The Long Run | Page 8

do the same; and that today she was
limited by the clumsiness of words in her attempt to understand
something that was very important to the closest friend she had in the
world.
"Not a webdancer, Denice, a Player."
She peered down at the portaterm Trent worked on. Seven years later,
after the perfection of tracesets that required neither hypnosis nor
biofeedback nor drugs for normal users to operate, the device would be
a quarter the size, lack a keyboard, incorporate the functions of
infocards, and be called a handheld--but the primary function was the
same, a device to interface humans with the global Information
Network.
Jacked into the MPU slot at the side of the portaterm was an optical
computer about the size of a makeup key; the coprocessor that held
Trent's Image, Ralf the Wise and Powerful. "Life can be described,"
said Ralf in a completely human voice, "and described surprisingly
well, in terms of the growth of information content. Correct me if I'm
wrong, Boss, but that's what the Player's Litany means: from the
Crystal Wind came data, and from data came life."
Trent nodded. "That's why I want an inskin."
"What's why?"
... to expand your sensory bandwidth by an order of magnitude, to do
the things an AI could do, control inanimate equipment with a thought,
find in instants the answer to any question to which there was an
answer….
Trent said, "It makes things faster."
"So what's the point?" she asked. "So you can find data faster than
anybody else in the world except an AI or another Player. Really, I just
don't get it."

Trent turned his head slightly, found the serious green eyes looking
directly into his own from five centimeters away. Waiting.
"The Crystal Wind is the greatest source of data the world has ever
seen. Truth and data," he said quietly, "are not the same thing. Data lies
in the Crystal Wind; Truth is a function of Realtime. And yet Truth
arises from data. From data you can--extract--Truth."
With a grave countenance, the nine-year-old girl studied him for just a
moment longer.
Trent stared back.
Finally the corners of her mouth twitched, and she fought it, then gave
up and broke up giggling. She leaned back against the bole of the tree
they were under, rested her head on Trent's shoulder. Finally the
giggles stopped, and she said in a quiet, detached voice, "Honestly,
you're the craziest thing I ever saw."
"Really?"
"It's okay," she said quickly. "I like you anyhow."
The gendarmes took the sunglasses containing his traceset contacts.
They took the handheld that contained the traceset itself. They took his
watch and the ruby stud from his left ear, his belt and his wallet and his
shoes as well. They did not remove his socks and even though they ran
a slowscan over him the slowscan started just above his ankles.
They missed the magpick taped to the sole of his right foot.
Lying on his back, Trent stared up at the ceiling of the holding cell. The
glowpaint was old and cracked; he suspected it had originally been
intended to glow the color of sunlight. Now it was closer to orange than
yellow. In one corner of the cell the webbed cracks in the paint had
actually cut off a ragged, meter-wide section of the paint from the
current; that section of the paint was dead gray, the color of mushrooms
in shade.

His hands were tingling; he tried moving them again. Better this
time--he actually got his fingers to curl up to touch his palms. There are
drugs that will buffer the human nervous system from the effects of
sonics, and others that will aid in recovering more quickly.
Trent had not expected to get shot with sonic stunners tonight. He lay
and waited for control of his body to return.
What the hell, he wondered, happened tonight?
He had plenty of time to think about it.
He had been in custody for four hours when they came to get him, one
in goldtone riot armor and one in plainclothes.
Trent was barely able to walk.
He did not ask where they were taking him. Their path led them
through the front waiting area and its associated babble, too many
people in too small a space speaking in voices that were too loud.
Denice Castanaveras was seated in one of the glassite-walled cubicles.
An angry, red-faced lady detective was saying something to her. The
combination of soundproofing and outside noise was unbeatable; Trent
could not even guess at what the lady gendarme was saying. Denice sat
in a straight-backed chair, sat upright with such rigid self-control that
her shoulders did not touch the back of the chair.
Trent looked toward her as the gendarmes led him into Mac