The Doors of the Universe Read online

But the knowledge in the computers could not.

  Computers depended on metal parts and on a supply of nuclear power. The knowledge in them could not be accessed without those essentials. If the power failed, if the electronically stored data could never again be retrieved, then that knowledge would be lost. The Founders had known this; it had been one of their main reasons for sealing the City, for if the knowledge were to be lost, the machines essential to survival would be lost too, along with any chance of ever obtaining the metal for more machines.

  It was a circle. If it was broken, humanity would die. Yet if it had been broken in another way, a way that had enabled humans to live without the City . . . then the City would no longer exist. He would be living the Stone Age life of the villagers, and without metal resources, without people trained to preserve even the remnants of a metal-based technology, there would be no possibility of regaining such a technology in the future.

  The universe would be closed to his race. Forever.

  The accumulated knowledge of the Six Worlds would be lost forever.

  And the First Scholar must have foreseen that outcome.

  Numb, paralyzed, Noren closed his eyes; the room had begun to swim dizzily around him. The nightmare that had eluded him earlier was assailing him now—though he was still conscious, he began to feel the familiar horror. He no longer wanted to understand its basis. He knew he could not face such understanding. He knew what significant facts the First Scholar had edited from his memories; he wished he could edit them from his own.

  He should go now, walk away from the computers, forget genetics and return to his study of physics. Life would go on, as it had gone on throughout the generations since the Founding. As it would go on for a few more after him. No one else would learn what he had learned. People would be content. The villagers and Technicians would be content because they believed the Prophecy, and the Scholars would be content because they had faith in their power to bring about the Prophecy’s fulfillment. There shall come a time of great exultation . . . and at that time, when the Mother Star appears in the sky, the ancient knowledge shall be free to all people, and shall be spread forth over the whole earth. And Cities shall rise beyond the Tomorrow Mountains, and shall have Power, and Machines; and the Scholars will no longer be their guardians. Everyone believed that. Would they be happier knowing that it was false? Had he not faced exactly the same decision last year, when he’d first lost confidence in the nuclear research, and had Talyra not died because of his mistaken attempt to offer truth in place of illusion?

  But it was not the same. Then, truth as he’d seen it had been a destructive truth. He could not have saved anyone by exposing the Prophecy’s emptiness. He could not, by sacrificing all he personally valued, have enabled future generations to live.

  Could he now?

  Could the Founders have done so? The First Scholar?

  They had not, certainly, been insincere in what they did. Their suffering had been real. They had made a choice, a hard one, too hard to impose on their successors, and they had made it for humanity’s benefit. They had chosen a relatively short era of social evil to attain a long era of future advance, evidently. He did not have to judge whether they’d been right or wrong; the option was no longer open. For him, knowing that synthesization of metal had been proven impossible, the choice was simply between preservation of knowledge and a chance for permanent preservation of life . . . if in fact there was now any choice at all.

  He had better start finding out, Noren told himself grimly. If he left the computers without knowing, he might lack the courage to come again.

  * * *

  Afterward, he did not remember his whole line of questioning. He was dazed and couldn’t be sure which of his words triggered a long-hidden branch in the control program. For a time, quite a long time, he was conversing normally; then all of a sudden he found himself waiting, the light at the top of his console glowing orange, as auxiliary memory was searched.

  A wait in itself was not unusual; information about subjects not of immediate concern to the world was kept in auxiliary storage to be called up only on request. The computer complex, he’d been told, was not really well designed for its role as a central library. It had been put together from the separate smaller computer systems of the dismantled ships of the starfleet, a task the Founders had accomplished under the extreme handicap of having no unit with adequate capacity for a central server and no materials or equipment for the manufacture of extra parts. The resulting system was therefore inefficient and slow by Six Worlds’ standards. It was no great problem; rarely did anyone need data such as he’d just requested. Yet he had already waited once upon his initial request for the genetics file, which he’d supposed was a single entity . . . evidently, that wasn’t the case.

  There had been a contingency plan, then. The Founders had not burned their bridges; they had known metal synthesization might fail. He was, he supposed, going to be given specific instruction in the process of modifying human genes. How excited he’d have been if this had happened earlier tonight, before he’d perceived the implications! He wondered if the program would spell them out. Probably not, he thought bitterly; no doubt the Founders hoped the implementer of the contingency plan would work as an unwitting tool. So much for the sacred principle of access to knowledge for the priesthood, and the even more sacred one of equal share in the burdens. . . .

  That was what hurt worst, Noren saw. He had never wanted to be a priest, but he had come to feel it was wrong to refuse the responsibility. He had become convinced that the priests’ world-view was genuine, that the role involved no sham or delusion. Now it seemed that the whole edifice had been built on sham after all. When in recantation, one went through symbolic reenactment of the First Scholar’s death, one believed one had shared the full burden of the Founders’ moral dilemma—but if they had made the hardest choice of all and then hidden the fact that such choice existed, their successors had been duped! The Scholars were all tools. Right from the beginning it had been that way. How could the First Scholar have been a party to that? How could he have founded a religion on such a basis, a religion he’d believed valid? In the dreams he had believed; those feelings couldn’t have been faked. . . .

  Words appeared on the console screen. YOU HAVE ASKED QUESTIONS THAT PROVE YOU ARE NOT OF THE FIRST GENERATION. HOW MANY PLANET YEARS HAVE PASSED SINCE THE ARRIVAL OF THE FINAL EXPEDITION?

  But the computer knew that! thought Noren in amazement. It was the computer that had kept track of the time since the Founding; the Scholars relied on its internal clock. It told them, not the other way around. Odd, too, that the word “Founding” had not been used in the question. “The final expedition” was an obsolete phrase, one he knew only because the First Scholar had used it in the dreams.

  He was not a trained programmer, but he’d learned enough since becoming a Scholar to realize that the normal executive program was no longer operating; the information he was to receive had been so well protected that it was not to be processed by the integrated system at all. Some vestige of a first-generation master routine had assumed control. Slowly he keyed in the requested number of years.

  HAS METAL YET BEEN SYNTHESIZED? the program asked.

  NO. THAT IS NOW KNOWN TO BE IMPOSSIBLE. He might not be given the full truth unless he made clear from the outset that there was no remaining hope in the original plan.

  YOUR INQUIRIES CONCERN GENETICS. HAVE YOU COMPLETED THE TRAINING PROGRAM IN THAT SCIENCE?

  YES.

  YOU MUST BE EXAMINED WITH REGARD TO YOUR READINESS TO RECEIVE FURTHER INFORMATION. THE TEST IS EXTREMELY DIFFICULT AND WILL REQUIRE SEVERAL HOURS. ARE YOU WILLING TO UNDERTAKE IT NOW?

  YES, replied Noren. He was a fool, probably; the night was far gone and he was giddy with fatigue and emotion. Common sense told him that he would do better on such a test if he took it when fresh. But having come this far, he could not back away.

  He had been tested many times before by the computer syste
m, though never as a prerequisite to obtaining answers to his questions. Usually information was simply presented—if one couldn’t understand it, one had to study up on background material and then ask again. Testing was reserved for the formal training programs, and it was made very arduous. One was pushed to the limits of one’s individual capacity and a little beyond; computer programs excelled at that. Noren had learned not to mind it. Once he’d discovered that tolerance of one’s failures was a carefully calculated factor in the scoring, he had even learned to enjoy the challenge. But no previous test had come close to the one to which he was now subjected.

  At first it was simply a matter of understanding basic concepts of genetics, not too different from the tests in the training program he’d recently completed. Then, when he thought he was nearing the end, a new phase began. It turned into a fast-response exercise. This was similar to the computer game in which, as a new Scholar, he’d been trained in the mental discipline needed for advanced study. He knew how to deal with it. He was aware that he was not expected to respond within the allotted time to every question; the aim was to see how well he could cope with confusion. But in this case, the confusion was compounded. Not only did the questions demand thought, being full of technical details often over his head, but irrelevant inquiries were interspersed, presumably to throw him off the track. He was asked about his personal life. He was asked his opinion of various Inner City policies. Noren tried ignoring these superfluous matters, but that did not suit the testers’ strategy; he found that if he neglected to respond to any demand, however foolish, he would be forced to restart the current series of technical problems from the beginning. And to make things even rougher, he was given no feedback whatsoever concerning his scores.

  This went on literally for hours.

  Eventually, when he was trembling with exhaustion, the screen cleared, and a nine-digit figure appeared upon it. MEMORIZE THIS ACCESS CODE, he was told. OTHERWISE, IF YOU SEEK INFORMATION FROM THIS FILE IN TILE FUTURE, YOU WILL BE REQUIRED TO REPEAT THE TEST.

  Too overcome to protest, Noren committed the digits to memory. What, for the Star’s sake, was wrong with his name? The computer system kept track of everyone’s test scores, but name was the only identification needed to refer to them.

  UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES PUT THE CODE IN WRITING, the instructions continued. IT HAS BEEN RANDOMLY GENERATED AND IS RECORDED ONLY WITH YOUR TEST RESULTS. EVERY PRECAUTION MUST BE TAKEN TO ENSURE THAT WHAT I AM ABOUT TO TELL YOU IS NOT COMMUNICATED TO ANYONE I’VE HAD NO OPPORTUNITY TO JUDGE.

  Noren stared incredulously. The reason for using an access code had become clear enough, but the word “I” created a greater mystery.

  FORGIVE ME FOR TESTING YOU SO RIGOROUSLY, the displayed wording went on. IT WAS NECESSARY. SURVIVAL ON THIS PLANET MAY DEPEND ON MY SECRET BEING PASSED TO A PERSON WHO WILL USE IT WISELY. I DO NOT KNOW HOW THE WORLD’S CULTURE WILL CHANGE AFTER I AM GONE. I KNOW ONLY THAT I CANNOT LET THIS KNOWLEDGE PERISH, AS MY FRIENDS WOULD WISH.

  Who had programmed this? The computer complex never referred to itself by personal pronouns; he was reading the words of some past Scholar who’d chosen to speak to posterity as an individual—who had, moreover, carefully chosen to whom he would speak. The Founders had not done things that way. Everything, even the separate control routine, indicated that the file had been added to the system not as an official contingency plan, but secretly.

  DO YOUR CONTEMPORARIES STILL HAVE HOPE OF SYNTHESIZING METAL?

  YES, Noren replied.I MYSELF HAVE NONE.

  IS YOUR INTEREST IN GENETICS SHARED BY OTHERS?

  I HAVE TOLD THEM NOTHING OF SIGNIFICANCE. THEY THINK IT A MERE PASTIME.

  YOU ARE IN A DIFFICULT POSITION, THEN, MUCH MORE DIFFICULT THAN YOU KNOW. I HAD HOPED IT WOULD BE OTHERWISE.

  It gave him an uncanny feeling to see such phrasing; it was as if he were conversing with a conscious being, though he knew his responses would merely determine which of various preprogrammed statements would be presented to him. In the same way as in a programmed text, the writer had provided comments to fit differing circumstances.I HAVE GUESSED A GREAT DEAL ABOUT THE DIFFICULTIES, Noren confessed. I HAVE GUESSED WHY INFORMATION ABOUT HUMAN GENETICS WAS CONCEALED BY THE FOUNDERS.

  YOUR GUESS IS UNLIKELY TO BE CORRECT, FOR IF YOU KNEW THE REASON, YOU WOULD NOT HAVE HAD TO GUESS—IT WOULD HAVE SEEMED OBVIOUS. POSSIBLY YOU THINK WE WERE UNWILLING TO LOSE THE CHANCE OF PRESERVING THE SIX WORLDS’ KNOWLEDGE. DO YOU APPROVE OF CONCEALMENT FOR THAT PURPOSE?

  Noren hesitated. Finally he responded, I HAVE NEVER APPROVED OF DECEIT.

  THAT IS TO YOUR CREDIT. BUT YOU ARE EMBARKING ON A COURSE INVOLVING FAR MORE COMPLEX ISSUES THAN THE ONE YOU HAVE IMAGINED.

  This was like what Stefred had said to him long ago, Noren recalled, during his candidacy, when he’d objected to the withholding of the truth about the nova from non-Scholars. Was it really so much worse for the Scholars themselves to have been kept in partial ignorance? No . . . but the Founders had lied! The First Scholar had lied! They had said specifically to their successors that there was no means of human survival apart from guardianship of the City. To be sure, the First Scholar had lied to the villagers of his own time by pretending to be an insane tyrant; he had told open falsehoods about his motives. Yet that was different. He had not led them to make moral choices on false grounds.

  The programmer of this file had been very clever. By using the personal pronouns he had created an illusion that encouraged trust. Perhaps he’d been one of the Founders after all; he had said “we” at one point. There might, of course, have been a rebel among the Founders—but what basis was there for judging such a person’s credibility? He, Noren, had been judged, and he saw now he had been judged on more than his knowledge of genetics; the seemingly irrelevant personal questions had been the most significant of all. He had undergone a thorough psychological examination. How was he to evaluate whoever had devised that? How much of the programmed sympathy could he believe?

  WHOSE WORDS ARE THESE? he inquired, not really hoping for a meaningful answer. Few of the Founders were remembered by name, since when they’d assumed priesthood they had chosen anonymity in fear of worship.

  Promptly, as if the statement had no greater import than any other computerized response, an answer was displayed. YOU KNOW ME. I WAS LEADER OF THE FINAL EXPEDITION FROM THE SIX WORLDS, AND SO FAR, I HAVE LED THE CITY. SOON, WITHIN A FEW WEEKS AT MOST, I MUST DIE; IF IT DOES NOT SO HAPPEN I SHALL DESTROY THIS FILE, FOR I CANNOT RISK ITS DISCOVERY DURING MY LIFETIME.

  The First Scholar himself? Utterly bewildered, Noren sat motionless, trying to quiet the racing of his heart.

  ARE MY RECORDED MEMORIES FAMILIAR TO YOU?

  YES, Noren keyed, glad that no fuller reply was needed; his hands were unsteady.

  IN THEIR FULLEST FORM?

  YES. BUT EVEN THAT WAS EDITED BY . . . YOURSELF.

  THAT IS TRUE. AND IF YOU NOW KNOW ENOUGH TO ASK THE QUESTIONS YOU’VE ASKED AND TO RESPOND AS YOU’VE RESPONDED, YOU HAVE GROUNDS TO DISTRUST ME.

  Noren paused; how could one possibly tell the First Scholar that one distrusted him? Perhaps this whole night’s experience was unreal, not a thing truly happening. Perhaps he was still in his own bed. . . .

  He was aware, suddenly, that it was not happening—not distrust. Though logic did give him grounds for it, logic wasn’t what mattered. He had shared this man’s inner thoughts and emotions, had done so repeatedly. He could not help trusting him! He would always trust him, just as after experiencing the candidates’ version of the dreams, he had trusted enough to recant on that basis. Logic had told him then that the Scholars might deceive him; but in controlled dreaming there could be no deceit. Editing, yes. Since the First Scholar could not possibly have done what the evidence indicated he’d done, perhaps someone had tampered with the recordings later, reedited them as Stefred had prepared the version for Lianne. That, in fact, might explain the incomplete cuts that had caused his nightmare. Things could indeed be cut fro
m thought recordings—but the thoughts that weren’t cut could not be altered. Having shared the First Scholar’s mind, Noren knew positively that he was trustworthy.

  I STILL TRUST YOU, he declared. BUT THERE IS MUCH I WISH TO KNOW. He hoped this secret file had been designed as a crosscheck; since tampering was technically feasible, the First Scholar might have foreseen that it could occur.

  YOUR QUESTIONS WILL BE ANSWERED. BUT BEFORE I CAN TELL YOU ANYTHING CRUCIAL I MUST ASK YOU FOR A COMMITMENT. WILL YOU PROMISE TO PURSUE FULL ENLIGHTENMENT WITH REGARD TO THE ISSUES THAT HAVE BEEN CONCEALED, NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU MAY SUFFER FROM IT?

  YES! The First Scholar too had been forced to trust, Noren perceived. No promise keyed into a computer could be binding except in the mind of the person who made it—yet he would feel bound. Had the psychological examination predicted that he would?

  I MUST SUBJECT YOU TO A GRIM ORDEAL. I AM DEEPLY SORRY, BUT IT IS UNAVOIDABLE. I CAN GIVE YOU NO ASSURANCE THAT IT WILL BE HARMLESS TO YOU; IT MAY PROVE SERIOUSLY DISTURBING—YET OUR PEOPLE’S FUTURE WELFARE IS AT STAKE. AND YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO KNOW THE FACTS IT WILL REVEAL.

  I AM NOT AFRAID TO KNOW, Noren replied, aware that although this was not wholly true, any other response would be unthinkable.

  OF THAT, I HAVE MADE SURE: YOU HAVE BEEN TESTED IN MORE WAYS THAN YOU REALIZE. THE STATEMENT NEXT IN SEQUENCE IN THIS PROGRAM WOULD NOT BE PRESENTED TO YOU IF YOU WERE NOT BOTH QUALIFIED AND COMMITTED TO ACT UPON IT. ITS MERE EXISTENCE IN COMPUTER MEMORY IS DANGEROUS.

  The screen went blank for an instant, and Noren drew breath. Then more words appeared. THE KNOWLEDGE YOU SEEK CANNOT BE EXPLAINED VERBALLY. YOU MUST ACQUIRE IT THROUGH A DREAM. THERE IS A HIDDEN RECORDING; I HAVE PUT IT WHERE IT CANNOT BE FOUND BY ACCIDENT. I AM RELYING ON YOU TO EXPERIENCE THAT RECORDING, AND TO LET NO ONE ELSE KNOW OF IT UNTIL YOU HAVE DONE SO.

  A dream, an unknown dream, hidden for generations? The shock of the idea wasn’t unwelcome; Noren’s mood began to rise. There was some tremendous secret here, something far more complex than he’d imagined, and perhaps even . . . hope! Valid hope for the world! He felt ashamed to have doubted the First Scholar even briefly.