Good King Sauerkraut (8 page)

“Nineteen,” she said without hesitation.

Osterman nodded. “Nineteen. Anyway, I've already got MechoTech's designers at work on refining a robot tank that nobody's been able to perfect in nearly twenty years of trying. And you four,” he grinned at them, “you four get the plum. Defense is convinced that a fully automated, remote-controlled weapons platform will be what determines the winner in future ground wars. They're going to build their entire land-based defense system around it.”

“A weapons platform,” King repeated. “What kind of weapons?”

Rae Borchard answered him. “The people behind the Army Tactical Command and Control Systems in Washington have spent a lot of time trying to find the best weapons for field artillery as well as maneuver control and logistics manipulation. And they've decided the answer is electromagnetic guns.”

King shook his head. “Capacitor storage. Takes up too much space.”

“Maxwell Lab in San Diego pretty much has that problem licked,” Rae said. “The components are getting smaller with each new generation. Right now you could build an electromagnetic gun platform no bigger than an Ml Abrams tank.”

King hadn't known that. Excited, he pulled his legal pad toward him and started sketching. A lot of external work had to be taken care of before he could get down to the nuts and bolts of making it work—silhouette, for example. Tall and skinny for maneuvering through wooded areas, as flat as possible for open-field firing. Also, near-instantly changeable means of locomotion to match a changing terrain: desert, marsh, rocky areas, jungle.

Osterman smiled a gangster smile in King's direction and said, “You ought to be able to use the image-enhancement and other visuals already developed by the folks we've got doing optics for the robot tank and a couple of other things. We even stole the guys who were working on the mobile land mines. But Defense doesn't want to depend on optics alone. The optics people have worked wonders in improving resolution even under bad lighting conditions, but they can't do anything about removing obstructions to the line of sight. So we're going to have to come up with reliable tactile sensors.”

Ha!
King thought.
I knew it!

“If you need something more specialized than what we've already got in development,” Osterman continued, “let Rae know and we'll subcontract the firm that can provide it. The point is, we've got to get this baby right. Because the quality control is going to be
rigid
.” Osterman paused for a breath. “Defense has been caught with egg on its face just once too often. They don't want any more turkeys like the Bradley Fighting Vehicle or the Aegis Radar Detection System showing them up. The time when no one gave a damn whether a weapon worked or not just so long as everybody made a little pocket change out of it—well, those gravy days are over. Too many watchdogs now. So … no short cuts, people.”

Dennis asked, “Who's doing the mobile land mines?”

“Automated America,” Osterman answered. A Japanese-owned firm. “Personally, I think that one's going to be a dead end. But as long as it keeps the competition busy and out of our hair, I'm not going to say so where anybody can hear me.”

King looked up from his sketching. “Supply? How are these platforms to be kept supplied with ammo?”

“That's part of the project, a supplier and loader. Find a way.”

King nodded and turned back to his sketches. He needed another legal pad for notes; without looking up he reached out and took Rae Borchard's. Rae didn't notice; she was busy passing out the folders containing the minimum specifications Defense insisted on.

Osterman spent some time speaking about various technical requirements, his voice rumbling like a worn-out machine. “Rae's also got reports on earlier attempts to meet all these specs. Earlier failures, that is. They might save you some time.” She passed them out, and Osterman glanced at King, amused that the latter was already on the job. “Dennis, I hope you're getting all this because I'm not sure your partner is.”

“I'm listening,” King said without looking up.

Mimi was reading something in the specifications folder. “Warren … Defense wants computers in the control units that are voice-responsive?”

“Right. Defense figures there are going to be so many screens to watch at once that the soldier-operator won't have time to type out instructions. They're planning on using Carnegie Mellon's Sphinx—another DARPA project.”

Gregory waved a small hand dismissively. “That won't work,” he said. “The Sphinx computer is still talking baby talk. I attended a demonstration at CMU, and the poor thing got confused by the different accents people have. It couldn't understand Southern at all.”

So Gregory's been in Pittsburgh recently
, King thought and then carelessly dropped his pencil. When he bent down to pick it up, he looked under the table and was surprised to see Dennis's hand in Mimi's lap. Her legs were just far enough apart to give him room. King barely avoided bumping his head when he straightened up.

“That must have been an early demonstration you saw,” Rae was saying to Gregory. “The computer now recognizes eight basic groups of dialects, and its vocabulary keeps growing each day. Sphinx will be ready before we are.”

Gregory smiled at her. “You guarantee that?”

She smiled back. “I guarantee nothing.”

“Guarantees or no guarantees,” Osterman said, “Sphinx is what Defense wants to use, so you'll have to program for it. Before we go any further with the specs, though, you'll want some time to study them as well as Rae's reports on our other projects that may have applications you can use. Say we meet again at two tomorrow—that should give you time to familiarize yourself with enough of the details that we can get down to specifics. Agreed?”

They all agreed.

Osterman paused. “There's one more matter before we break up for today. King, put your pencil down. I want your full attention for this.”

King obediently put his pencil down.

“I want it understood once and for all,” Osterman said, “that King Sarcowicz is project leader here. You other three—every one of you has approached me about replacing him. The answer is still no.”

King shot an anguished look at Dennis, who wouldn't meet his eye.

Osterman noticed. “That's right, King—your partner too. They're all worried about your organizational abilities. But you're the talent that's going to solve the robot problems if they can be solved, so you're the one who's going to run this show, not some superefficient pencil-pusher. If you get behind in the paperwork, hire someone to take care of it.”

Gregory coughed discreetly. “It's not just that, Warren. When Mimi and I design the circuitry for computer control of the platform, we'll need to have thought out our software program completely so that the two are compatible. How you design the hardware of anything is determined by the instructions you use to operate that hardware. The program design
must
precede everything else.” He coughed again. “And that's why this project should be under Mimi's direction instead of King's.”

King grinned at Mimi, self-confident in victory. “You won the toss, huh?” She stared at him. He remembered, too late, how utterly humorless a woman she was.

Osterman smiled pleasantly at the two from SmartSoft. “Programming
über alles
, is that it? I know you sold that bill of goods to the Navy once, but it won't work here. You come up with the software to fit King's designs, King's and Dennis's—not the other way around. That's so obvious I'm surprised we're even talking about it.”

“It's not a bill of goods, Warren,” Gregory replied smoothly, showing no sign of taking offense. “It's a fact of life. If—”

“No, Gregory.
King is in charge
. End of discussion.” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Osterman didn't have to threaten to replace Gregory and Mimi if they gave him any flak; they all knew he'd do it in a flash if he felt that would help the project. So King had won the battle without having to fire a shot. He noticed the woman next to him watching the interchange closely, her face expressionless. Whoever Rae Borchard was, she wasn't giving much away about herself.

Warren Osterman murmured a few professional words of reconciliation and the meeting was over. King felt like a schoolboy again as he started gathering up notepads, folders, and the heavy binders full of papers. He'd forgotten to bring a briefcase, but he hid a smile when he saw the other three weren't able to fit all these new documents into the cases they did remember to bring. Loaded down, all four of them stood helplessly before the conference room door. Rae opened it and let them out.

“Pit stop,” Gregory said.

Mimi nodded. The two of them went off in search of rest rooms, leaving King and Dennis alone. King looked at the other man and said, “
Et tu
, partner?”

Angrily Dennis charged away toward the elevators, King close behind. The elevator buttons were the heat-activated kind, so King leaned over his armful of papers and breathed on the down button. “So what was all that crap you were giving me right before we left, about how you'd take care of the day-to-day stuff running the project and—”

“That's what I'm going to end up doing anyway, isn't it?” Dennis snapped. “You really think I enjoy doing all your grunge work while you go airily on your way, thinking Great Thoughts and getting all the credit?” He snorted. “You wouldn't even be here now if it weren't for me.”

The arrival of the elevator cut off King's reply. The car already held four passengers, so King and Dennis rode down in stony silence. King sneaked a peek at his partner; Dennis was not looking his usual handsome self. His face was not contorted, but it was different; King didn't know another person whose physiognomy could be so subtly altered by anger. They both needed time to cool off.

Out on the street, they had trouble getting a cab. They both yelled “Taxi!” at the passing yellow vehicles, which continued to pass. Dennis stepped out into the street and tried jumping up and down; no luck.

King looked over the crowd on the sidewalk and picked out an older woman who was carrying a folded umbrella in each hand, like weapons. He stopped her and said, “Lady, would you get us a cab? Please? Our arms are full.”

The woman looked up at King towering over her and juggling his bushel of papers. She nodded and stepped off the curb, raised one of the umbrellas in the air, and popped it open. A cab braked in front of her.

“Thanks,” King muttered as he climbed in after Dennis, who gave the driver the address of the MechoTech apartment and then stared silently out the window.

King's skin was getting that crawly, itchy feeling he hated. He swallowed nervously and said, “I think you owe me an explanation.”

“What's to explain?” Dennis answered sourly. “I made my pitch and I lost. What have you got to complain about? You're in the catbird seat.”

He sounds as if he hates me
, King thought wonderingly. “Dennis—what you said back there, by the elevator. I know I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. I could never have made it on my own. I need someone to, uh—”

“You need someone to baby-sit you, that's what you need,” Dennis said unpleasantly. He made his hand into a gun and pointed it at King. “You have a child's understanding of responsibility, King, and I'm getting goddam tired of leading you by the hand.”

And then always coming in second-best?
“Dennis, I'm sorry you feel that way—”

“I'm sure you are.” Bitter.

“We can work it out, you'll see. If we both … whoa, wait a minute. What the hell am I apologizing to you for? You're the one who tried to sell
me
out, goddammit!”

“Oh, give it a rest,” Dennis said tiredly. “We're not going to settle anything this way.”

The cab let them out. They rode up in the elevator without meeting each other's eyes, and once inside Dennis went straight to his room and closed the door. King headed for the room that had been turned into an office and dumped his armload of documents on the conference table. Within five minutes Dennis was forgotten as King buried himself in the details of the problems inherent in making electromagnetic gun platforms work.

The three men had the place to themselves that evening; Mimi was spending the night at the Jade East at JFK Airport. “Her husband's stopping over for just this one night,” Gregory explained to King and Dennis. “Michael's on his way to Vienna and then on to the Indian Ocean, to look for some very important fish that everybody thought was extinct.” He gave a superior smile. “I presume it will prove we're descended from God instead of from Cheetah.” Gregory thought anthropology was a quaint profession.

“What about all the stuff Osterman gave us to read?” Dennis asked.

“She took it with her.”

Dennis snickered. “Any bets on how much work she gets done?”

“Oh, I think it's Michael who'll be doing all the work.”

King didn't like this
at all
. “Can we forget Mimi's sex life and get back to business?” He waited until he was sure he had their attention and said, “We're responsible for three separate units—the weapons platform, the ammo supplier and loader, and a control unit directing both of them. We can forget about the last two for the time being. Have you had a chance to study the capacitor storage specs?”

They plugged away at the mountain of material Rae Borchard had distributed earlier, assimilating part of it but passing over most of the details. Dennis wanted to study what hadn't worked before, so they wouldn't make the same mistakes. King was more inclined to start from scratch and use the records of past failures as a simple reference, like a roadmap of directions to avoid. Gregory saw everything in terms of programming.