"Not without telling Lona—and I don't know enough physics yet, to know if it's worth investigating. I mean, okay, it might turn out to be possible, but not marketable, especially if it wound up using giant molecules. After all, who wants a computer made of U-235 in his living room?"
"The mass would not be critical, Dar."
"No, but the customer would. Call it atavism, call it superstition, but the stuff has a bad reputation."
"Even if it were, why would you wish to do it? The current generation of computers is certainly small enough for all practical purposes."
"Not all—I can think of a few applications where microbrains would come in handy. Especially in the line I want to get into."
"Which is?"
"Industrial robots." Dar rubbed his knuckles against his palm. "We need to branch out, Fess. There's just so far we can go with household robots, and right now, the real money is in industry. If we could offer smaller, more compact computers, that would cut down on size and give flexibility a big boost. Factory managers are always complaining about having to replace all their robots with new models, every time they retool. If we could figure out how to grow a single molecule circuit, we could sell them new brains for more generalized robots."
"An excellent idea," Fess said slowly. "You must tell Lona."
Dar felt a surge of irritation, but reminded himself that Fess was, after all, Lona's robot. "No. I just don't know enough yet."
Which made him feel even more useless.
He turned away, closing the factory hatch behind him, and went into his den. "I'm going to brood—uh, study, for a while, Fess."
"I shall not disturb you, Dar." But he would wait for Dar's call. That went without saying.
The lights came on, and Dar sat down at his computer with a sigh of relief. Here, at least, he had something to do, and the illusion that it might actually be of some use, even though that was highly unlikely. Of course, he was only experimenting with computer simulations of radio sound waves and FTL drives, not with the real thing—but he might hit on a workable idea.
It didn't make sense, after all—if ships could travel faster than light, why couldn't radio? If you could make a whole spaceship isomorphic with a seven-dimensional surface, why couldn't you do the same with an electromagnetic wave?
Because it wasn't an object, of course. In fact, it wasn't matter; it was an energy pattern. But patterns were patterns, and three-dimensional patterns could be made isomorphic with seven-dimensional equivalents.
Except that energy didn't seem to exist in seven dimensions. Which was nonsense, of course—the mathematicians just hadn't started thinking about it, so Dar couldn't read their conclusions.
But at least he'd found the right question to ask. That, he felt, was real progress. Of course, he didn't know enough math to look for the answer—but that could be rectified. He stared at the simulation, rotating it to gain the illusion of movement, and, from it, inspiration and motivation.
It worked; he was motivated. He cleared the screen and loaded the first chapter of the text on topology. He'd already made it through Page 2…
He was halfway through Page 3 when the sensor chimed.
Dar was out of his seat and over to the screen before the sound had died. The call signal could only ring if it was triggered by a coded radio signal—and only Lona knew the code. She was coming home! Dar located her blip, referred it to the center of the screen, then punched into viewphone mode and entered her code—and there she was, or at least her face, in beautiful living color, complexion flawless, every feature perfect, saying, "Roger, ground control. Will burn for entry at 24:32:16."
"Roger," said a tinny (male) voice. "Over and out."
Dar felt a stab of jealousy. Had she perfected her makeup for him—or for Louie at Ground Control?
But she was reaching out to punch him up on her screencall signal. Her face lit up, and his heartburn quenched as he realized she'd seen him.
"Welcome, wanderer!"
"Hi, handsome." Her eyelids drooped. "Slay the fatted calf and warm the sheets."
"Both are roasting, and so am I. When should I pour the martinis?"
"An hour, sweetling." She winced. "Don't groan so loudly—my amp can't take it."
"Neither can I. Tell me something to be happy about."
"That it's only an hour. Just think how long it would be if we were civilized enough to have a spaceport and customs."
"I'd nuke 'em both! If our neighbors couldn't trust us…"
"Who could they trust? So I'm landing on our own pad, dear, and docking in…" she glanced aside, at her chronometer, "… sixty-four minutes and 20."
A chime sounded, out of range. Lona glanced at it, then back at Dar. "Entry burn in two. Love, darling." Her screen blanked.
Dar could have screamed at it. Instead, he took her parting line as a promise and headed for the shower.
Of course, he had just showered, shaved, and changed a few hours before, for his trip into town—but what the hell, he could do it again. Anything to pass the time!
He did, and he still had half an hour left to chew his nails. He manfully refrained—she only liked controlled scratching. Instead, he drew two martinis from the autobar and set them next to the big quartz port, then sat down to watch her land. Thirty seconds later, he got up and started pacing—but still kept his eyes locked on the sky.
She had certainly timed her entrance right. (She always did, of course.) The sky was filled with stars, but Sol was about to rise, and its glare dimmed the lesser suns, leaving a field strewn with glory, but not backed by powder. Nearby asteroids arced across the field, making his heart lurch—but finally, one of them started growing more than it slid, and he knew Lona was coming in.
The meteor waxed brighter and brighter until it showed as a little disc that grew and grew until it assumed the shape of a small rocket ship, fifty meters long, arching lower as it brightened, then blossoming into roseate fire that swelled up about it, hiding it, consuming it, a fireball that swung lower more and more slowly—and touched the ground. The fire died, and the little rocket ship emerged, balanced on landing grapples.
Dar hit pressure patches and turned a wheel, and the house's boarding ramp snaked out across the graded rockfield to nudge, very gently, against the side of the ship. Then it rose up on jacks of its own, like a blind, questing cobra, found the electromagnetic ring around the airlock, and clung.
It was a convenience, for people. Expensive—too expensive, just for the privilege of coming in without a faceplate, so Dar didn't pressurize it. But cargo needed atmosphere, sometimes, and for trade, they could afford it.
He couldn't see her coming, though. That was the disadvantage.
Then the red light died over the airlock, and he knew she was in. The yellow light started pulsing, and kept on, for what seemed an eternity—but finally, the green lit.
Dar stepped up five feet from the hatch, a martini clutched in each hand, breath held in his lungs.
Then the hatch swung open, and she was there, lumpy as porridge in her space suit, but her helmet under her arm, face glowing, lips parted…
They never did get to those martinis. What good is the gin when the ice has melted?
Two hours later, Lona sat across from him in one of the latest Terran fashions, which didn't manage to obscure her splendor, especially when she was lit by candles (right under the air-exchange vent). She was finishing her bouillabaisse and a fascinating account of her odyssey through the best shops on Terra ("Well, I have to look my best when I'm talking to purchasing agents, don't I?"). Dar smiled at her out of a pleasant haze, compounded of one part gin to five parts Lona. She didn't miss a syllable as X-HB-9 cleared their bowls, but she did stop to stare as the little robot set places of almost-genuine steak in front of them. "Dar! What have you done!"
Well, Dar, would have preferred to have the accusation refer to less licit activities, but he'd take praise where he could get it. He gave back a foolish grin. "Aw. You noticed."