The Return of Vaman - A Scientific Novel (8 page)

The enormous black limousine was conspicuous even in the prosperous residential neighbourhood in Silicon Valley, the capital of California’s computer industry. The chauffeur was impressively dressed with a peaked cap; but more impressive was the sole occupant of the back seat. Had any passer-by managed to look through the darkened window he would have seen the classic, inscrutable oriental face.

As it was, there were no passers-by on the well laid out footpaths. The car glided through Main Street with its fast-food shops, then went out on to the highway in open country.

‘Turn left here.’ The back seat occupant whispered into the speaking tube. They were approaching a minor crossing, where a dirt track intersected the highway.

‘Christ!’ Muttered the chauffeur, looking at the sorry state of the track. Hardly suitable for his beautiful vehicle. Fortunately, it did not have to endure the ordeal for long.

‘Over there, by that shack with the green roof.’ Yamamoto’s instructions were precise. The shack stood totally isolated, with no other habitation in sight. An ideal place for a secret rendezvous.

The chauffeur pulled into the small enclosure surrounding the shack. He pressed a button on the dashboard to open a secret drawer from where he pulled out a tiny automatic pistol. Slipping it into his pocket, he got out, went round to the other side and opened the back door.

‘I don’t think you will need the toy, Jim.’ A faint smile crossed Yamamoto’s face, but only for an instant.

‘Won’t do any harm having it around, sir. You never know’, replied the chauffeur, studying his surroundings with keen professional eyes.

For James Gibbon had once been a crack FBI agent. He had been slated for quick promotion for his many achievements, but gave it all up to be Yamamoto’s personal companion-cum-bodyguard—at a salary several times more than the Federal Government could have offered him in the foreseeable future.

As they approached the shack they noticed a powerful motorcycle parked against the side wall. But for it, they might easily be in the frontier days of the last century.

‘He is waiting. You’d better remain here since I have to go in alone’, Yamamoto ordered. Jim had already noted movement inside, through the crack in the ramshackled door.

‘Sir’, winked Jim as he saw Yamamoto lightly tap his Omega wrist watch.

Indeed, people who met Yamamoto often wondered why a proud Japanese man like him used a Swiss watch. None except James Gibbon knew of the ultra efficient Japanese transmitter that the watch concealed. It could summon James to his master’s side whenever needed—as two years ago in the seedy Los Angeles suburb. Two ruffians had cornered Yamamoto with demands for whatever cash he had. To those professional muggers this seemingly sedate Japanese man had appeared easy prey. But they were in for a shock. One of them received a painful karate chop while the other had a bullet through his shoulder. How the two events happened simultaneously was a puzzle the two victims were trying to figure out in the hospital subsequently.

Without knocking, Yamamoto pushed the door and went in.

He was momentarily blinded by the darkness within. Then he began to make out faint outlines, thanks to some light coming through chinks in the door and the window.

The room contained two old chairs drawn up near a broken table. Behind stood an enormous man.

‘Joseph?’ asked Yamamoto.

‘Yes. I know you, Dr Chushiro Yamamoto. Let us sit down.’ The man took the nearest chair.

‘Since you don’t care to tell me your family name, let us stick to first names only. Call me Chushiro.’ Yamamoto spoke in even tones as he sat down.

‘Sure! Now coming to business, Chushiro, you are proud of this new supercomputer that your multinational is shortly going to bring out….’

‘Justly so, I think. We expect to be recognized as Number One.’

Joseph laughed softly. ‘In the fifties we had hand-operated calculators. Suppose a dealer in those machines were to proclaim himself Number One today, how would he fare?’ he asked. Yamamoto was nettled by this jibe, but his reply did not display this as he spoke. ‘Our technology is not only the latest, it looks to the future.’

Even as he said this, Yamamoto felt uneasy. Was Joseph playing cat and mouse with him … before pouncing to kill? Nobody had done this to him so far and he did not relish the experience. But Joseph soon put him out of his suspense.

‘Chushiro, let me assure you that your company will soon find itself in that state. See for yourself how computer technology has marched streets ahead of where you are now.’ Joseph produced a sheet of paper from one pocket and a small torch from another.

In the torchlight Yamamoto glanced at the paper and stiffened involuntarily. A Japanese expletive was his response as he completed the reading. Joseph would have been flattered had he known that, for the first time in his life, Yamamoto had panicked, if only momentarily.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Joseph asked as Yamamoto handed the sheet back.

‘Joseph, you have got something out of science fiction, I am afraid. A photonic computer of this capability does not exist. Nor is it likely to materialize in the near future.’

‘Exactly what a maker of hand-operated calculators would have said in the fifties about the supercomputers of today … But supposing for a moment that this is hard fact rather than fiction?’ Joseph tapped the paper as he spoke.

‘That is a very improbable thing to suppose, Joseph. In our corporation we keep tabs on what is happening elsewhere. I am fully aware who our rivals in this game are—what they are up to and what they are capable of. To expect any of them to produce this computer is, well, like supposing that a mouse can kill a tiger.’ Yamamoto paused to think, and then added, ‘This technology lies several decades into the future—it is a dream to which the likes of us cannot aspire. But I have no time right now to waste on dreams. So unless you have something concrete to offer, let us not waste each other’s time.’

Joseph let out a guffaw. ‘Well spoken Chushiro! But it is not in my interest to put all my cards on the table. It is a game of poker at which, I am sure, you are very adept.’ He watched Yamamoto’s dead-pan face looking surrealistic in that dim light. Then he proceeded further: ‘I may be bluffing, in which case you don’t have to worry. You lose nothing by telling me to beat it. But, on the other hand, if I am sincere, then you lose everything by that action. For I will then go to one of your rivals.’

‘But for me to take you seriously you have to disclose something more. None of my rivals will take you seriously either, merely on the basis of this.’ Yamamoto pointed to the paper in his hand.

Joseph shook his head. ‘Right now, I have nothing more to give. But think: would I have gone to the trouble of coming to this country where I am on the wanted list and meeting you in this god-forsaken spot just for the fun of it? I will provide further proofs, but only in stages.’

‘Stages? What do you mean?’ Yamamoto asked, although with his characteristic shrewdness he had guessed the answer.

Joseph produced a tiny slip with a number written on it. He turned the torchlight on it as he said: ‘Since you are gambling, Chushiro, you have to put some money down on the assumption that I am genuine.’

‘A Swiss bank account in Zurich, presumably? How much?’

‘The amount is written on the other side.’

As Yamamoto turned the paper over and read it, the same Japanese expletive came from him again.

‘The amount is nothing to what your firm will make once you get hold of this technology.’

Genuine or not, Joseph was correct on this count. There was no question that whoever could make a computer of these capabilities would call the tune on the world market.

‘What do I get in return for this amount?’

‘The source of this computer. And, also, if you give me two problems which are beyond the scope of your best computer in the matter of complexity of logic, capacity of storage space and time of computation … I will undertake to have them solved for you.’

‘You did ask me to bring two problems … well, here they are.’ Yamamoto handed him two printouts and added, ‘Our experts say that these cannot be solved until the advent of the next generation of computers.’

‘You will get the solution within a week of the date you deposit the first instalment’, Joseph replied.

‘First instalment?’ Yamamoto asked.

‘Of course! Surely you agree that knowledge has its price?’

Yamamoto pondered a while. Then he spoke with a tone of finality. ‘Joseph, I started earning money by delivering morning papers. It was because I took gambles which paid off that I reached where I am today. I have lost a few gambles … but I don’t recall a case where I was cheated and the person responsible for it got away with it.’

In spite of his hefty size Joseph felt a momentary twinge of fear at this warning. Pulling himself together, he asked:

‘So, your decision, Chushiro?’

‘I accept your terms, Joseph.’

‘Let’s shake hands over the deal—honour among thieves, eh?’

If Yamamoto disliked being called a thief, his face did not register it. He shook hands with Joseph.

It was then that Joseph realized how firm Yamamoto’s grip was.

Joseph stepped out after Yamamoto’s limousine disappeared from the scene. Having put on his helmet and goggles he set off on his motorcycle. Soon he was racing along Interstate 5 and headed for Los Angeles.

A half hour’s ride along the freeway brought him to a rest area where he had a quick meal and then approached a call box. His telephone card carried the name Joseph Burridge. As he dialled an international call he looked at his watch and smiled softly. It was getting close to four in the afternoon.

‘Who is it?’ asked an irritable voice after the phone had rung several times.

‘Good morning PL! Karl here. Don’t you Indians get up early in the morning? Get up, man! It’s bright and sunny over here.’

‘Surely you are not calling with the intention of providing a weather bulletin?’ Pyarelal’s voice was quite friendly now.

‘No. Just to report. Number One is interested. The Jap will pay the first instalment.’

‘Good! Well done! How much did you ask?’

‘That is none of your business, old man. They will pay more for further information, of course. I will pay you what we agreed upon. But please arrange for more details on the computer.’

‘Will do. Bye.’

As Pyarelal replaced the receiver, a click could be heard somewhere down the line and a tape recorder was automatically turned off.

‘Go on, Mr Singh. You must have something really important to have called me here all the way from Gauribidnur.’ Major Samant eased himself on to the sofa as he spoke.

Kamala Prasad Singh had a first class M.Sc with statistics, but had somehow got diverted to the police department. As a police officer he was something of a misfit, being too urbane to lead riot squads against unruly mobs. So he was diverted again, via the C.I.D. to the Intelligence Bureau, where he had found his niche.

‘Take it easy, Samantji! Here, I will play a tape for you’, Singh said in his polite Hindi.

Singh was a lover of music and was known for his stock of tapes and LPs of classical Indian music. But the tape he played on this occasion was somewhat different. Still, Major Samant liked it so much that he called for a replay, which he listened to carefully.

‘Technically illegal of course—but we have to do this from time to time’, said Singh almost apologetically.

‘I recognized Pyarelal’s voice right away. The caller’s voice was not so clear, but fortunately he identified himself … Good you called me, Mr Singh.’ Samant was clearly very excited.

‘On rare occasions we catch gems like this out of a whole lot of junk’, Singh said modestly.

‘Can you work out where the call came from?’

Singh was hoping this question would be asked. For this is where his analytical mind revelled.

‘This call came when it was four-thirty in the morning, Indian Standard Time. That makes it midnight in London and Western Europe because it is summer, seven in the evening in New York and four in the afternoon on the West Coast of the United States.’

Singh paused to let all this sink in and then continued.

‘Of course, in summer it can be bright and sunny even at seven p.m. in New York. So I got the Met office to give me satellite weather charts over the United States. Fortunately for me, there were low pressure areas almost all over the country.’

Singh fished out a sheaf of maps from his desk and placed them before the Major who immediately said ‘Right you are. All states except California and Arizona seem to be under heavy cloud cover.’

‘Taking that with reference to the computer, I homed in on Silicon Valley in California. Our friend was negotiating with somebody high up in Number One.’

Major Samant was still peering over the maps as Singh produced lemonade from his desktop fridge. He was a strict teetotaler.

‘There can be no doubt about which is Number One, especially after reference to “the Jap” in the conversation’.

‘Who is the Jap?’ asked Samant.

‘Chushiro Yamamoto, born in Osaka, age forty-five, Ph.D. from Cambridge. Got mentioned for his exceptional thesis on computer hardware. Had many lucrative jobs waiting for him in the USA and Japan but preferred to do post-doctoral research for a few years, where he went from strength to strength. Then he started his own company. Judged the market right when the demand for personal computers rose and rose. Then sold out just before the downhill started and joined a top class multinational in an important policy-making post, where he has been since—now a force to reckon with. I have managed to get a couple of photographs of him, too.’ He placed a few magazines on the small table in front of Major Samant.

‘You certainly have done your homework, Mr Singh.’ Major Samant glanced through the article in a leading computer journal from the West, wherein Yamamoto’s achievements were highlighted. Singh grinned with satisfaction.

‘Thank you, Major! I might further add that his company has given Yamamoto
carte blanche
to use whatever methods he deems fit to bring it to Number One place and keep it there. Industrial espionage is one of his specialities.’

‘All is fair in love and war, eh?’ the Major said jokingly. But already his cautious mind was estimating the consequences. That Yamamoto was interested in the Gauribidnur computer was bad enough. His joining forces with an international criminal like Karl Shulz added another dimension to his worry.

‘It is high time we took in Navin Pande and Pyarelal. We simply cannot let this leak go on any more’, he said in decisive tones.

Singh’s deprecating cough told him that such precipitate action was unwelcome.

‘Hardly what I expected of you, Major.’ Singh elaborated, ‘What will that do? May be those two will get a few years in jail. But what about the big fish, Shulz? Will you let him go? Remember, he will carry on with someone else instead.’

‘I will have to do so Mr Singh, much though I regret that alternative. My main concern is to protect our project at Gauribidnur. I cannot compromise on that.’

‘Suppose you catch Shulz without compromising your project?’ Singh asked.

‘How? In what way?’ the Major asked hopefully—for he could see that his companion’s face was shining with excitement. From past experience he knew that Singh had got one of his brain waves. And waves from such a brain as his could not be ignored.

‘Let me explain’, Singh added, replenishing his glass with more iced lemonade.

‘Time to go, Runa’, Navin said, looking at the bedside clock.

‘Not yet, darling … can’t you spare even a single night for your Runa? For two months I have missed you’, Runa pulled him back to bed and gave him a long hug.

Normally, this should have been enough incentive to keep him back—but not today. Navin had a flight to catch—the first flight to Bombay. He gently extricated himself and got up.

‘Runa, love, much though I hate it, I have to leave. Otherwise I will miss this wretched flight … But I promise you another rendezvous within a month.’

‘A tall promise! And no doubt your bodyguard will be there too? I bet he is waiting outside.’

Navin looked out of the window. A solitary figure in plain clothes could be made out vaguely, sitting near the gatepost of the apartment building. It was indeed hard to do much under this constant shadow, for which he heartily cursed the absent Major.

‘Runa, you and I have to put up with this for may be a year, until I unravel all the treasure in that container. It’s an archaeologist’s dream, Runa. And it’s a challenge to me.’

As Navin rapidly dressed, Runa made another proposition. ‘How about taking me to that god-forsaken place?’ Navin laughed at the suggestion.

‘You! In Gauribidnur! What would a party girl like you do in that monastery. You will want to quit in two days!’

‘I know why you don’t want me there, Navin. You have acquired another friend.’

Navin suddenly turned serious. His moment had come. Like a magician, he produced a jewel box from his pocket and opened it to take out a ring.

‘Give me your second finger of the left hand.’ Even before Runa knew what he meant he had slipped the ring on it. She stared at the brilliant diamond, half dazed.

‘What is this for?’ she asked, impressed but hardly able to believe the implications.

‘I thought even a muddle-headed one like you would know! It happens to be an engagement ring … Runa will you marry me?’

‘I can’t believe it! A casanova like you asking that question?’

‘Well, what is the answer, my love?’ asked Navin, taking her in his arms.

Before Runa could answer, however, the door bell rang, followed by loud, decisive knocks.

‘Curse it’, muttered Navin as Runa went to open the door. It was still too early for the taxi to the airport that he had ordered.

‘Who is it?’ he heard Runa ask before opening the door. Then he saw her look through the peephole and open the door in some trepidation.

He caught a glimpse of Hajarimal, his ‘bodyguard’. But the figure behind him made Navin stiffen.

Major Samant was standing at the doorway in full uniform.