Chapter 15 Chapter 15 Arrest of the Conspirator

Bailey felt that the faint smell of Yeast Town was getting stronger and wider, and it was spreading more and more widely.In fact, he didn't hate the smell, he didn't think it was bad like some people like Jessie.He even likes it a little bit.The smell was comforting to him. Whenever he smelled the smell of raw yeast, the change in his sense of smell immediately brought him back to the past, more than thirty years ago.He seemed to be a ten-year-old boy again, boarding at Uncle Boris's.Uncle Boris was a worker on the yeast farm, and there were always some delicious yeast candy biscuits and so on in the house. He remembered chocolate covered with syrup, and hard candies made in the shape of cats and dogs.Although he was young at the time, he knew that Uncle Boris should not have taken this thing back.So every time he ate these candy biscuits, he always sat in the corner of the room, facing the wall, and ate them quietly.He ate quickly so as not to be seen.

The taste of stealing something is even more wonderful. But poor Uncle Boris!He died in an accident.They never told him exactly how his uncle died, and he wept bitterly, thinking that his uncle must have been taken for stealing yeast candy biscuits back.He thought he would be arrested and sentenced.It was years later that he learned the truth. He checked the police files very carefully, and only then realized that his uncle had been crushed to death by some kind of transport machine. A childhood story full of thrills and fantasies, but the ending was not surprising at all, almost making him feel lost.

However, this fabulous story still came to his mind whenever he smelled the raw yeast. In fact, Yeast Town is not an official name.You won't find this place in New York gazetteers or official maps.People call it Yeast Township, but to the postal service, it's a place where the municipalities of Newark, New Brunswick, and Tetons come together.Geographically, it crosses the wide expanse of medieval New Jersey, on which some residential areas, especially those in Newark Center and Teton Center, are densest. However, most of it is still distributed with multi-storey farms, where more than a thousand kinds of yeast grow and multiply.

One fifth of New York's population worked on yeast farms, and another fifth worked in related factories.The workflow begins by dragging mountains of wood and rough cellulose from the tangled forests of the Allegheny Mountains into New York, then adding water to acid tanks to break the wood and cellulose down into glucose.Then put in the most important additives saltpeter and calcium phosphate stone, plus the organisms supplied by the chemical laboratory, and the final thing that is transformed is yeast, more yeast. Without yeast, six billion of the eight billion people on the planet would be hungry within a year, and Bailey shuddered.In fact, this assumption was also established three days ago, but three days ago, he never thought about this problem.

They took an exit on the edge of Newark and left the driveway.On both sides of the road on the ground are rows of nondescript farm buildings. There are few people and cars on the road, and there is no need to use the brakes at all. "What time is it, Daniel?" Bailey asked. "Five past sixteen," replied R. Daniel. "Well, if he's working the day shift, he's still working." Bailey parked the car in the unloading yard and locked the controls. "Is this the yeast farm in New York, Elijah?" asked R. Daniel. "Only part of it," Bailey said.

They entered a corridor lined with offices.There was a receptionist at the corner ahead, and when he saw them, he immediately put on a smile: "Who are you looking for?" Bailey flashed his wallet. "Police. Is there a Francis Crowther in the New York Yeast Factory?" The girl looked a little disturbed. "Let me check." She connected to a line clearly marked "Personnel Room" on the switchboard, and spoke into the intercom with her mouth slightly open, but she couldn't hear the sound. Bailey is no stranger to this kind of stuff.This is a guttural communication system that translates throat movements into speech. "Speak up so I can hear you," he told the receptionist.

Her voice became clearer, and only the second half of the sentence came out: "...he said he was a policeman, sir." Then a dark, well-dressed man came out of a door.He has a small beard and is a little bald.The man showed his white teeth and smiled: "I'm Priska from the personnel room, what's the matter, officer?" Bailey looked at him coldly, and Priska's smile froze. "I just don't want to bother the staff," Priska said. "They're a little touchy about the police." "That's your business." Bailey said, "Is Crowther in the factory now?"

"Yes, officer." "Give us a stick, then. If we get there he's gone, and I'll look for you again." The smile on Priska's face was long gone.He murmured, "Okay, Officer, I'll give you the stick." The direction set on the indicator stick is the second area CG department.Bailey didn't know what that meant in factory terms, and he didn't need to.This kind of stick looks very ordinary and is just the right size to be pinched in the palm of your hand.When the tip of the rod is pointed in the direction it is set for, it will heat up, and it will cool down quickly when it is removed from the direction.The closer to the target, the higher the temperature of the club head.

To a layman, this indicator stick is of little use, since its heat changes so quickly and indefinitely.But few city dwellers are uninitiated in it.One of our favorite and most frequently played games when we were young was to play hide-and-seek in the school corridors with a toy pointing stick. (Cold, hot, stick, to catch people. Hot, can't run away, stick, really smart...) Bailey remembers that he used to hold the stick and shuttle through hundreds of huge buildings to find people. way forward.He was able to find the shortest path with a stick, as if it had been drawn for him in advance.

Ten minutes later, he walked into a large, bright room, and the tip of the indicator stick was almost hot to the touch. "Is Francis Crowther here?" Bailey asked one of the workers closest to the door. The worker tilted his head.Bailey walked in the direction he pointed.The air compressor in the room was humming, and the strong yeast smell still lingered. At the other end of the room, a man stood up and started to undo his apron.The man was of medium height and young, but the lines on his face were very deep, and his hair was also a little gray.His palms were huge, with bulging knuckles like beads.He was slowly drying his hands with a fiber towel.

"I am Francis Crowther," he said. Bailey glanced at R. Daniel.The robot nodded. "Okay," said Bailey. "Is there a place to talk here?" "Probably." Crowther said slowly, "But I'm getting off work soon. How about tomorrow?" "It's going to be a long time between now and tomorrow. Let's talk now." Bailey opened the wallet and showed him the documents. Crowther wiped his hands calmly. "I don't know the system of the police station," he said coldly, "but here, our meal time is very tight. I have to eat between 17:00 and 17:45, otherwise I will There is no food to eat." "Never mind," said Bailey, "I can arrange for your dinner to be brought over." "That's really nice!" Crowther didn't appreciate it at all. "It's like a nobleman or some C-rank police officer. What else? Private bathroom?" "You just have to answer my questions, Crowther," said Baley. "Go play with a woman. Where can we talk?" "If you want to talk, how about the measuring room? Anyway, I have nothing to talk about." Bayley gestured for Crowther to enter the measurement room with a gesture of his thumb. It was a square room, white, very clean, with its own air-conditioning system (the air-conditioning in the larger room outside worked better).Numerous electronic gauges were installed on the four walls of the room.There is a glass cover on the outside of the measuring device, and only field forces can manipulate it.Bailey used to use a relatively cheap measuring device when he was in school.He recognized one of these in the room, and he knew that it could measure at least a billion atoms at a time. "I don't think anyone will come in here for a long time," Crowther said. Bailey snorted, turned to R. Daniel and said, "Can you please ask them to bring a piece of food here? If you don't mind, please stand outside and wait for the food to be delivered." He watched R. Daniel go out, then asked Crowther, "Are you a chemist?" "No, I'm a fermentation technician." "What is the difference?" Crowther looked very conceited: "The chemical technician is just a small role in stirring the soup, and the fermentation technician is the person who keeps billions of people alive. I am an expert in yeast cultivation." "Sorry," Bailey said. Crowther continued, gushing: "Our lab keeps the yeast in New York alive. We never have a day, a damn hour that's not every yeast in the culture tank. We check and adjust the food demand factors. We To make sure it's bred pure. We distort their genes, develop new varieties, weed out bad ones, we accentuate their traits, and reshape them into shape. "New Yorkers started eating out-of-season strawberries two years ago, and they weren't real strawberries, man! It's just a special high-sugar yeast medium that's the color of strawberries, with a little artificial addition Just the smell. That strawberry was developed in this room. The sugary alcoholic fats were just developed twenty years ago and were poor quality, candle-like, and useless. Yet, while they still taste like candles today, But its fat content has increased from 15% to 87%. If you have used the highway belt today, you just need to remember that the lubricating oil it uses is definitely AG7 The sugary, alcoholic, fatty oil of the number system. This thing was also developed in this room. So, don’t say I’m a chemical technician. I’m a fermentation technician.” Bailey couldn't help feeling weak under the strong self-importance displayed by this man. "Where were you between eighteen and twenty last night?" he asked suddenly. Crowther shrugged. "A walk. I like to take a walk after dinner." "Did you find a friend? Or watch an etheric movie?" "No. Just walking around." Belle pursed her lips.A hole in Crowther's quota ticket would have to appear if he went to see an ethereum movie.If he is visiting a friend, he has to give the name of a man or woman, and it has to be confirmed by inquiry. "So no one saw you last night?" "Maybe someone saw me, I don't know. I don't know if anyone saw me." "What about the night before?" "Same." "Then, no one can verify your actions these two nights." "Officer, I need to prove that I have not committed a crime only if I have committed a crime. Why do I need a witness if I have nothing to do?" Bailey ignored him.He flipped through his little blotter. "You've been to the Magistrate's Court for inciting a riot." "So what? It's just an R-sized thing pushing past me and I tripping him up, that's all. Call it incitement?" "The court found you inciting a riot. You were found guilty and fined." "That's the result, isn't it? Are you going to fine me again?" "There was a near riot at the shoe store in the Bronx the night before. Someone saw you there." "Who saw it?" "You're supposed to be eating here at that time. Did you have dinner the night before?" Crowther hesitated, then shook his head. "Stomach upset. Yeast can give you an upset stomach sometimes, even for seasoned professionals." "There was a near riot near Williamsburg last night. You were seen there, too." "Who saw it again?" "You deny that you were not present both times?" "Since I have nothing to admit, how can I deny it? Where did these two things happen? Who was the person who saw me?" Bailey looked directly at the fermentation technician without flinching: "I think you know what I'm talking about. I think you are an important figure in a medievalist organization that has not been legally registered." "I can't stop you from thinking that, officer, but thoughts are not evidence. Maybe you know that too?" Crowther grinned. "Maybe," Bailey said with a straight face, "maybe I can tell you a word or two of the truth right now." As he spoke, he walked to the door of the measuring room and opened it. "Has Crowther's supper arrived?" he asked R. Daniel, who was standing outside waiting numbly. "Come on, Ilya." "Would you please bring it in later, Daniel?" After a while, R. Daniel came in with a gridded metal plate. "In front of Mr. Crowther, Daniel," said Bailey. He sat on the stool by the wall of the measurement room, raised his legs, and dangled one foot regularly.He had noticed just now that when R. Daniel put the plate on the stool next to Crowther, the fermentation technician moved his body stiffly. "Mr. Crowther," Bailey said, "let me introduce to you, this is my partner, Daniel Oliva." R. Daniel held out his hand, "Hello, Mr. Crowther." Crowther said nothing, and did not shake R. Daniel's hand.Daniel kept holding his hand there, and Crowther's face gradually turned red. Bailey said in a low voice, "You're very rude, Mr. Crowther. Don't you think you're too big to shake hands with a policeman?" Crowther murmured, "Sorry, I'm hungry," he said, pulling a fork from a set of folding utility knives, and sat down to stare at his plate of food. Bailey went on: "Daniel, I think your indifference offended our friend. You won't be mad at him, will you?" "No, Elijah," R. Daniel replied. "Look, you'll have to show that you don't mind. How about putting your arm around his shoulder?" "I'd love to." R. Daniel said and walked forward. Crowther put down his fork. "What's this for? What's going on?" R. Daniel stretched out his hand without hesitation. Crowther slapped R. Daniel's arm aside with a backhand: "Damn it, don't touch me..." He jumped up, the dinner plate was knocked over, and the food was scattered all over the floor. Bailey watched the scene with cold eyes, and nodded to R. Daniel. Daniel remained expressionless and continued to approach Crowther, who retreated to the side.Bailey walked to the door. "Tell that thing to go away!" Crowther yelled. "Why do you talk like that?" Bailey said calmly; "this man is my colleague." "What 'people'? Fucking robots!" Crowther yelled. "Okay, Daniel," Bailey said immediately. R. Daniel backed away as promised, and stood quietly behind Bailey near the door.Crowther, panting, faced Baley with clenched fists. "Very good, the yeast cultivation expert is really smart. How do you think Daniel is a robot?" Crowther: "Anyone can see that!" "We'll leave that to the judge. Now, I think you'll have to come with us to Headquarters, Crowther. You've got to explain to us how you know Daniel's a robot. Man, we've got to You are too lazy to explain a lot of things. Daniel, you are now going to contact the chief. He is probably at home at this time. You tell him to go to the office and tell him that I have a person who must be interrogated immediately." R. Daniel opened the door and went out. "What's going on in your head, Crowther?" Bailey asked. "I want a lawyer." "You will. Now, tell me, what are you Medievalists up to?" Crowther looked away, determined to remain silent. "My God, man! We know all about you and your organization. I am not bragging. Just, to satisfy my personal curiosity, please tell me: What do you Medievalists want? What are you doing?" "Back to the land," Crowther said stiffly, "it's easy, isn't it?" "It's easy to say," Bailey said, "but it's not easy to do. How is the land going to feed eight billion people?" "Did I say return to the land overnight? Or return to the land in a year? Or a hundred years? It's a step by step, Mr. Cop. It doesn't matter how long it takes, the important thing is, let's start, start Get out of the caves we live in, and let us go into the fresh air." "Have you ever been in the fresh air?" Crowther cringes a bit: "Well, I'm at my wit's end! But there's hope for babies. Babies keep coming, for God's sake, get them out of their dens! Give them space , natural air and sunlight. Even if it is necessary to reduce the population bit by bit, it is not hesitating." "In other words, going back to a past that can't be reproduced." Bailey didn't know why he was arguing with Crowther, but there was a weird fire burning in his veins. "Back to the seed, back to the eggshell, back to the womb. Why bother? Why not move on? Don't have to cut the population, use them to colonize. Back to the land, of course, but back to the land of other planets. Colonize and develop new worlds!" Crowther let out a piercing laugh. "Create more Outworlds? More Outworlders?" "No, we won't be like this. The earthlings who develop these outer worlds are from planets without urban structures. Those earthlings are individualists and materialists. They take these characteristics to an extreme, a kind of Harmful to the extreme. We can now colonize the world from our present society, which is forced to cooperate too much. We can take advantage of the existing environment and traditions, and build a world that is completely different from the old earth, and also from the outside world. A very different, new society in between. A newer and better society." Bailey knew he was repeating Dr. Fastoff's words, but when they came out of him, it was as if he had been thinking about the problem himself for years. "It's just nonsense!" Crowther reacted fiercely: "We already have a world, why do we have to start over from scratch? What fool would do such a thing?" "Many such fools .And they won't be unarmed, they'll have robots to help." "Don't talk about it!" Crowther gritted his teeth, "Robot? Don't even think about it!" "Why not? God! I don't like robots either, but I'm not paranoid enough to hurt myself. What the hell are we afraid of robots? In my opinion, it's just an inferiority complex. Each of us feels inferior to other people." We are worldlings, and hate it so much. Because of this, we have to try to make up for it by proving ourselves to be superior to otherworlders in some way, somewhere. But psychologically, the blow But it's hard to recover, we even feel that we are not even better than robots. The saddest thing about us is that we are not as good as robots. They seem to be better than us, but it's just 'as if', in fact, they are not better than us This is the most ironic." Bailey felt his blood boil as he spoke. "Look at this Daniel who has been with me for two days. He is taller than me, stronger than me, and better-looking than me. In fact, he looks like an outsider. His memory is better than mine, and his knowledge is better than mine. Abundance. He need not sleep nor eat or drink. He will not suffer from disease, fear, love, or sin. Yet he is nothing but a machine. I can do to him what I want, just as I can do to him Same with those micrometers. If I used a micrometer, it wouldn't fight back. Same with Daniel. If I told him to shoot himself with a blaster, he'd do it. We'll never be able to make a A robot that is as good as a human, let alone better than a human. We cannot make a robot that has an aesthetic or moral or religious sense. We cannot take a positronic brain that has reached the level of full materialism one more level. Fuck, we can't, we just can't. We can't improve our positronic brains to perfection until we figure out how our own brains work. As long as there are things that science can't measure, We can't help it. What is beauty? What is good? What is art? Or, love? God! We are always on the edge of the unknown, up and down, trying to understand the impossible. And that's what makes a human. A robot's brain must be limited, or it cannot be made. Its data must have a final decimal, so it has an end. God, what are you afraid of? A Robots are as perfect as Daniel, but they are not human after all. It's like wood can't be human. Don't you see the reason?" Crowther tried to intervene a few times, but Bailey's bluster and babble kept him out of the conversation.Now, as Bailey paused wearily after the emotional announcement, he had nothing to say. "The policeman has become a philosopher. Really unexpected?" Crowther said coldly. R. Daniel came in again. Bailey looked at him and frowned, partly because his emotions hadn't calmed down yet, partly because new troubles came to his mind. "How did it take so long?" he said. R. Daniel replied: "Ilya, I searched for a long time before I found Director Enderby. It turns out that he is still in the office." Bailey looked at his watch: "Now? What?" "Something went wrong. A body was found at the Bureau." "What? My God! Who is it?" "My handyman, R. Sammy." Bailey was too surprised to speak.He looked at the robot in front of him and said angrily, "Then you still call it a 'corpse'!" R. Daniel immediately corrected: "If you are willing to accept it, then I will say that it is a robot with a completely invalidated positron brain." Crowther laughed suddenly, and Bailey turned to him and said sternly, "Shut up, you hear?" He deliberately took out the blaster to scare him.Crowther was too quiet to even catch his breath. "What's there to be nervous about?" Bailey said to R. Daniel, "It's just that R. Sammy's fuse blown, so what?" "The Chief wouldn't say it, Elijah. But though he didn't say it outright, I could understand that the Chief meant that R. Sammy was being damaged on purpose." Bailey was silent for a moment, thinking about it.At this point R. Daniel added gravely, "Or, if you think that's a better word—murder."