Most Borijan architecture reflected the theme of upward-branching arboreal forms, and Borijan tastes in everything were toward generous ornamentation. The cities that resulted rose like forests of colorful cacti, splaying out from broad, conoidal trunks into groupings of variously devised columns and spires forming clusters at different levels. The upper parts of those structures often overlapped and merged via connecting bridges and terraces to turn the upper regions into a vast artificial canopy where most of the day-to-day living and business took place. Heavier-duty operations, such as power distribution and freight handling, were carried out in the lower parts of the trunks, and an undergrowth of support installations and service buildings sprang up in the areas between.
Sarvik took a core elevator to the Pink Intermediate midlevel terminal and boarded one of the six-passenger autocabs waiting in the City Inbound rank. They were orange with a white stripe along each side and approximately ovoida universally symbolic shape found in designs and artifacts from every culture in Borijan history. Always derisive of the authority that ran the transit system, Pygalers called them the "electric enemas," from the resemblance of a string of them passing through the glass-sided tubes threading through the city to a brand of laxative capsules that came in transparent packs.
"Central Hospital," he told the black mesh eardisk at the top of the director panel. "Dr. Queezt, in neuroprosthetics. I think it's Blue Uppermid zone somewhere, north side."
"How come you don't know?" the cab sneered. "Getting forgetful? Is that why you're going to see a brain booster?"
"I don't need to know. It's your job to check it out," Sarvik retorted. "That's supposed to be part of the service. You want me to drive this thing for you as well?"
The cab lapsed into a sulky silence and computed a route by using the current bulletin of traffic conditions around the city. It called the hospital's administrative computer and flashed an estimated arrival time. Dr. Queezt's diary manager returned a message saying that Queezt would be delayed thirty minutes. Sarvik cursed himself for giving Queezt the initiative. He should have asked for a confirmation first, before letting the cab reveal that he was already on his way. Very likely, the damn machine had done it on purpose to even its score with him. So now he would be starting the meeting a point down. Well, that would make it all the more of a challenge.
The cab slid out from a terrace of South Tower Three, revealing the pink, sunlit cliffs of the Replimaticon Building falling away below. Why had people once been so indirect about things? Sarvik wondered as he sat back and gazed at the view across the bay. Always having to keep up pretenses and hiding their true motives behind measures of profit. If the truth were admitted, hadn't the real fun all along been in trading one-upmanships and delivering the comeuppances when one could get away with it? Some nostalgics said the old ways had been more genteel. Maybe so. But the modern ways were more honest.
He killed thirty minutes browsing around the stores in the plaza below the hospital's entrance foyer to avoid giving a receptionist the satisfaction of telling him he'd have to wait. When he did finally present himself, he was directed promptly up another four levels to Queezt's office. His first impressions were of a mix between an electronics hobby shop and a cerebral dissection laboratory. On shelves along one side of the room were jars of preservative containing Borijan and animal brains and parts of brains, most of them showing the glints of implanted crystal chips and tiny wires. Below the shelves was a glass tabletop laid out like a display counter, with microassemblies of Optronics wafers and crystalline chips no bigger than dewdrops. Queezt's desk stood in the corner opposite, backed by bookshelves, a data and communications panel above a smaller worktop, and a window giving a view of Pygal's urban seafront.
Queezt stood to greet Sarvik with a brief, formal handshake. The gesture gave away nothing; overt discourtesy was viewed as a cheap way of achieving a put-down without earning it, tantamount to fraud. He was tall in stature, his torso loosely draped on a bony, wide-shouldered frame, with a maroon crest fading to black at the back and mottled in white. His epaulets had a permanent upturned set suggestive of a mild leer, which provoked defensiveness and probably gave him an opening advantage in most of his dealings. He was wearing a short green surgical jacket opened at the neck to reveal a satiny brown shirt with a throat clasp of worked gold foliations surrounding a white oval stone. "Dr. Sarvik. I'm sorry that I had to put you off. In a place like this we sometimes get these emergencies that won't wait." In other words, My time is more important than yours; and he'd gotten the apology in before there was time for any objection. Point added and lead extended.
"These things happen," Sarvik said. "I take it you know where I'm from." Of course, any prudent professional would have had his computer check all available information on a stranger who called out of the blue for an appointment.
The leering epaulets drooped a fraction. "Er, no, as a matter of fact . . . I've been very busy, you understand." Lame. But it would have taken greater resources than Queezt could probably command at short notice to penetrate Replimaticon's data security. A quick smile of satisfaction flickered across one side of Sarvik's face. Point regained.
"Replimaticon research, advanced cybercoding." Sarvik showed his teeth. "And you are Doctor Sulinam Queezt, specialist in cerebral augmentation implants and now offering replacement modules for impaired brains. Surgeon's degree from Stellem Academy of Space Medicine, 218; neural systems simulation, Porgarc Oceanic University, 224; seven years with MZB Psylog division, the rest in private consultancy; part-timing deals here at Central during the last two years, probably because of the use it gets you of their nanometric holoplex analyzer." In other words, Sarvik was from an outfit that didn't fool around with public-hospital-grade kiddy-toy computers when it came to code cracking. Two-all, game even. They sat down.
Queezt acknowledged this with the invitation, "A cup of graff, maybe?" Graff was a hot beverage made from a variety of dried ground seaweed and drunk universally around Turle.
"I will. As it comes." Sarvik set his briefcase down on the edge of the desk.
Queezt called to the room's domestic manager. "House. Two graffs, one plain, unsweetened. Hold calls."
"Okay," a synthetic female voice answered from the panel by the desk.
The desk was untidy with jottings and forms. There was a well-worn physiological reference work lying open; a receptacle for pens, fasteners, and office oddments fashioned from an animal skull; a vacation guide to one of Turle's submarine cities; and a book about how to outcon used furniture dealers by spotting valuable antiquesprobably worthless, since dealers no doubt read the same books. A large chart on the wall, heavily annotated with handwritten notes, showed in detail the parts of the Borijan brain.
Queezt leaned his stick-limbed frame back in the chair and regarded his visitor unblinkingly with both eyes. "Very well, Dr. Sarvik," he said finally. "What's your deal?"
Sarvik extended a perfunctory hand to indicate the specimen jars and wired crystals at the other end of the room. "Why mess about with add-ons that just duplicate parts of brains? I can give us the whole thing: transfer of the complete personality into an artificial host. Think what you'd be able to offer with a capability like that."
"You mean a purpose-designed host? With augmented physical capabilities? Extended senses, maybe? Additional senses?"
Sarvik shrugged. "Whatever's possible. Anything you like."
Such a speculation was not exactly new, but that didn't make it any the less interesting. Queezt nodded to say that the implied possibilities didn't need to be spelled out. Specially built bodies for extreme environments was one area where it could be applied. Spaceworks riggers that wouldn't need the complications of suits and biological life support was another. Or perhaps those who wanted to could try being birds again and fly as their distant ancestors had. Or try becoming fish or experiment with being insects. Sarvik said nothing about his thoughts of achieving immortality. If he could gain Queezt's cooperation without it, what would be the point in giving such information away free? The two scientists regarded each other for a few seconds with cordial, mutual mistrust.
A light came on over the small worktop in the corner behind Queezt's desk, and the domestic manager's voice announced, "Two graffs, one regular, one plain, unsweetened." The hatch from the building's utility conveyor system opened and delivered a white plastic tray carrying two filled cups, a partitioned dish of flavor additives, and spoons. A service dolly, resembling an upright vacuum cleaner with arms and a metal basket on top, rolled out from its stowage space a few feet away and transferred the tray to the end of Queezt's desk.
"A silly fantasy," Queezt declared, reaching for a cup. "We evidently read the same fiction. Now tell me what you're really offering."
Sarvik shrugged indifferently. "I've told you. If you don't want to come in, it'll be your loss. There are plenty more headwirers I can go to."
"You've probably already been to them and they threw you out," Queezt suggested.
"Aha!" Sarvik chortled. "So you put yourself last on the list, then, do you? It seems that I had a greater opinion of your ability than you have yourself. Maybe I will take it somewhere else. Who'd want to work with a self-admitted second-rater?"
"I admitted nothing of the kind. Who'd want to work with a crank?" Queezt retorted.
"When you can quote my résumé, then you might be qualified to judge who's a crank," Sarvik threw back.
"I tell you it's not feasible."
"If you had anything to do with it, I'm beginning to suspect, it wouldn't be."
"Grmmph."
"Hmmm?"
Queezt picked up his cup, tracking his hand with one eye and contemplating Sarvik with the other. "Just supposingpurely for the sake of argumentthat I believed you. What would you want from me?"
Sarvik replied by leaning forward to open his briefcase and taking out a wallet of the kind used to carry circulating charge-array microrecording capsules. He selected one of the button-size disks and passed it to Queezt, who inserted it into a socket in the deskside panel. Sarvik gave him the coded key to unlock the contents, and a moment later one of the screens on the panel began showing a replay of later test runs with the mechanical veech. The animal ran up the wooden steps, turned and ran down again, tumbled the blocks about playfully, and tried to climb up the transparent wall of its enclosure. With full transfer of the veech's psyche, the umbilical wiring had been removed, and every detail of the surrogate's behavior was authentic.
"A toy veech," Queezt agreed condescendingly, and gave Sarvik a so-what look.
"Ah, but more than just that," Sarvik said. "It isn't running a clever simulation synthetic. It's hosting a direct transcription of the neural configuration extracted from a live animal. It's a real veech transposed into specially modified and extended Optronics. Now who are you calling a crank?"
Queezt did a good job of hiding his surprise and looked pained. "Very well, so you managed to transfer a veech identity. But that wasn't what you said this was all about. You said you could do it with a Borijan. What do you take me for?"
"I didn't say I could do it." Sarvik clucked. "If you'd listened, I said that I can get us there."
"Why use a veech, anyway?" Queezt objected. "Better to stay within the avian lineage. If you knew anything about comparative neural anatomy, you'd be aware that the organization of the mammalian third to fifth middle lobes is completely different."
"Nonsense," Sarvik answered dismissively. "A simple software transform handles it."
"What's the point?" Queezt challenged. "Why complicate things?"
"Greater generalization. Try thinking beyond your bits-of-brains horizon for a change."
Queezt sniffed. "Well, it appears that your own wider thinking hasn't proved adequate to the task; otherwise you wouldn't be here, would you? What do you want from me? It appears that you already have a source of suitable hardware and mental circuitry."
Sarvik indicated the screen again. "So far we have experimented only with animals. To extend the process farther and verify it at the Borijan level will obviously require Borijan subjects. However, we experience a distinct lack of ready volunteers." Sarvik rubbed his chin and curled his epaulets into a parody of a smile. "The, ah . . . the process is destructive to the original, you see. There isn't any way back, as it were."
Queezt thought for a few seconds and then nodded solemnly. "Oh, I see." It was all beginning to make more sense now.
Sarvik went on. "I thought of working out something along the lines of offering it to convicted criminals as an option, but you know how difficult the authorities can be to deal with." He gestured to indicate the surroundings generally. "Then it occurred to me that in a medical environment such as this, with people in all kinds of conditions . . ." He left it unfinished and repeated his crooked smile again.
"It might be possible to work out some kind of agreement with terminal patients." Queezt completed the thought for him. The proposition was clear now. Queezt sat back to consider it.
"They'd have nothing to lose," Sarvik said after a short silence, voicing the obvious for both of them.
"Hm. And on the other hand, they could gain a whole new extension," Queezt mused. "A somewhat unconventional one, maybe, I agree . . ."
"True."
"But an extension nonetheless."
Sarvik gave it a few more seconds to simmer. Then he asked, cocking an eye, "And do you know some that might be suitable, by any chance?"
Queezt nodded. "Oh, yes. And in some cases their impairment is purely physical. The neural codes could probably be extracted complete."
"That would be perfect."
Which left only one more immediate point to be sure they were clear about. "What would be my side of this?" Queezt inquired.
Sarvik shrugged. "Whatever you can work with the patients and their attorneys, I presume."
"Better than that, please, Dr. Sarvik," Queezt said in a forced weary tone.
"Very well. A quarter of the rights on the cerebral prosthetic business when we get to full replacement brains," Sarvik offered.
"A quarter?" Queezt screeched. "What do you think I am, a charity? Without me in it, there wouldn't be any prosthetic business. Three-quarters."
"Three?" Sarvik squawked back. "You're only supplying bodies. I'm giving you the rest on a plate. All right: sixty-forty."
"Which you wouldn't do if you had a viable alternative," Queezt pointed out. "Fifty-fifty."
Sarvik shook his head and rapped the desk with an extended finger. "Fifty-five and forty-five's my limit." He waited, knowing that Queezt knew there was something further.
"And?" Queezt prompted.
"Okay. There's also a side deal that's being worked with Cosmopolitan Life: backup copies on file, if we can make it nondestructive. It could be a big angle for them. I'll cut you in at ten percent of my share."
Queezt nodded that he understood. "Twelve and a half?" he ventured, studying Sarvik calculatingly with one eye while the other watched Sarvik's fingers drumming on the desk.
"Twelve and a half, then," Sarvik agreed. It didn't really matter, since he wasn't in on the deal with Cosmopolitan, which in any case was a ruse he'd set up to fool Marog Kelm. But it would boost Sarvik's story when Queezt verifiedas he surely wouldthat Cosmopolitan was talking to somebody at Replimaticon.
They went over the kinds of things that could go wrong and how to deal with the lawsuits that would probably follow, and then argued about medical and scientific ethics. Sarvik left a half hour later, feeling pleased with his morning's work.
GENIUS 5 called him via his lapel phone while he was considering what to do for lunch. "I found some confidential records in Toymate which say that they put Leradil Driss inside Replimaticon to check on the story that Prinem Clouth is telling them," it said.
"Oh," Sarvik answered. It didn't feel right.
"Too confidential," GENIUS went on. "In fact, so confidential that nobody inside Toymate could have accessed them. There's no combination that factors to a valid code. And yet the protection against external penetration was ridiculously thin."
"What do you make of it?" Sarvik asked.
"The records were planted there by some other outfit as a cover to throw us off," GENIUS replied. "An outfit that's got some heavy-duty capability. In other words, whoever she's really working for is into something a lot bigger than making toys."
"Ah!" That sounded more like it. Sarvik gave a satisfied smile. "Isn't that just what I've been telling you all along?" he said. "So what have you got to say about biological intuition now?"