The Turing Option

“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.