“This one seems good so far. But why Cork?”
“Because it is a seaport with a daily ferry service to Swansea. Which is a city in Wales, which in turn is located on the largest of a group of islands called the British Isles. From there it is possible to drive on a motorway system to a tunnel that leads to the mainland of Europe. Switzerland is a country on that mainland.”
“All this without a passport?”
“I have studied the relevant data bases. The European Economic Community forms a customs union. A passport is needed to enter any member country from outside the community. After that there is no need to show it again. However, Switzerland is not a member of this group. I thought that this problem might be postponed until we reached that country’s border.”
Brian took a deep breath, watched the windscreen wipers slap back and forth, found it a little difficult to believe that this was really happening.
“Then as I read it — your plan is to steal and abandon a series of motorcars and drive from here to Switzerland?”
“That is correct.”
“You and I are going to have to have a long talk about morality and honesty sometime soon.”
“We already have done that, but I will be pleased to amplify our earlier discussions.”
Brian smiled into the darkness. It was happening all right. Sven would have had no problem unlocking a locked garage — or in jumping the car’s ignition. Once the MI had analyzed how the machine operated, driving it was obviously simplicity itself. He certainly had enough cash for fuel and ferry tickets.
“The ferry — it won’t work. I can see their faces now when you drive aboard, three glassy eyeballs staring out of the window. They’ll die of heart attacks!”
“I would not wish that to happen and my plan postulates that you will be driving the vehicle aboard the ferry. I will be in a box in the trunk. Which is referred to as a boot in this country, as I am sure you know.”
“But I don’t know how to drive.”
“That will not be a problem. I have in memory downloaded copies of your personal motor-coordination machinery. I also possess an adequate set of copies of your personal semantic networks and other knowledge representations. I will now teach them to drive.”
“How will that help me?”
“Transfer.” Sven remained motionless for several seconds, men reached out and touched one of his brashes to the terminals under Brian’s skin. “It is done. You may take the wheel.”
Sven stopped the car on the shoulder and got out. Brian took his place. Turned on the power and drove smoothly out onto the road.
“I can’t believe this. I’m driving without even thinking about it at all — as though I’d been doing it all my life.”
“Of course. I gave your sensorimotor clone the equivalent of a rather large experiential data base for that skill. And then uploaded the resulting differences into your own implant computer. There should be no difference between that and the result of you having all that experience yourself.”
They changed places again. It is going to work, Brian thought, it is! Sven knew that he wanted to get to Switzerland as soon as he could, so had done everything within its power to make that possible. He would think about the morality some other time; right now he was too tired, too ill. Take the cars. Finding Dr. Bociort was well worth leaving a trail of stolen cars right across Europe as far as he was concerned.
“Turn up the heat a bit, Sven, and wake me only if you have to.” He pulled his hat low over his eyes and slumped gratefully down in the seat.
Very tired, but reasonably happy with his driving skills, Brian drove deftly aboard the ferry in Cork. Parked, braked and locked the car, then found his cabin. A night in a bed was very much in order. He hoped that Sven enjoyed incarceration in the car’s boot. He should be used to it by now.
If they were being followed there was no evidence. They drove at night, stayed in hotels during the day. Brian’s only driving problem came when he had to drive the last of a succession of stolen vehicles aboard the car-carrying train that ran through the Channel Tunnel. But he had been at the wheel for a good number of hours while they were on the motorways across England so did a passable enough job. France was crossed without any problems, other than the endless payments demanded at the tollbooths of the péage, so close together that Brian was forced to do most of the driving. It was just before dawn when the sign loomed up out of the darkness.
“We’re getting close — Basel in twenty-nine kilometers. I’m going to take the next exit and find a spot to wait until daylight. Any luck yet with Swiss border details?”
“It is very frustrating. At that last telephone I downloaded everything available about Switzerland. I can truthfully say that I know every detail of their history, languages, economics, banking system, criminal statues. It is all very boring. But nowhere in all of this information is there a reference to border customs control.”
“Then we will have to do it the old-fashioned way. Look and see just what they are doing.”
At first light Sven was locked into his box and the boot closed. Brian followed the signs toward the border, until he could see the booths and the customs buildings ahead. He pulled to the curb and parked.
“I’m going ahead on foot,” he shouted into the backseat. “Wish me luck.”
“I will if it is a formal request,” the muffled voice said. “But the concept of luck is an invalid superstition equivalent to belief in…”
Brian missed what it was equivalent to when he slammed the door shut. There was frost on the ground and all the puddles were frozen. Cars and trucks were driving toward the border crossing, other pedestrians, laden with Christmas shopping, were proceeding on foot like him. He held back when he saw that they were going through a door into the customs building. Let them. He wasn’t going to risk that in any case. He went closer, saw a car with British registration plates drive forward.
Through and past the guard post — which apparently was unoccupied. Something new for Sven’s Swiss data base.
By late afternoon they had crossed Switzerland, almost to the Italian border. ST. MORITZ, the sign said.
“We’re there,” Brian called over his shoulder. “I’m pulling into a service station ahead that has a nice outside phone box.” He did not add anything about wishing him luck.
He dialed the number, heard it ring. Then it was picked up.
“Bitte?” It was the same voice as the first call.
“Brian Delaney here?”
“Mr. Delaney — welcome to St. Moritz. Do I assume correctly that you are in the city?”
“In a service station just inside the city limits.”
“Wonderful. Then you come here by car?”
“That’s correct.”
“If you will now drive straight ahead toward the center of the city you will see signs that will direct you to the train station. Bahnhof, it is called. There is a nice little hotel just across the road from it, the Am Post. A room has been reserved for you there. I will contact you later.”
“Are you Dr. Bociort?”
“Patience, Mr. Delaney,” he said, then hung up.
Patience indeed! Well, he had little choice. The hotel it was. He returned to the car, reported to Sven, then fought his way through the slush and traffic in the direction of the station. It wasn’t easy, the one-way system was totally confusing, but in the end he put on the brake in front of Am Post. Trail’s end?
“It is very good to have mobility again,” Sven said after being reassembled. It rustled across the room, extruded the charging cord and plugged it into the outlet there. “I am sure you would be interested in the fact that we are being watched. The small lens in the lighting fixture is that of a video camera. It is transmitting its signal down a telephone line.”