three sets of records agree and the technical investigation proved that it would have been impossible to alter all of them. What we saw were true records of all aircraft movements that night.”
“Were there any flights in or out of the airport during that hour?”
“Not one. The last flight was at least an hour before the blank period, a copter to La Jolla.”
“How big an area does the radar cover?” Brian asked.
“A lot. It’s a standard tower unit with a range of about one hundred and fifty miles. From Borrego it reaches out right to the Salton Sea to the east and across it to the hills beyond. Forty, fifty miles at least. Not as far in the other directions with all the hills and mountains that surround this valley.”
“Dick Tracy, activate,” Shelly said. “During the day in question, twenty-four hours, how many flights were recorded by the Megalobe radar?”
“Megalobe flights, eighteen. Borrego Springs Airport, twenty-seven. Passing flights, one hundred and thirty-one.”
“Borrego Springs is just eight miles away,” Shelly said, “but they had no flights in or out during the period in question, none that night at all. All three sets of radar records were identical, except for inconsequential minor differences, on all the passing flights. These are flights that are detected at the radar fringes that don’t originate or end in the valley.”
“There seems to be a lot of air traffic out here in the desert,” Brian said. “One hundred and seventy-six in one day. Why?”
“Business flights to Megalobe we know about,” Ben said. “Borrego Springs has a few commercial flights, the rest are private planes. The passing stuff is the same, plus some military. So we are back to zero again. Dick Tracy says that the stuff left by air. Yet there were no flights out of the valley. So how could it have got out of the valley? Answer that and you have the answer to the whole thing.”
Ben had phrased the question clearly. How could it have got out of the valley? There was a paradox here; it had to go out by air, nothing went out by air. Brian heard the question.
His implanted CPU heard the question as well.
“Out of the valley by truck. Out of the area by air,” Brian said.
“What do you mean?” Shelly asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I didn’t say that, the CPU did.” He tried not to smile at their blank expressions. “Look, we’ll go into that some other time. Right now let’s analyze this. How far could the truck have gone?”
“We worked out a computer model early in the investigation,” Ben said. “The maximum number of men to have loaded the truck, without getting in each other’s way, is eight. The variables are driving time from the gate to the lab, loading time, back to the gate. Once out of the gate the best figure we could come up with was twenty-five miles distance at fifty-five miles an hour. There were roadblocks up on every road out of here as soon as the crime was reported, well outside that twenty-mile zone. Radar covered the area as well, from copters and ground units, and after dawn the visual searches began. The truck could not have escaped.”
“But it did,” Shelly said. “Is there any way a truck and cargo could have been airlifted out? We don’t know — but we are sure going to find out. Let me at the computer, Ben. I am going to have this program check every flight recorded that day within a hundred- then a two-hundred-mile radius.”
“Couldn’t the criminals have gotten records of that flight erased? So there would be no traces at the time of the crime?”
“No way. All the radar signals are maintained for a year in FAA archives, as well as screen-dumps from each air traffic controller’s terminal. A good computer hacker can do many wonderful things, but the air traffic system is simply too complex and redundant. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of different kinds of records of every detected flight.”
Shelly did not look up, was hard at work, oblivious of them as they left.
“Shelly doesn’t know about the implant CPU,” Ben said. “Was that what you were talking about?”
“Yes. I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but Dr. Snaresbrook and I have had some success in my accessing the CPU by thought alone.”
“That is — what can I say — incredible!”
“That’s what we think. But it is early times yet. I have instructed it to do some math — that’s how it started, in a dream, would you believe it? And I read data from its memory files. It is all exciting and a little frightening. Takes some getting used to. I have a strange head and I’m not sure I like it.”
“But you’re alive and well, Brian,” Ben said grimly. “I saw what that bullet did to you…”
“Don’t tell me about it! Someday, maybe. In fact I would like to forget this for a while, get on with AI. And you and Shelly get on with your Dick Tracy program. I don’t like hiding — or the perpetual threat to my life. I’m beginning to feel like Salman Rushdie — and you remember what happened to him! I would like to, what can I say, rebuild my life. Be as normal as the rest of you. I’m beginning to feel like some kind of freak—”
“No, Brian — don’t ever think that. You are a tough kid that has been through too much. Everyone who has worked with you admires your guts. We’re on your side.”
There was little more that could be said. Ben mumbled an excuse and left. Brian punched up yesterday’s work where he had been transcribing his notes in more complete and readable form but it made no sense to him. He realized that he was both depressed and tired and could hear Dr. Snaresbrook’s voice giving the obvious order. Right, message received, lie down. He told Shelly that he would be back later and went to his rooms.
He must have fallen asleep because the technical journal was lying on his chest and the sun was just dropping behind the mountains to the west. The black depression still possessed him and he wondered if he should call the doctor and report it. But it just didn’t seem serious enough. Maybe it was the room that was getting him down — he was spending more time alone here than he had in the hospital. At least there someone was always popping in and out. Here he even had to eat his meals alone; the novelty of this had worn off quickly.
Shelly had finished for the day and she mumbled goodbye when she left, her thoughts involved in her work. He locked her out and went in the opposite direction. Maybe some fresh air would help. Or some food, since it was getting dark and he had forgotten to eat lunch again. He left the building and walked around the lake and toward the orderly room. He asked if the Major was in — and was taken at once to his office.