Cyber Rogues (84 page)

At that point he gave it up as hopeless and went back to the office.

One corner of the main reception lobby had been turned into a mini TV studio. Meechum was on a couch in the center behind a low, glass-topped table, with Corrigan sitting in an armchair on one side and Tyron on the other. The crew had set up lights and improvised a background from drapes, potted plants, and a sign bearing Xylog’s corporate logo.

After a short introduction, Meechum turned to Corrigan and picked up his main theme. “Tell us, Joe, isn’t it like being God, in a way? I’m told that Oz will be a world in itself, inhabited by computer creations that behave exactly as real people do. As the manager of Xylog’s software division, you’re the person largely responsible for those creations. How does it feel?”

Corrigan stared down at his hands for a moment, reflecting on all the hype and exaggeration and wishful thinking masquerading as fact that had been dispensed on the subject. A public circus was not the place where science should be conducted. It was time to make a start on setting the record straight right now.

He looked up. “Let’s clear up a lot of wrong information that has been put out about this, that shouldn’t have been,” he said. “We are not about to create an artificial world that’s going to model how people in the real world think and behave—the products they’d buy, how they’d vote on this issue or that issue, what they like, what they don’t like, or anything else like that. Human behavior is one of the most complex phenomena ever studied. For forty years now, some of the most intensive research going on in the world has been aimed at trying to emulate the full versatility of what we call ‘intelligence,’ and for the most part it’s got nowhere. All we’re doing at Oz is exploring an alternative approach to achieving that: an Artificial Intelligence—a process that functions something like the way we do. That’s all. Whether such an AI—assuming that we’re successful—could form the basis of a lifelike simulation of the real world is a question that lies way in the future and is one that we’re not even considering yet.”

Meechum was looking a bit taken aback. He accepted as a matter of course that part of his job was to be a paid hack, and he had been ready to help plug the product in whatever direction his guests chose to steer things. But this sudden shrinking of a current sensation down to lifelike proportions was something that he had not been prepared for. “That’s, er, something of a more cautious assessment than a lot of the things we’ve been hearing,” he commented.

“My first role is as a scientist,” Corrigan said. “I’m simply reporting the facts as to what the goals of the Oz project are, as currently formulated. I can also speculate on what it might lead to in times to come, if you like. But that wasn’t your question.”

On Meechum’s other side, Tyron was following with a mixture four parts bewilderment to one of confusion. His first reaction on hearing of Corrigan’s offer to share the show had been one of suspicion, and he had arrived ready to outdo anything Corrigan might try adding to what had already been said to please the ears of the project’s financial backers. It did cross his mind as he heard this that Corrigan’s intention might be to throw him off stride and steal all the thunder, but the fact remained that in the meantime, right off the top of his head, he didn’t have a lot to say that was wildly inspirational to counter it. So when his turn came, he took up the theme that Corrigan had set and concentrated on the new interfaces and associated hardware that formed his main contribution to the project, the principles underlying its operation—which were fascinating—and what it could reasonably be expected to accomplish.

Meechum grew more relaxed as it became evident that the animosity that he had been waiting to see surfacing between them was not going to happen, and the rest of the interview went well. But it was Corrigan who set the tone, while the other two responded. Although he was physically the youngest, his unswerving dedication to principle and insistence on frankness inspired everyone watching. When they were getting up after the cameras stopped rolling, Meechum said, “Joe, that makes more sense than anything I’ve heard in ages. You carry a wise head on young shoulders.”

Pinder, who had come down from the top floor to watch, walked over to Corrigan while the NBC people were packing away their equipment. He seemed intrigued in a guarded kind of way.

“You handled that . . . interestingly, Joe,” he said. “Interestingly, but well. Very commanding and positive.”

“Thanks.”

“It was more down to earth than I expected. You, ah, seem to be taking a more sober view of things all of a sudden.”

“I try to be realistic,” Corrigan said. “Fooling yourself isn’t going to help anyone in the long run.”

“There could be some flak from Borth’s people. It wasn’t the crystal ball that they’ve been painting to their clients. This could burst a few balloons.”

“Probably better now than later, then,” Corrigan said. “Investors are the worst ones to fool.”

Pinder looked at him curiously for a second. “Ed tells me that it was your suggestion to put Frank on the show as well.”

“Sure, why not? Frank and his people have done some neat things. The idea was to make the show interesting, right?”

Pinder cast an eye around and lowered his voice reflexively. “What I’m saying is, it isn’t exactly the best strategy for the longer term from your point of view—with things being the way they are.” In other words, as they both knew, Pinder’s term as acting technical chief of Xylog would end soon. Corrigan was not optimizing his chances of stepping into the slot by sharing the limelight.

“Let’s get the ship launched first,” Corrigan replied. “When we know it floats, then we can worry about who’ll play captain.” Which was what Pinder thought he had been hearing, but he had wanted to be sure.

“You’ve changed in a big way, Joe,” Pinder told him.

Something about Pinder had changed too. He was too wary, feeling his way with probing questions that seemed somehow out of character. The assertiveness that Corrigan remembered was missing. It was almost as if Pinder hadn’t known Corrigan as long as Corrigan had known him, and was unsure what kind of reactions to expect. But then, from Corrigan’s distorted perspective of things, it had been a long time for
him
. Maybe he didn’t remember Pinder as well as he thought.

And, indeed, Corrigan did seem to have undergone a change in his personality that appeared permanent. For by the time the party sat down to dinner in the Sheraton, the twelve years of pseudolife that he remembered himself as having lived were just as clear in his mind as when he had woken up that morning, while his recollections from yesterday and the days before, although jogged and reawakened to some degree by the events of the day, were for the most part just as remote.

However, as if to compensate for the loss of detail from his immediate past, he seemed to have retained the maturity that had developed in the course of living through years that were still ahead of him. This expressed itself as a charisma that affected everyone present at the table in the same way that it had enabled him to dominate—without domineering—the TV interview earlier.

Among those present was a Graham Sylvine, from a department in Washington that prepared appraisals for scientific-policy reviews. He had been following the Oz project for some time, and appeared in Pittsburgh without warning late that afternoon. He reminded Corrigan of somebody, but Corrigan was unable for the moment to put his finger on just who. “The next phase will be the first full-system run, is that correct?” he asked Corrigan.

“That’s right,” Corrigan confirmed.

“What does that imply, exactly?”

“So far we’ve only been testing parts of the simulation as separate pieces. Next we bring them all together as a full system. Also, we’ll be introducing the first real-world surrogates: operators coupled into the simulation to act as models for the animations to learn to emulate.”

“Did you hire actors?” a woman across the table asked.

Corrigan smiled. There had in fact been some talk about doing just that. “We wondered about it,” he replied. “The problem was that it might all work too well and we’d end up with a world full of actors. So we decided to stick with ordinary people just being themselves.”

“I take it that you won’t be one of these surrogates,” Sylvine said.

Corrigan shook his head. “They’re on a full-time commitment. I’ll be going in and out of the simulation to keep an eye on how it’s going, sure—but my place is really on the outside, watching the whole thing.”

“What kind of risk is there in all this connecting into people’s heads?” another woman asked. “It sounds horribly spooky to me.”

“Naturally we wouldn’t be proceeding without testing as thorough as it’s possible to make it,” Corrigan replied. “But I’d be less than frank if I told you that we know everything. Of course there are uncertainties. That’s how you learn. Life and progress toward better things couldn’t exist otherwise.”

“Well, what we’ve been hearing today sure makes a change from all the PR bull,” Meechum said. “Now I’ll be frank with you, Joe. Listening to you talking today has been the first stuff about this whole project that I’ve really believed for months.”

“It’s about time, then,” Corrigan said.

Sylvine was vague about when he would be returning to Washington. He asked Corrigan a series of technical questions about the basis of Oz and what it might lead to. The surrogates seemed of particular interest to him. He wanted to know what kind of world they would perceive from the inside. Also, he raised the possibility of memory suppression and was intrigued by Corrigan’s account of how the possibility had been considered and rejected by the Oz designers. It occurred to Corrigan that perhaps this constantly recurring issue was of more concern to him unconsciously than he realized, and maybe that was what had caused him to cast himself as a subject of it in the dream.

The person that Sylvine reminded him of, Corrigan realized as he watched him, was Dr. Zehl—Sarah Bewley’s supervisor in the dreamed simworld. He wasn’t quite sure why, although it certainly had nothing to do with physical similarity. Perhaps it was that Zehl, too, had been from Washington; or maybe his tendency to appear suddenly, without warning.

The woman who had inquired about risk was still watching Corrigan and thinking to herself. When a lull presented itself, she asked him, “Do you really think that we do progress toward better things, Mr. Corrigan?”

Corrigan wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Certainly we do,” he answered. “Evolution is a self-improving process. Hence change is for the better, by definition.”

“I’d have to think about that,” the woman said dubiously.

“I never realized before that you were so much of a philosopher,” Pinder said to Corrigan. He had been watching Corrigan and saying little throughout, still showing much of the interest and curiosity that had been evident earlier.

“That was one of the things I learned as a bartender,” Corrigan replied unthinkingly.

Pinder looked surprised. “Really? I never knew you had been a bartender. When was that?”

For a second or two Corrigan was flummoxed. “Oh . . . that was way back, when I was earning my way as a student in Ireland,” he said finally.

He looked around, grinning. Everyone smiled back. He could become anything he wanted, he realized. He was a young man again, free to relive a crucial part of his life—and as far as he could see, with the benefit of all the accumulated experience of having lived the next twelve years before.

Maybe this was a dream, and maybe it wasn’t; he had all but given up trying to tell. But either way, it seemed he had no way of breaking out of it if it was, or of changing the situation if it wasn’t. So he might as well make the best of it. This time around, then, he decided, it would be a great ride.

He tried calling around to locate Evelyn when he got back later that night, but nobody he talked to could give him a lead. It seemed that everybody he’d known in Boston had either moved or was out of town. None of the few that he did manage to get through to had heard from her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“I just thought you’d like to know, Borth called Ken Endelmyer at home last night,” Pinder said from the screen of the comm unit on Corrigan’s desk. The NBC interview had been aired as part of a current-affairs documentary following the six-o’clock news the previous evening. “I’m assuming that he wasn’t very happy.”

“Which was pretty much to be expected,” Corrigan answered. His tone was matter-of-fact, with no second thoughts or regrets. “I still think it will do more good this way in the long run, after the dust settles.”

Pinder rubbed his chin as if still pondering something that he had spent a lot of time on, and nodded. “I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday, and I have to agree. The air needed clearing. Things have been getting out of control for a long time. So the other thing I wanted you to know is that if things do get rough, you can count on my support. As you say, it will do everyone more good in the long run.”

“Well, thanks: I appreciate it.” Corrigan said.

“I’ll keep you posted if I hear anything more,” Pinder promised, and hung up.

Like the others at the TV interview the day before, and at dinner in the evening, Pinder too had succumbed to following Corrigan’s lead, almost as if their roles of senior and junior in the line of command had been reversed. And it had happened so naturally and easily, Corrigan realized, that he didn’t even think about it.

There had still been no sign or word of Tom Hatcher since yesterday, which was odd, considering that they were in the last days of preparation before Oz. Already some critical decisions had had to be delayed, and the software section-heads were getting anxious. Corrigan was wondering whether he ought to have somebody check with the police, when his desk unit buzzed again and Judy came through on voice.

“Ken Endelmyer’s secretary at Head Office is holding. Also, I’ve got another reporter on the line, wanting to talk to you: a Lola Ellis from
Futures
magazine in L.A., but she’s here in Pittsburgh right now.”