Dark as Day

by Charles Sheffield

  Kate glanced at Alex and nodded. He was on, with an instant decision to make. Either he described what they had as early results, the product of a still-evolving model and therefore not to be taken seriously, or he said what he really believed, which was that his model was right, that it was far superior to anything that had ever existed before, and that it predicted terrible danger in all plausible human futures.

  The rational thing to do was to be modest about the model, dismiss this set of results, and promise better in the next review. There were two problems with that. First, given the promises that Alex had made for model performance once the Seine was in operation, there might be no next review. The whole project was likely to be scrapped. And second, Alex was a lousy liar. He couldn’t stand up and make statements that he didn’t believe. What he did believe was his model.

  Avoiding Kate’s eye, Alex described the runs of the past two days and displayed their results. At first, the four people across the table sat and listened, sometimes nodding approval. Then he came to the critical years and showed the trends flattening and turning down. The audience became restless.

  The model reached 2154 and the population dipped below 6 billion. Mischa Glaub was the first to break. He exploded, “You know what you’re showing there? You have the whole bloody System in catastrophic decline. But I’ve seen six other projections in the past month, and not one shows anything but expansion.”

  Alex drew a deep breath. “All the other models are no good.”

  Pedersen, whose group had produced three of those other projections, said, “Now just a minute, if you’re going to accuse my people—” Mischa Glaub snorted and said, “Cut the crap, Ligon. Unless you got damned good reason—” At the same time, Kate said, “What I think he means is—”

  “Why?” Magrit Knudsen spoke no louder than the others, but her one word cut them off in mid-sentence. She went on, “It’s not enough to tell people that your model is right, and all the others are wrong. You have to explain why your model is better.”

  When Alex said nothing, she added, “Ligon—that’s your name, right, Alex Ligon?—there’s an old saying: a man who understands what he’s doing can give an explanation of his work that the average person can follow over drinks in a bar. I happen to believe that’s true.” She glanced at the clock. “We’re not in a bar, and I’m supposed to be somewhere else. But I count myself as an average person. I’ll give you half an hour. Tell me about your work. Tell me why I should keep funding it, rather than cancelling you on the spot.”

  She knew his first name, although no one in the room had used it. How come?

  Alex postponed that question for later. She had put him on the spot. He had not had the time to fine-tune and polish a simplified explanation to the point where Pedersen’s man, Macanelly, would follow it. He must go ahead with what he had, and hope that Magrit Knudsen was three or four rungs higher up the monkey ladder than Loring Macanelly.

  He began with a direct question. “Did you ever take physics courses?”

  Knudsen looked puzzled, but she nodded. “Twenty years ago. Don’t assume I remember anything.”

  “I’m sure you’ll remember all we need.” Alex in principle was briefing the whole group; in practice he was talking to Magrit Knudsen alone. “For instance, for hundreds of years the scientists who worked with a gas would describe it by some basic properties. Not just what sort of gas it was, but they would measure its pressure and temperature and volume. Later on they got more fancy in their descriptions, and added things like entropy and enthalpy, which we don’t need to bother with now. People used those basic variables to tell how a body of gas would behave under different circumstances. They called the branch of science that was developed to do this thermodynamics.”

  He looked at the others. Magrit Knudsen nodded, tentatively and apparently a little puzzled. Mischa Glaub from his expression was ready to explode, but he and the others wouldn’t override their boss. Alex figured he had about five minutes.

  He went on, “The important thing about thermodynamics is that you don’t need to know anything about the gas at a more fundamental level. You get valid results without knowing that a gas is actually made up of separate molecules. The thermodynamic variables you are dealing with actually represent averages over a huge number of individual particles, but your results are correct even if you have never heard the word ‘molecule’ or ‘atom.’

  “But then people learned about molecules, and they had a mystery to solve. How did the overall general properties they’d been dealing with somehow emerge from the action of a whole lot of separate particles? It took a while, but eventually physicists like Maxwell, Boltzmann, and Gibbs developed a theory based on the molecules themselves. The theory was called statistical mechanics, and it showed how to relate the behavior of ensembles of tiny particles to the general thermodynamic properties that people were used to.”

  His audience was becoming more restless. Mischa Glaub was squinting and glaring. Ole Pedersen muttered something to Tomas de Mises that sounded like “What the hell’s he going on about?” Even Kate, who knew where Alex was going, was biting her lip.

  Magrit Knudsen nodded. “I follow you so far. But I hope this is leading somewhere.”

  “It is. The other predictive models used in the departments are like thermodynamic theories. What I mean is, they work with general variables. A general variable can be anything you choose: economic production by industrial sector or by location; overall computer capacity; transportation supply and demand; population; commodities and services. The theories tie these things together, and model the way that they evolve over time.

  “But something like transportation demand is a derived quantity. It arises because of the separate needs and actions of more than five billion people. You could say, it’s like a thermodynamic variable that arises from the combined activity of a huge number of small, separate units. That’s a true statement, but it doesn’t go far enough, because all molecules in a gas are essentially identical. Whereas every human being is essentially different.

  “My predictive model recognizes that fact. It derives the general variables that other models take as basic. If you want to think of it this way, the model is a statistical mechanics for predictive modeling. It allows you to derive all the ‘thermodynamic’ general variables of the older and obsolete models.”

  Alex saw Ole Pedersen’s head jerk. The word “obsolete” was a red flag, since Alex was describing what the models of Pedersen’s directorate still did today. Pedersen was bristling and seemed ready to interrupt. Alex hurried on.

  “We can’t stop there, though. There is another necessary model innovation. If you try to deal with all humans as identical, the way that gas molecules are identical, you’ll get garbage for results. Human progress depends to a large extent on the differences between people. So the individual units in my predictive model are not simple equations or data items. They are programs. Each program is a Fax, a duplication at some level of an individual human. My code allows anything from a Level One to a Level Five Fax to be used.

  “Before the Seine was up and running, I had to cut corners. It would have taken forever to make runs with five billion separate Faxes, even if I used their lowest levels. So I was obliged to work with aggregates. I knew that was oversimplifying reality, and my results proved it. They were unstable. They blew up, just the way that any predictive program becomes unstable if you make the time-step too large.

  “With the Seine up and running, though, I can finally run my model the way it should be run. No aggregation, but with a representation of every individual as an individual. And I can use Level Five Faxes if I want them, with complex decision logic and interaction powers, rather than simpleminded Level Ones. So I’m running a real solar system, with real people. But using the full power of the Seine computer, my virtual solar system will evolve six million times as fast as the real one. A year of solar system development takes only five seconds on the computer.”

  “
Five seconds? You say only five seconds, but that’s a long time to produce nonsense.” Pedersen stood up. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had enough. All the meaningless analogy with thermodynamics and statistical mechanics, and all the talk of superior approaches. Then you show us that.” The sweep of his arm took in Alex’s final results, still frozen on the displays. “Population zero, humans extinct, solar system development dead. Is there anyone in this room who believes such a thing for half a second? All our other models show nothing remotely like that. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve wasted too much time on this—this horseshit.”

  “Now, Ole.” Tomas de Mises waved a hand at Pedersen, palm down. “Don’t let’s go to extremes. Though I must admit …” His voice trailed off. He stared at Alex’s final results, and shook his head.

  “When did you perform the runs you just showed us?” Magrit Knudsen ignored the reactions of Ole Pedersen and Tomas de Mises and addressed Alex directly.

  “Last night.” Alex didn’t want to look at Kate. If he had been present when the runs were first performed, they would have had time for a more detailed evaluation. “We repeated them this morning.”

  “Then everything is less than one day old. Bugs in new models are the rule rather than the exception. I, too, have trouble believing what you have shown us. However.” Magrit Knudsen stared right at Ole Pedersen. “Regardless of anyone’s skepticism, these runs suggest problems in solar system development so grave that we must take them seriously. I do so, even if there is only one chance in a thousand that they are correct.” She turned to Mischa Glaub. “I want this work to continue on a high-priority basis. If you require additional resources, of humans or equipment, do not hesitate to ask for them. That’s it for this meeting.”

  She stood up. “If you have the time, Ole, I’d like to spend a few minutes with you in my office, discussing your directorate’s models. You, too, Tomas, unless there’s something more urgent on your calendar.”

  Magrit’s tone suggested that was unlikely. When the two men had trailed out after her, Mischa Glaub turned to Alex.

  “After what Knudsen said I guess I can’t fire you on the spot, which is what you deserve. I should have known not to hire somebody with more money than sense. Don’t you ever come into one of these meetings again and go off half-cocked with results that you haven’t run by me and checked ten times over. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s surprises. So get the hell out of here, both of you, and work on that goddamm model.”

  His expression changed from irritation to poorly-suppressed glee. “But did you see Pedersen’s face when you talked about ‘obsolete’ models? He looked like he was crapping barbecued rivets.”

  13

  You say that the Lonaker and Ligon models are junk.” Magrit was in her office with Tomas de Mises and Ole Pedersen. She was standing, and she had not invited the men to sit down. It was her way of indicating that this would not be a long meeting.

  “You may be right, and you probably are.” In principle she was addressing both men, but no one had any doubt that she was mostly talking to Pedersen. “On the other hand, the models seem to be radically new. There is a chance that they are providing warnings that we should not ignore. So what I want you to do is this: learn everything that you possibly can about the new models. I will direct that every question you ask be answered, to any level of detail that you desire. Then I want your personal evaluation of the models. Not a simple dismissal, merely because they are different from what your own group has been developing. I want a real, point-by-point analysis. At the same time, keep it simple. Pretend that it’s Macanelly you’ll be briefing.”

  She saw Pedersen wince. Loring Macanelly was a cross that she made him bear, in spite of (and partly because of) his complaints. Ole Pedersen was an interesting mix. Intellectually insecure but extremely ambitious, he was also competent and highly intelligent. Magrit believed in building on what people could do, rather than dwelling on what they could not. There were two ways to motivate Ole Pedersen. One was to provide him with ordinary challenges, such as making effective use of an individual who was stupid but well-connected and difficult to fire. That was Loring Macanelly. The other was to ask for the apparently impossible, which now and again Ole Pedersen would accomplish.

  It was the second reason that made her add, “And don’t be content with evaluating what you find. I’d like you to understand Ligon’s work so thoroughly that you can make improvements to it.”

  By referring only to Ligon’s work, Magrit made sure that Pedersen would not waste time asking questions of anyone but Alex Ligon. She was quite sure that Pedersen realized whose model it was, and if Mischa Glaub’s feathers were ruffled because he was being bypassed in the chain of command, Magrit would take care of that separately. To make the latter task easier, she added, “One thing I want to make clear. It’s the new model, and only the new model, that you will be exploring. I’m not authorizing you to go fishing around in other projects over there.”

  Pedersen was nodding. He even seemed pleased. Magrit could imagine his thoughts. If the model had basic flaws and he could uncover them, he gained kudos. If the model happened to be correct and he could somehow suggest an improvement, he would share in the glory.

  Magrit turned to de Mises. “Any problems with any of this, Tomas?”

  “No. If there are disputes, I’ll do my best to sort them out.”

  Which he would, and which he was good at. Any original thought by Tomas de Mises was far in the past, but he was a great mediator and conciliator. When in the near future he retired, Magrit would be sorry to lose those talents.

  “Excellent.” Magrit led them toward the door. “This is a high-priority job, so I’d like reports every couple of days. Short, no more than a page until you turn up something major.”

  Until, rather than unless, to give Ole Pedersen added motivation. Magrit took a deep breath as she closed the door and walked over to her desk. Her job required a constant balancing act … and she wouldn’t change it for any other in the System.

  She had missed the time slot for a regular lunch. She heated a bowl of soft noodles, gulped it down with a handful of crackers, and scanned her messages. One jumped out at her, although she had no time to consider it in detail. She made a quick-print, stuffed the document into her pocket, and examined the priority list.

  Ligons. The whole damned day seemed packed with Ligons, although she had to admit that Alex Ligon had made an unexpectedly favorable first impression. Kate Lonaker swore that he was a genius, and today he had stood up for his work without any guff or false modesty. Unfortunately, Alex seemed to be the exception that proved the rule. The imperial word from Prosper Ligon, delivered to Magrit from the dizzy heights of Council Headquarters, displayed the contempt that only established wealth and power could afford: Magrit was to contact Rezel and Tanya Ligon as soon as possible, and arrange for them to meet immediately with the owner of the lease on Pandora.

  “Contact” could mean anything. When dealing with someone powerful, Magrit infinitely preferred a face-to-face in her own office. That way they couldn’t be calling on huge external resources without you knowing about it.

  This time she’d have to settle for half. Rezel and Tanya Ligon would meet with her in person, but she must go over to a Ligon corporate center to do it. She stood up and headed for the door, then hesitated. She came back to her desk, pulled out an image cube, and stuck it into her pocket. If Bat’s information were reliable—it had never in the past been anything but—this might be needed.

  On the fifteen-minute trip via Ganymede’s high-speed elevators and rapid slideways, Magrit wondered if she was about to make a mistake. Supposing that she and Bat did not have to deal with Rezel and Tanya Ligon, then who else in the family might they propose? It was going to be another balancing act to get what she wanted.

  Magrit arrived at the corporate center and identified herself to a Level Three Fax in the outer chamber. The Fax politely invited her to take a seat and told he
r that the news of her arrival was being passed on to the appropriate parties. Magrit sat down on an angular and uncomfortable chair, opposite expensive murals of the baleen management team and huge krill harvesters with which the second rise in Ligon fortunes had begun. She noted that she was exactly on time.

  Thirty minutes later she was still sitting in the same place. The Fax, which had the form of a handsome young man, was apologetic. It could, it said, unfortunately do nothing to speed things up. When younger, Magrit would have been either intimidated or seething. Now she recognized the tactic. Important guests would never be kept waiting. This was an attempt, and a rather crude one, to show Magrit where she stood in the Ligon perceived order of things.

  Magrit checked her mobile message unit. As she suspected, it would not operate. For security reasons, the interior of the Ligon corporate center was shielded against both incoming and outgoing signals. No matter. It was nice to be inaccessible to other problems for an hour, and she had plenty to do. Bat, in their most recent conversation about the Ligon family and its demands, had volunteered his additional concern that “something new and major” was going on in the System.

  What sort of something? Bat, crouched black-cowled and scowling on his over-sized chair, had admitted that he didn’t know. It might be an effect of the Seine, now fully activated. Possibly it was some unrelated development. It was far harder for Bat’s highly logical and organized mind to admit his own uncertainty than it was for Magrit to accept it. At the moment he could offer no more than a visceral discomfort, a feeling, he said, as though some giant wasp had become accidentally entangled in his delicate spider’s web of information retrieval. He promised to work to make his worries specific and tangible. Meanwhile, would Magrit remain alert for anything new under the Sun, anywhere from the Vulcan Nexus to the Oort Cloud?

  She had promised to do so. And lo and behold, sitting in the incoming message queue in her office had been a candidate for Bat’s “something new” claim. She pulled out the quick-print she had made in her office, sat it on her lap, and read through it three times.