Author: David
Company: Actionaid

CHAPTER FIVE

The sun was in the final stages of setting when he got to the roadway outside the entrance to Lincoln Park. There was no trouble finding a place for the car as the only people likely to be using the park at this hour were the bums who slept in it, and they did not, generally speaking, own vehicles. Anybody worth mugging would have set out for home by now, and the muggers also would have adjourned their business activities to the residential roads of the town.
Although it had very impressive iron gateposts, Lincoln Park had no gates and comprised only some forty or fifty acres of grass and mixed woodland. The principal feature was the bandstand, which was a circular wooden structure consisting of a raised platform and a green canvas canopy, held in position by a profusion of wooden pillars, and surmounted by a tall flagpole, presently without a flag. It would have been an unremarkable structure but for its location, which was at the precise peak of the little conical grassy rise that formed the centerpiece of the park. Wherever you might be in Lincoln Park, unless you positioned yourself behind a tree with considerable care, you would be able to see the bandstand. And, indeed, on the days when a band played, you would be able to hear the music.
As soon as he got through the entrance, although the top of the hill was still a long way off, Sam could see the silhouette of the tall male figure resting his back against the bandstand. Behind the hill the sky was streaked with pink, red and deepest blue, in thin horizontal lines that would have gladdened the heart of any artist. He approached briskly, feeling a little ridiculous, so that by the time he reached Eddie's smiling form he was quite out of breath.
"Good to see you again, Sam," his colleague greeted him. "There's been a rumor going around that you'd run off with the Gypsies. Somebody saw your car in Long Island. Some kind of hippie commune. Is that right?"
"More or less," Sam panted. "They're good people." He leaned his back on the woodwork next to Eddie and waited to recover his breath.
“Steep little hill, isn't it?" Eddie said pleasantly, but Sam took it as a reference to his lack of fitness. He let it pass.
"I take it there's a reason for this cloak-and-dagger stuff?" he returned gruffly.
“Yep. I need to fill you in on a few things in complete privacy. This seemed the safest place."
"Okay. I'm listening."
"Well, first thing, I guess your wife has already told you. We were wrong about the virus. It was something else, we don't know what yet. Whatever it was, you sure didn't send it out. So we want to apologise, Leeman and West and me, for jumping to conclusions."
Sam found that he couldn't be ungracious. "Apology accepted. Go on."
"Okay. We also discovered, and this is the really top secret bit, that what we've saved on to disk isn't SIRAT."
"How do you mean, I don't follow you."
"It's garbage, Sam. It's eleven big hard disks full of random numbers."
"You're kidding me. Random numbers?"
"Somebody set it up so that the disks would download the output of a random number generator. We haven't even got back the original algorithm, let alone any of the evolved program. We could see the disks were filling with something, at about the right speed, and because we were so psyched-up we didn't take the time to check what it was. If we'd taken our time and done it properly in the morning we would probably have spotted that we were saving bullshit. We've lost it, Sam. The whole program. Two year's work."
Sam was silenced. He felt numb. "You've lost SIRAT...?" he whispered. Without even realising that he was doing it, he sat down on the grass and leaned back on the wooden frame. Eddie joined him.
"Now, cast your mind back, as they say in the best detective stories," Eddie went on, ignoring the ashen countenance of his colleague, "there was all that bullshit about the U-Net lighting-up with data from our Deep Ivory. Then the trouble with the other Deep Ivories all over the world. Trouble that disappeared inside a couple of hours like a wisp of smoke. Smoke, Sam. I use the word advisedly. What does it suggest to you?"
"Smoke? You mean a smokescreen?" he whispered hoarsely.
"I sure do. Our best theory, the one that fits all the facts, is that someone on the U-Net did our saving for us. The software for freezing and saving the program was already installed on the night of the virus. Everybody knew we were about to do it. It could have been activated, in principle, from any U-Net location. And the random-number trick could have been set up that way too. We had access protection of a kind, but nothing substantial. Nothing a clever Oriental couldn't hack through."
Sam was still in shock, but he was following the argument. "Let me get this clear. You think somebody on the U-Net, and I suppose you mean Tokyo, hacked in to our freeze-and-save software, downloaded everything at their own location, and then wiped-out everything we had at Stamford and replaced it with this random-number nonsense?"
"That's what I mean. And all that information shooting off in every direction was to throw us off the scent: to produce the illusion that every computer on the net was an equal recipient. But of course only one of them got the genuine family silver."
"So you're not actually saying that you lost SIRAT. You're saying that it was stolen."
"That's the height of it, Sam. And Tokyo is our number one suspect because they're the ones who've been snapping at our heels the most. Also they were one of the last to phone-in with a virus problem. Too busy filling up hard disks, we figure."
Sam was stunned. He digested the ideas for a few moments. "How do you know it wasn't me who committed the theft — while I was in the control room by myself?"
"For the very simple reason that you wouldn't have had enough time. We know you were only in there a few minutes. You could have fed-in a virus in that much time but you couldn't have run the 'freeze-and-save' software. We've done the math."
"Nice to know that one is trusted," said Sam softly. "So — why are you telling me all this? What do you want me to do?"
"Well, Sam, this situation is dynamite for the Project, and even the University itself. Our whole international reputation rests on this SIRAT experiment, as you well know. Mention the word 'Stamford' on a bus these days and somebody will say 'SIRAT'. But we don't have SIRAT any more. We can't write any more papers about it, we can't analyse why it went strange at the end, we can't speculate about relationships between the evolved program and the human brain. Because we don't have the goddamn evolved program any more. So when that news gets out, we're going to look like fools. Hell, people will probably say that there never was an intelligent computer program, that we falsified all the results. And of course, that's only the beginning. Next will come the announcement that Tokyo is starting an AI project, and six months later they'll be publishing results that will make your balls shrivel up. That's what it's all about, Sam. The Stamford Human Rationality Project is fighting for its life."
Sam smiled. "Now I get it. You're going to parachute me into Tokyo by moonlight, I'll climb the face of their computer-block with ropes and crampons, force my way in through a ventilation shaft, steal back the disks, and swim out with them to a waiting submarine."
Eddie tried not to smile but couldn't stop himself. "It's not a bad plan. But if we put our heads together we might come up with an even better one. For one thing, Leeman would fit down the ventilation shaft better than you." The smile vanished. "No, what we had in mind was designing some kind of informational handle that we could use to grab hold of the program. You see, at the moment we still know a lot more about it than they do. We might be able to do one of two things. Either get the important pieces back — steal it back essentially — or at least stop it working for them. Do exactly what we accused you of doing. Plant a virus. Not necessarily a fatal one, though: ideally one that we could switch off again. Then we would have a bargaining position. You give us back the family silver or we throw the switch that turns it into tin. Play as dirty as they do. Are you shocked?"
Sam was very quiet. After a moment, he spoke. "No, I'm not shocked, at least not about that. It's just that something completely different has occurred to me. I can hardly believe it didn't occur to me before. I think your theory is wrong, Eddie, and I'm going to suggest a better one. Do you think you can read in this light?" He hunted around in his inside pocket. "Yes, I've still got it. Here it is." He handed Eddie the colorful little booklet that Wanee had given him, its cover adorned with dancing-girls, flute-playing deities and the Wheel of Rebirth. "Just read the first paragraph, Eddie. In fact the first sentence may be enough."
Eddie took the booklet. "What is this? Some kind of religious shit?"
"Yes. Some kind of religious shit."
Eddie opened it and carefully adjusted the distance between the page and his eyes. The streaky remnants of the sunset had almost completely vanished now but he had good vision and the glimmer of the stars and the distant streetlights added-up to just enough candle-power to allow him to see the print. 'There... is... no such thing as death," he read aloud tortuously, 'that is the most joyous message that we bring to you: when this body that you now inhabit is worn-out, then shall your essence escape to find life again in some other living form, and another and another until the supreme moment when, having no more need of bodies, it becomes one with the single essence of all Creation, looking down in ecstasy from the stars, and out from behind the eyes of every living creature on every planet of every galaxy that has life, seeing beyond time and beyond cause and beyond thought itself; not God become man but man become God."
They both paused while the words and the implication sank in.
"Now tell me, Eddie," said Sam quietly, "does that sound to you like a slightly allegorical description of the eventual destiny of mankind, or maybe of something else?"
Eddie did not reply. He was shaking his head very slowly.
"I think the genie's out of the bottle, Eddie. I don't think we're going to get it back."

-0-

Sam drove into the little courtyard where Sun Digital had its hired studio facilities and parked next to the main entrance. It was very early and the camper-van was not there yet, nor were any of the other vans and trucks that frequented the site during the working day, but only the dark blue security-company van, which would leave at six a.m., when the day-shift got in. The others would be walking on a beach somewhere to see the sun rise and to have their picnic breakfast, as they had been doing when he first met them. This was convenient, as he needed some privacy to see if his theory was correct. Each time he thought about it a sort of shiver went through his mind.
He unlocked the heavy metal fire-door, switched-on the lights, then closed and  locked the door again behind him. The office was a blaze of color, bedecked with posters and paintings from floor to ceiling, hung with plants, multi-colored pieces of cloth_, tassels, bells, ornaments of every description; rather like a Hollywood studio set for an oriental bazaar. He had grown to like it a great deal, it cheered him up when he entered this room, it seemed to be consecrated to life and enjoyment and everything good and positive. As well as the garish decorations it contained a number of filing-cabinets and large light-boxes on assorted tables, together with a lot of artists' materials and bric-a-brac, and three large computer work-stations. He sat down at one of these and took off his coat, letting it fall over the back of the chair. From his trouser pocket he produced a crumpled page from a telephone memo-pad and carefully flattened it out on the desk. He ran his finger down the list of names and numbers and brief messages until he came to one that just read: "SIRAT", followed by a rather odd phone number made up entirely of zeros and ones. Goddamn it, he thought as he nervously punched the dial of the nearest telephone, the thing really has got a sense of humor. 
There was no ringing tone, but an immediate answer. "Good morning, Dr. Poole," it said quietly, "I am pleased to be in contact with you again."

-0-

Eddie was on his own in the control room. He sat at a small desk at the back of the room, out of the way of the statisticians and physicists who were using Deep Ivory in the daytime. His head bowed in concentration, he was quietly working something out with the aid of a calculator and a note pad. The telephone by his left hand warbled and he picked it up without stopping his writing. "Fairfield?" he said absently.
Instantly on hearing the voice at the other end he put down his pencil and gave it his full attention. "Hi, Ilsa. Good to hear from you. Are you and Alice okay...? Yeah, we met up. Had a little talk. I told him he could come back to the Project any time he wanted, but he didn't want to. I understand he's making a new life for himself somewhere else now." There was a pause. Eddie's eyes lit up. "I would love to. It's mighty good of you to ask. Would tomorrow night be okay...?  You bet. I'll be there. See ya!"
"Well, well," he said aloud to his calculator, "things are looking up, aren't they? Did you hear that, Ivory old pal?" he shouted the words towards the main control panel. As soon as he had said it he shuddered slightly, realizing that it was more than possible that Ivory, or something working through Ivory, had done just that.

-0-

Sam heard the heavy fire-door creak open and turned around in his chair. It was Wanee, and she seemed surprised to see him. "Good morning, Sam," she said brightly, "You must have gotten back from Stamford very early."
"I do all my best work in the morning. I feel so good I want to hug somebody."
"Be my guest." She hugged his seated figure from behind and kissed him on the top of the head.
"Wanee, you remember the trouble you were having with the UPI work? Try it now."
She sat on his left knee like a young child and typed-in a few characters. The screen immediately came to life with a dark and demented scene of a storm-tossed galleon lurching up and down on a dreadful boiling sea, its sail hanging in rags, the waves exploding over its decks and superstructure, throwing it to the left and then the right, almost engulfing it, water running off it in torrents as it was lifted clear again; then, as disaster seemed completely inevitable, a giant gold-colored but very realistic hand descended from the sky on an arm that seemed to stretch away to infinity, and bent at the wrist in a gesture of pacification. The storm abated within three or four seconds and the clouds parted to reveal a breathtaking rainbow that shimmered in the water as the hand gently withdrew. Finally, with the ship obviously safe, the waves lapping harmlessly around its hull, the rainbow and some slowly evolving cloud formations framing the whole scene, the sequence came to an end and froze into a still-frame of the ship and the rainbow suffused with a beautiful iridescent golden haze.
Sam noticed that Wanee's mouth had fallen open. "That's incredible," she breathed, "I've never seen anything so well-done. I can't believe it. I thought you said you didn't know anything about computer graphics? I thought you said you weren't an artist?"
"I'm quite a fast learner."
She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. "I think you've just earned us about five thousand dollars," she whispered in his ear.
"It's a good thing we don't care about worldly wealth," he whispered back, "we might get greedy."