"We've _got_ to know, with the president ready to put Giac to work."
"I meant to tell you about that," said Lindsay.
"Don't worry," Nina informed him. "Your table at the Pelican was wired."
"Why are you against computers?" Lindsay asked her.
She dropped her smoke in a disposal-tray, said, "Never mind why--let's
just accept the fact that I am. And not for Fernando Anderson's reason
either. He just wants power."
"And what do you want?"
"Me?" Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "Why, I just want to have _fun_!"
She extended her arms and flapped her hands like birds. Then, again
reverting to seriousness, "I wish you'd tell me everything that went on
at Doc Craven's yesterday. Dammit, _his_ office wasn't wired."
Lindsay went through it, as nearly word for word as he could, then did
it again when no answer was quickly forthcoming. Nina listened, her
perfect forehead marred by a frown. Finally she said, "Let's take a
dip. It's almost dawn."
She removed what clothing she wore and Lindsay did likewise. They felt
the refreshing caress of the cool Gulf water on their skins--but that
was all the caressing there was. Nina, unlike Maria, was all business
despite the near-blatant perfection of her charms. Back in the bathroom
she said, "The only thing I can think of is that stigmata business. Why
should you imagine a mark on your mother's forehead?"
"Because she had one," he told her bluntly. "It was not unattractive--my
father used to call it her beauty mark."
Nina ran long slim fingers through her water-dark hair and said
incredulously, "You mean blemishes are not removed automatically at
birth on Mars?"
"Why, no," said Lindsay, surprised. "It's entirely up to the
individual--or the parents."
"And Doc Craven asked no questions that would lead to the truth?" the
girl asked, blinking. When Lindsay shook his head she suddenly grabbed
him and kissed him and did a little dance of sheer joy. "It's simply too
good to be true! Two computers fouled in one day through missing
information!"
"You're right, of course," he admitted. "But I'm damned if I see how it
does us any good."
"You idiot!" she shook him. "It clears the whole situation. It means
that the computers cannot give accurate answers according to the
symbolic logic tables unless they get full information. And you have
proved two breakdowns in the inescapable human element--the information
feeding--just like _that_!" She snapped her fingers. "It means we've got
the whole computer-cult on the hip. I could kiss you again, you big
goon." She did so.
"Cut it out," he said. "I'm not made of brass."
She said, "Night soil," amiably. What he might have done he was never to
know, for a buzzer sounded and Nina moved quickly to a wall-talkie. She
said, "All right, Bob, you say he's clean?" Then, a moment later,
"Better let him in and say his piece." And, to Lindsay, "We've got
company. Dmitri Alenkov--met him?"
Lindsay frowned. "You mean the Soviet _charge d'affaires_? I met him at
the reception last week. Dreadful little lizard."
"Dmitri might surprise you," she said enigmatically.
Lindsay almost said _night soil_ himself in exasperation. Instead and
peevishly he asked, "Is there anybody you don't know--intimately?"