David's Sling (8 page)
Better yet, she realized that Wilcox's attack could be turned to the Institute's benefit. Wilcox could give Uncle Nathan a level of notoriety that poor Uncle Nathan would never bring upon himself. Perhaps this was the key to Wilcox's downfall.
And perhaps it was the key to her own downfall. Should she have highlighted this possible backfire with Wilcox? On impulse, she had concealed the thought from him, for fear that he would then discard the whole plan. Now she wasn't sure that had been wise. Surely he would think of that on his own, and he would expect her to think of it as well. She would have to be careful the next time she saw him.
She stepped carefully across museum floors toward the exit; her feet hurt in her new shoes. Two kinds of people went by. Dawdlers drifted here, either for the art or for the excuse it offered for not getting back to work. And urgent men in business suits rushed by, heading for the upper floors of the skyscraper.
The similarities between the Wilcox Building here in Rosslyn and the ZI headquarters in Reston fascinated and repelled her. Both structures projected images carefully designed for public consumption—images of elegant respectability, trustworthiness. The only real difference was the ultimate purpose: the tobacco companies projected trustworthiness so that they could betray the believers. The Institute projected trustworthiness so that they could teach the more malleable people how to be less malleable, how to separate that image from the substance. One of the most gratifying revelations in a Zetetic education was the moment when you looked at the Institute itself and, clear-eyed and laughing, separated the Institute's internal facts from its projected fantasies. To achieve that moment of revelation, Uncle Nathan said, the end justified the means.
Did the end justify the means? Kira didn't know. Uncle Nathan had a pat answer to that, too, of course: the end justifies the means as long as the end is moral, and as long as you account for all the side effects as parts of that end. Somehow, the side effects in her efforts to penetrate the Wilcox-Morris Corporation seemed too complicated to calculate.
This was why she lingered in the museum. She could not tell if her purpose here was moral or not. Until she figured it out, her anger was all that could sustain her as she plunged her hands into her work, defending the salesmen of death.
June 11
History is a race between education and catastrophe.
—H.G. Wells
PAN. Bill Hardie enters a room of soft contours and padded chairs. He glides to the corner, where he commands a view of both participants and podium. He turns, and the flatcam on his lapel sweeps the room.
ZOOM. A group of people emerge through the doorway. The sizes and shapes vary, but all look like residents of Fairfax County. They come to the headquarters of the Zetetic Institute not because it is the headquarters, but because it is handy. It wouldn't make sense for people to come from great distances just for the Sampler. The curious investigator could find many places throughout the country offering this seminar. The skeptical investigator could obtain a condensed version of the Sampler on videotape for the cost of postage and handling.
FOCUS. A man of medium height in a medium blue suit separates himself from the ragged line of people and walks to the front of the room with a light step—confident yet quiet. He sits on the edge of the desk, relaxed, projecting that relaxation to his audience. Even Bill feels at ease.
CUT. Everyone is seated now except Bill himself. Noting a number of eyes upon him, including the lecturer's, Bill slides into a chair.
The lecturer stands and introduces himself. "Good evening, everyone. I am Dr. Hammond, and this is a quick introduction to the Zetetic educational system."
Dr. Hammond shifts toward the audience as he warms up. "The Zetetic educational system arose to fill a gap in American society. The public schools teach our children oceans of facts and ideas. The colleges bend more toward teaching the theories that lie behind the uncovering of those facts. Meanwhile, vocational schools teach how to create products of various flavors.
But what do you do with all those facts? Worse, what do you do with all those theories? How do they apply to the everyday occurrences of life?"
Hammond's eyes harden; his voice booms. "How do you extract the truth from a used car salesman? How do you spot a lawyer whose interest is his own welfare, not yours?" He steps forward. "Those are communication skills that aren't well taught. Another class of skills that is left out of most people's eduction is real business skills. America is supposed to run on a free-enterprise system. But how many people know how to operate in a free-enterprise system? To start your own business, how do you identify a market, make a business plan, acquire capital, design an advertising campaign, write a contract? Does it really make sense to leave the answers to these questions—the heart of the American economic process—to students working on MBAs? If it does, then we don't have a system of free enterprise—we have a system of elite enterprise, because only a handful of people understand what's required. " He smiles. "And there are other analytic skills that we see in action, but that people rarely learn how to apply. For example, there's a vast difference between accuracy and precision. How many people here know the difference?"
BACK OFF. Bill frowns. A difference between
accuracy
and
precision
? What difference could there be? Only a few people raise their hands to suggest that they know.
Hammond looks around, unsurprised by the apparent ignorance of the majority. "Usually only physicists pay attention to the difference. But the difference is important in everything from household budgets to airplane repairs. Human beings have wasted vast quantities of effort through the centuries, trying to increase their precision beyond the level of their accuracy."
Hammond takes a deep breath. "You can find numerous texts on subliminal cuing and impulse motivation—but very little on how this information is used against you in advertising. And no educational institution will tell you that it's important for you to know.
And everyone learns statistics—but how many people can tell the difference between newspaper articles that use statistics to illuminate the truth, and articles that use them to conceal it?"
CUT. Bill bristles with hostility. Bill finds it particularly unnerving because, as Hammond makes his last statement, he looks toward Bill himself with a slowly rising eyebrow.
Hammond continues. "Nathan Pilstrom founded the Institute over a decade ago. He started with the limited idea of developing software that could teach some fundamentals of Information Age problem-solving. The individual software modules were called PEPs, or Personal Enhancement Programs."
PAUSE. Bill shakes his head in surprise. He didn't know the Zetetic Institute had created the PEPs. He'd used a couple himself.
"Of course, the Zetetic movement didn't become widely known until Nathan's sister, Jan Evans, synthesized anti-smoking techniques from all over the world into a comprehensive package. That package could be adapted with a high degree of success to each individual's therapy needs. And that is perhaps the unique feature of Zeteticism: it focuses on the methods used for
customizing methods
for each individual set of needs and values. Zeteticism explores methods of method-selection."
PAN. Methods of method-selection indeed! Bill recognizes the sound of hokum.
"So tonight we have a sampler for you—short discussions of a number of aspects of life upon which Zetetic ideas offer different perspectives. We'll lead off with a little experiment—something that you can all participate in. We shall explore the meaning of rational thought, irrational thought, and superrational thought: we shall play the game of the Prisoner's Dilemma."
PAN. Men enter, wearing badges with the insignia of the Institute, and escort groups of people away from the lecture hall. Dr. Hammond walks over to Bill. "Let me show you the way," he offers. His eyes follow Bill's face like a biologist who has just spotted a delightfully rare but degusting insect. "That's a beautiful button on your collar there. I've never seen one quite like it."
He knows about the flatcam!
"When the games are over, would you be interested in a copy of our videotape? It would probably be easier to edit."
CUT. Bill opens his mouth, then closes it. He shrugs. "I'll roll my own if you don't mind."
Hammond tilts his head. "Suit yourself."
He escorts Bill to a small, antiseptic cubicle, chatting constantly, probing occasionally into Bills viewpoint. The cubicle contains a beige computer terminal, a chair, nothing else. Bill stops at the doorway. There is something odd here—he inhales sharply.
Is there a scent of pine trees here, ever so subtle? He looks hard at Hammond. "Is my reaction to this room a part of the test?" he asks.
Hammond chuckles. "No. Mr. Hardie, this isn't a test. We aren't interested in your reactions in any direct way. Our purpose here is to give you an experience, so you can see how theories apply to action, and so you can see firsthand the importance of superrational thinking. We think it's particularly important to introduce superrational thinking to people such as yourself."
FOCUS. Bill does not ask what Hammond means when he speaks of people "such as himself."
Hammond waves Bill into the single chair next to the terminal. He explains the rules. "Here's the situation. Every person from the class is sitting in a cubicle like this one. Now, we're going to pair you up with one of these people, and together you are going to be the Prisoners."
"Are you going to lock me in?"
Hammond shakes his head. "Of course not. But you are on your honor not to enter another person's room. Not that it matters; you won't have time to hunt for them all over the Institute anyway."
"I see." Bill feels too warm, though the room is comfortable.
"As prisoners, the two of you have been put in separate rooms for interrogation. You have two choices: you can confess to the crime, or you can deny involvement."
"Why would I want to confess?"
Because when you confess, you turn state's evidence against the other guy. It's a betrayal as well as a confession. Then you get off with a quick parole, and the other guy goes up the river.
"Of course, the other guy might decide to betray you as well. Indeed, the
worst
thing that can happen to you is that your partner confesses—betraying you—while you sit here denying involvement."
"Then why should I ever do anything but betray the other guy?"
"Because the only way either of you can get out scot free is if you both deny involvement. Denying involvement is a collaboration—a conspiracy as well as a denial. So your best outcome is if you both conspire—but your worst outcome is if you conspire while the other guy betrays."
"So you're stuck with trusting this guy in another room whom you can't trust."
"Yes, it's quite a dilemma, isn't it?"
Bill glares. "Why is this game part of the Sampler?"
Hammond shrugs. "The results of the Prisoner's Dilemma apply to many real-life situations. We ll discuss some of the applications after we've analyzed the results of the game. The game might seem silly now, but remember that even obvious ideas need to be exercised before you can truly own them. You can't get more out of this seminar than you're willing to put in."
"But I can get a lot less than I put in."
"True enough. Life is generally like that—you must put something in to get something out."
Bill growls, "Okay."
"Good. You'll play this game with ten randomly selected people from the class. Then you'll play with them all again. We'll play ten rounds with each player and then discuss the results. For every game, all you have to do is punch either the Conspire button or the Betray button." Hammond shoots him a quizzical look. "So how are you going to play?"
Bill thinks about it for a long moment. "The only rational thing to do is to betray the other guy," he states with confidence. "You just can't take a chance on some random human being."
"I see your point." Hammond's smile again makes him feel like a bug under a microscope. "We'll keep score by adding up the years in jail you accumulate. Good luck. The door swished softly behind him.
Bill looks at the terminal, annoyed by this pointless game that dooms all the players to lose. Surely, everyone here is as rational as he is; if so, there will be an endless series of betrayals.
The terminal comes to life, telling him he is matched with partner number one, and that they have never played together before. Bill stabs the Betray button.
In less than a minute Bill realizes that not everyone is rational. Several people offer to Conspire in that first round, and they take terrible punishments as Bill betrays them. Bill himself gets off lightly. In the second round, he finds that the terminal gives him a description of his history with his opponent. He stabs the Betray button with a moment's regret—and realizes that when he thinks of the other player as an
opponent
, he is creating a fundamental statement about his relationship.
Seeing himself paired with a player who had given him a valuable Conspiracy the last time, Bill generously offers a Conspiracy in return—but the bastard Betrays, leaving Bill holding the bag. After a few more plays, Bill realizes that these people don't trust him worth a damn. He admits—with considerable reluctance—that he has given them cause for suspicion. In self-defense, he reverts to a constant stream of Betrayals.
On the third round, the handful of people to whom he has offered Conspiracies in the second round come back with Conspiracies for him. Of course, he has given up any acts of mercy, zapping all players with Betrayals.
Meanwhile, two of the players have doggedly continued to give him Conspiracies. It matters not that he Betrays them again and again. On the fourth round he reciprocates, and they remain as solid partners till the last round of the game. He gives up on the ones with whom he seesaws back and forth from Betrayals to Conspiracies, and switches to permanent Betrayals. They do the same.
At the end of ten rounds, he has accumulated over a century in jail.
Hammond pokes his head in. "How'd you do?" he asks.
FOCUS. Bill shrugs. "As well as anybody, I guess."
Back in the discussion room, Hammond disproves that assessment. Several people do substantially better than Bill. Hammond points out key features of the "winners."
The winners had three distinctive characteristics: They were
optimistic
, offering to Conspire with untested partners. They were just, never letting a Betrayal go without response. And they were
predictable in their responses
, so their partners knew what they would do at all times. With sudden insight, Bill realizes that these people were the ones with whom he had seesawed early in the game; his stubborn Betrayals constituted a major part of their losses. Of course he had shared their losses, since they soon responded with Betrayals of their own.
"All in all, we have a very rational group here," Hammond says with airy cheer. "Fortunately, I think we can improve on that."
He continues. "I always feel sorry for people encountering the Prisoners Dilemma for the first time. The Prisoner's Dilemma hurts because there is no formula for success. Intuitively, we suspect that the right answer is to Conspire, thus working together with the other prisoner for mutual gain. And if we could talk with the other prisoner, if we could communicate, we could make a good arrangement. But looking at the situation without that ability to communicate, we conclude that we must protect ourselves. The merely rational mind inevitably derives a losing formula."
Hammond leans forward and whispers, as if conspiring with the members of the class in a secret fight with a vicious universe. "But if you can step beyond rationality to superrationality, then you
can
derive a winning formula. The formula only works if your partners are superrationai, too—but at least it's a winning formula sometimes. It's better than what happened to all of you in the Dilemma you just faced. " Hammond points at Bill. "What's the sum of four plus three?"
SNAP. Bill looks up, startled. "Seven," he answers without hesitation.
"If another person in a different room were asked the same question, would he give the same answer?"
Bill mutters. "Of course."
