The Reality Conspiracy (8 page)

Jeff nodded cautiously.

"Okay. And once we've learned something, we are then capable of using the new information intellectually and intuitively, right? But the computer has no intellect, it has no intuition. And certainly—at least from my point of view as a Christian—it has no soul. So, by extension, we can accurately say the computer is a brain, but we can't say it's a mind. Simply put: it can't make sense of the world and it can't generate complex thoughts.

"The relatively new field of Computational Neuroscience tries to analyze and explain how the human brain uses electrical and chemical signals to represent and process information. Mainstream computer scientists are approaching the problem by trying to design software that will mimic the way the brain works. It's an unmanageably big project. In fact, many scientists think it's impossible."

"Yes, I've read something about that," Jeff mumbled.

"The approach here is radically different. This 'wetware'—as you call it—doesn't try to imitate the human brain. Instead, it's being developed to replicate the brain, to work exactly the way the brain works. It's cellular engineering, and it's working with a limited degree of success right here. This unit is the proof of the proverbial pudding."

Jeff reflected for a moment. "I don't mean to be obtuse, Dr. McCurdy, but you still haven't answered my question."

"How's that?"

McCurdy rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. "I guess I did sort of tap-dance around that, didn't I. That's 'cause I don't really know. Tell you the truth, I suspect it's all working toward programmable human beings. But, hey"—he winked—"don't tell anyone I said so, okay? Maybe in the not-too-distant future some descendant of this machine will be able to transfer information directly into a human brain. Imagine going to sleep in English, and waking up in Russian, or French, or German!"

Jeff shook his head, more overwhelmed than ever. "So you keep the synthetic tissue in a sterile environment because you're afraid your staff could actually . . . infect the machine?"

"That's right. This computer has no immune system. And I don't know what kind of job performance we can expect from Bubb if it catches a cold or something. There's nothing about sick days in its contract."

This time both men laughed, Jeff a bit uneasily.

McCurdy turned away as if to say,
Let's get on with the tour
. But Jeff lingered a moment, entranced by the rusty-looking fluid flowing into and out of the aquarium. At that moment he knew he was completely out of his league; he had no hope of understanding anything that he was seeing. "I'm curious," he said, "how much do you suppose it cost to develop something like this?"'

"The 'wetware'? Beats me. Like I said, DWI is developing it for the Defense Department, so various subcontractors—and we're among them—get to try it out for free. We haven't had to worry about cost."

Still smiling like a first-time home owner, McCurdy tugged Jeff's sleeve, coaxing him to follow. Magically, another sliding door opened and they left the glass enclosure.

"Wetware," McCurdy chuckled, shaking his head with amusement, "that's pretty good . . . ."

J
eff gawked as McCurdy led him through another basement corridor. "I had no idea there was so much space down here," Jeff said. "It's like another complete building below ground."

"Alh, yes. Well, appearances are deliberately deceiving. From outside, the Academy looks exactly like all its neighbors. Just another unremarkable three-story brownstone. But!"—he raised his index finger dramatically,—"this one used to be owned by one of the scientists involved with the Manhattan Project, an MIT man. I guess the work he did scared the poor fella so bad he had this palatial bomb shelter constructed in complete secrecy during the nuclear terror of the early fifties. All the work was done at government expense, too, which I can understand. But I'll tell you the one thing I can't figure out . . ."

"What's that?"

"How did they get all the dirt out of here without the neighbors realizing something was going on?"

Jeff smiled. "Good question."

"So," McCurdy chuckled, his cheeks glowing like ripe apples, "the place saw weapons development. In the early fifties, and in a sense, that's what it's seeing now. A completed cycle. And a perfect home for Bubb, don't you think?"

Jeff raised his eyebrows noncommittally. McCurdy led him through another green metal door that opened on a strangely barren room with cinder-block walls. The men crossed the brown carpeted floor to one of a hall-dozen modular carrels lining the western wall.

"This is what happens to the data Bubb doesn't recognize," McCurdy explained. "He kicks it out and real human beings work with it here."

Jeff's eyes came to rest on a woman he had never seen before. Her brown hair was primly balled in a tight bun, her eyes, behind thick, dark-tinted glasses studied one of the terminals. Beside her keyboard she had a pile of color photocopies depicting pages of what Jeff took to be an ancient manuscript. He saw some kind of medieval script accompanied by pictures of flowers and plants.

"And speaking of real human beings," McCurdy said, "this is Yonna Keel. Doctor Yonna Keel. She's on loan from the CIA. Speaks ancient Greek and Latin like a native and is probably the most accomplished cryptanalyst in the country."

"Hello, Yonna," Jeff said, but she paid no attention. The screen before her was filled with tiny words that Jeff could not read.

"She's trying to decipher the mysterious Voynich Manuscript. The cipher is so clever it's eluded translation for—we guess—six or seven hundred years. Most likely it was written in the thirteenth century, but no one knows for sure. We also don't know who wrote it, or why. We don't even know what language it's in. With its drawings of plants, one might mistake it for an ordinary medieval herbal. That is, until you realize all the plants depicted here don't exist anywhere in nature!

"One thing we do know is that for a while it was in the possession of Dr. John Dee, the infamous Elizabethan magician. And as recently as 1912 it was kept in a Jesuit monastery in Frascati, Italy. So I guess we can't say for sure if it belongs in Heaven or in Hell . . . ."

Jeff shook his head. "Good luck, Yonna," he mumbled.

McCurdy lowered his voice. "We have researchers like you and Yonna on payroll all over the world. The full-timers are directly under contract to the Academy. Part-timers get their salaries laundered through educational grants and university work-study programs. All are assigned to libraries, museums, even monasteries and private collections. They use keyboards and scanners to collect vast quantities of raw data. Of course, no one doing fieldwork knows what the data gathering's all about. The cover is they're assembling reference information for an experimental hypertext program for Bubb—a huge interactive encyclopedia. We see to it they keep inputting a fair amount of worthless information, red herrings designed to keep folks from getting too close to what's really going on. They send it along, Bubb kicks it out, and we forget it."

The four unused monitors danced with color and moving designs. To Jeff, the screens looked like windows opening on to an unfamiliar dimension or an alien world. Shapes in space whirled and shifted in ultra rainbow colors. Points of light—amber, red, and gold—pulsed brightly and vanished.

"This is the stuff that's really exciting to me." said McCurdy, "the stuff that's right here in this room—the keyboard, the screen." He rested his hand on the top of a monitor like a doting father with his arm around a favorite son. "This is the spot where human meets computer, where man and machine come together in a wildly unprecedented way. It's here, you might say, that they mate and marry."

"So what's the punchline?" Jeff asked. "Do I have to keep guessing, or are you going to tell me what all this is about?"

McCurdy clicked his tongue and patted Jeff on the shoulder. "Time's up for today, my friend. But I won't keep you in suspense forever. Think about it. See what you make of all this. Then we'll continue with some clarifications first thing next week."

Boston, Massachusetts

K
aren decided to wait outside the restaurant for exactly fifteen minutes. If Jeff Chandler hadn't appeared by then, she would leave. Period. End of discussion.

She had been foolish to accept this dinner invitation. Well, maybe not foolish exactly, but certainly careless. After all, she didn't even know the man. Why, he could be anybody, even some kind of . . . well, she'd definitely been too quick to trust him.

But then again, he seemed nice.

And what was wrong with a little adventure?

Another glance at her watch.

It probably didn't look good for her to be hanging around, lurking, outside this Commercial Street restaurant. She should go inside, maybe have a glass of wine. She could use the waiting time to calm down.

The two hours spent with Dr. Gudhausen had been terribly draining. Showing him the tape had been difficult, not because of its unsettling content, but because she was ashamed of the way she had lost control of the therapy session.

Afterward, she'd had to race back to her hotel to shower and put on fresh clothes. God, she'd been nearly frantic, tearing around like a flustered schoolgirl preparing for her first date!

At least she had arrived here on time.

Yes, by gosh, a glass of chilled wine would be just the thing. But somehow—
this is really stupid
, she thought—she found it difficult to go into the restaurant unescorted. Humph, some liberated woman.

She looked at her watch. Seven thirty-five. Ten more minutes to wait.

Traffic zipped back and forth in front of her. Horns blared; an auto alarm wailed. Somewhere in the distance she heard the shrill screech of a siren. The collection of noise was awful. She hated it. Too bad there wasn't some gadget to mute ugly sound the way her sunglasses softened the evening light.

Oh, nothing is going right! Maybe I should forget this "date," go back to the hotel, check out, and drive directly back to Vermont. At least there it would be quiet, and I could relax.

No
, she thought, recognizing her all too familiar approach-avoid pattern,
you gotta do it
. She simply could not permit herself to be scared of everything and everyone all the time. It was stupid. She was a grown woman for goodness' sake, a professional.

Karen bit her lower up, as she always did when contemplating decisive action. With great finality she turned, grabbed the brass handle, and pulled open the heavy glass door to Maxie's Fish House.

Right away the world was quieter. The conditioned air felt cool and inviting. Soft orchestral music played; it was almost subliminal so she couldn't hear it well enough to identify the piece. To her right, the bar was complete with brass foot rail, suggesting an old-time waterfront saloon. Above the bar, dim Tiffany lamps hovered colorfully. Most of the stools were unoccupied, but the dining room was busy.

Must be a good place
, she thought, noting all the customers.

Karen sat down on an end stool. Two empty seats separated her from a fat black man eating oysters on the half shell. She looked away; there was something vaguely obscene about eating raw oysters. She placed her purse securely on her lap.

"May I help you, miss?"

"Oh, yes, thanks." She took off her sunglasses and put them on the bar. "I'd like a glass of white wine, please."

The bartender smiled as if to say,
Good choice
, and reached below the bar for a bottle and glass. He was a nice-looking guy. Dark hair, perfectly trimmed mustache, serious features. He wore a pink and white striped shirt, its sleeves rolled up just, enough to expose a tiny, tasteful tattoo. Karen tried to see exactly what it was, but she couldn't. And she didn't want to stare.

When he poured her a generous serving in a large goblet, she noticed he had a small gold ring in his left earlobe. It looked good. Elegant. A little exotic. Like a pirate.

The wineglass felt pleasantly cold in her hand. Her first sip went down so smoothly that she felt some distant tension ease. Already she was starting to relax.

Then she remembered—

Five minutes more
, she thought, checking her watch again.

Karen suspected that the bartender was looking at her, stealing quick questioning glances as he went about his business. No doubt he was thinking,
What's wrong with this woman? Why doesn't she have a man with her?

Or worse yet,
This woman must be an alcoholic, otherwise, why is she drinking alone?

I must drink this slowly
, she cautioned herself.

Karen stopped before the self-deprecation soared out of control. It was stupid. Why did she always feel she was so conspicuous? In reality, she faded into the background like some potted palm, so inconsequential that people didn't check to see if it was real or plastic.

Conspicuous or invisible? Which is it? You can't have it both ways, kiddo
.

No. The pretty women were the ones who got stared at, not her. Never—