Realtime Interrupt

by James P. Hogan

  All kinds of visitors began appearing at Blawnox, eager to see the work. Some of them were very strange, but all commanded influence or were in positions to direct significant flows of money. Another thing they had in common was the perception that they brought of Oz. They did not seem to have been made to understand it merely as a means to achieving AI. Rather, they took the AI for granted and saw it in turn as the engine that would power a revolutionary method for testing new design concepts, product models and styles, marketing methods, political campaign strategies—anything at all—in an artificial world running hundreds of times faster than the real thing: a Reality Simulator.

  * * *

  The character that Pinder and Tyron had brought over from the Executive Building was as zany as any that Corrigan had met in the last few months. His name was Roderick Esmelius, and he was from Market Resource Researches Inc., one of Feller & Faber's clients. He was tall, lean, and eccentrically theatrical, with flowing, silver hair, a suit of maroon trimmed with pink, and sporting a cane. The assistant with him, whose name was Godfrey, had dark curls, heavy, black-rimmed spectacles, and a mauve suit. He referred to the project as the "Crystal Ball," and seemed to think that it could predict election results. MRR were contemplating buying into Oz to the tune of two million dollars to try out a brainchild of Esmelius's that he was sure would revolutionize advertising. He explained to Corrigan and Shipley, punctuating his words with flourishes and pauses for effect:

  "It will have the greatest impact of anything since the advent of television. The problem is getting to people, you see. There are too many distractions and alternatives to pull audiences away." In other words, the program offerings were garbage. "People are busy and more mobile these days than they used to be. They don't have enough opportunity to be near their TV." Esmelius wagged a finger and swept his gaze over the whole group as he came to the crux. "So why not let it accompany them permanently, everywhere? We hear about putting chips in people's heads to link them to computers. So why not a TV in the head?" He paused expectantly. Pinder nodded an amen. Tyron smirked at Corrigan. Shipley, from his chair at a terminal where he had been working, tried to catch Corrigan's eye with a look that asked if they were hearing things right; but Corrigan was too busy keeping up an appearance of relaxed, can-do suavity. He had been getting more conscious about dress lately, and was turned out in a stylish jacket of gray and black fleck, with a pink shirt and red silk tie with matching handkerchief folded in his breast pocket. Gold had appeared on his fingers, cuffs, and in his tie clip, and he had upgraded his watch.

  Esmelius went on. "Just imagine, watch anything you like, any time, anywhere you like. And what a medium for advertisers: a direct line straight into everyone's head! You can't beat it."

  Godfrey carried on, pitching with the same enthusiasm. "We have a number of potential investors. But public acceptance would be the key factor in a venture like this. Now, if we could show them what the public's reaction would be, before anyone puts up the money to actually develop the technology . . ."

  "You want to know if the Oz simulation could tell you," Shipley completed. Having listened to a dozen similar lines in the last two weeks, he knew what was coming.

  "Yes, precisely," Godfrey said. "Can the Crystal Ball do it? It would pay for itself ten times over, just on that."

  "You'd only need to give the inhabitants the effect of having such technology," Pinder put in.

  "Quite so," Esmelius confirmed. "All we'd want to know is their reactions."

  Shipley was looking dubious and about to say something, but before he could do so, Tyron came in, looking at Pinder. "The potential for this kind of thing must be enormous. Just think of all the applications that could be emulated in advance, without the need for detailed designs or even a working prototype. All you need is the concept."

  Pinder was nodding like a pigeon pecking up seed. "I agree, Frank, I agree. It could begin a whole new science for allocating development funding and priorities."

  Tyron answered Esmelius, but with his eyes on Corrigan. "Oh, I'm sure that our programming specialists won't find it a problem."

  "It's a natural extension to the self-adapting routines that we've been developing, based on the MIT system," Corrigan said. "The channel simply becomes an additional subgroup integrated into the perceptual data stream routed to each animation designated as implanted with a chip. The evaluation and response matrixes would be generated by the modules we've already got."

  "You're saying that your people could handle it, then, eh, Joe?" Pinder interpreted, just to make sure that Esmelius understood.

  "Sure, no problem," Corrigan said.

  "Splendid." Esmelius beamed. Godfrey made satisfied clucking noises. Pinder could have told them as much himself without bringing them over, Corrigan knew, but it was more reassuring to hear things like this direct from the source. Also, as Tyron had made sure would not be missed but which Corrigan was not too concerned over for now, if anything went wrong, it would have been Corrigan who had said before witnesses that everything would be fine.

  The two visitors stayed a short while longer to raise some further points and view what there was to see in the labs, and then left with Pinder and Tyron to meet others for lunch.

  As soon as the door had closed, Shipley swung around in his chair and shook his head at Corrigan exasperatedly. "Joe, will you tell me just what in hell you're playing at? This all started out as a serious attempt to achieve AI. Now it's turning into a circus. God, even in the last two weeks we've listened to one crazy from Madison Avenue talking about turning every home into a theatrical supply company; another who wants walking advertising machines pestering people everywhere; houses full of talking appliances—and now commercial TV in people's heads. The management here ought to know better, but they've all lost their heads over the prospect of unlimited funds. This is getting crazy, Joe."

  Corrigan nodded. "Yes, you don't have to tell me that, Eric. I know."

  "But you're going along with it, for Christ's sake."

  "I'm not going to be made to back down in front of F and F clients." Corrigan leaned over a table to run an eye over the printout stacked on top. "That's exactly what Tyron is trying to do: get negative reports sent back to the financial people in charge of the operation, who haven't got a clue what's feasible and what isn't."

  Shipley nodded emphatically, as if that made his point. "Sure, I can see it—only too well. But what good are you doing yourself if you're not going to be able to deliver? You'll look plain dumb. And Tyron sure as hell knows that too."

  Corrigan turned, looking composed and self-assured. "Relax, Eric. None of this is going to be happening anytime soon. Only the first-phase objectives have been made firm, and they're realistic. This other stuff they're talking about hasn't even been scheduled tentatively yet. It's all politics. The important thing for now is to say what the people who write the checks want to hear, and not sound obstructive. Trust me. I'm beginning to see how this game works now."

  Shipley looked back at the screen that he was working on and shook his head. "Lies and deception. Promises that can't be kept," he muttered. "It's not the world we used to know."

  "Well, you know what they teach in law school: If you can't lie honestly, then fake it. Got to move with the times, Eric."

  "And what became of science in all this?"

  "Nothing worthwhile was ever gained without some calculated risk. That's true in science too."

  Corrigan opened out the sheets and stared down at them. Maybe it was all changing too fast for Shipley to keep up with. He thought about the opposition he was up against, and wondered if he could afford to keep carrying a deadweight. Nothing worthwhile was ever achieved without having to make some sacrifices at times, either.

  * * *

  Financial notables, brokers, celebrities from the media, even a couple of senators—all became part of the regular scene as money flowed from bottomless expense accounts. Parties and nightlife became as much a part of the routine
as progress meetings and system tests during the day. From the original concept, Oz grew to a mammoth scale requiring hundreds of new specialists and thousands of square feet just for the equipment. To accommodate the project, Xylog acquired a newly completed complex centered around an eight-story main building on Southside, where some warehouses had once stood just off Carson Street. So the day came when trucks and packers arrived at Blawnox to move the labs, offices, and hardware that would be absorbed into the Xylog operation.

  * * *

  Corrigan was at one end of what had been the main EVIE lab, supervising the crating of the CDC mainframe that Tom Hatcher's group used for associative array development, when Pinder appeared, ostensibly to ask how things were going.

  "Fine," Corrigan told him. "The installation at Carson Street is ahead of schedule. I'll be going there first thing tomorrow to start getting it all on line, and we should have the section back in business by next week."

  "Excellent." Pinder clasped his hands together behind his back and gazed around. Most of the lab area was bare, apart from discarded trash and wastepaper swept into piles. Lengths of disconnected cables protruded from underfloor distribution points and hung from overhead. A work crew was maneuvering the last of the large crates onto forklift palettes. "It's like moving out of a house, isn't it," Pinder commented. "Full of ghosts and memories. Funny how places always look so much bigger with the furniture gone."

  "I thought this was the ultimate in modernism when I moved in," Corrigan said. "But compared to where we're going, it all seems quaint."

  "Look at the kind of money that's going into Xylog," Pinder answered.

  "I guess so." Corrigan had caught the quick, sideways looks that Pinder had been giving him as they spoke, and knew there was more to this than a casual visit. Such was usually the case when Pinder came over from the Executive Building.

  Pinder glanced around. There was nobody in their immediate vicinity. He motioned with a nod of his head for Corrigan to follow, and walked slowly along by the outside wall until they came to a window overlooking the rear lawns and parking lots. "I'm a bit troubled by Shipley's ultracautiousness," he said, directing his gaze straight ahead. "I know it's good science and so on, but that belongs in the labs. What worries me is the negative impact that it's likely to have on the financial backers. At a time like this we can't afford that."

  It was too close to the way Corrigan's own thoughts had been running for some time for him to be capable of making much of a show of surprise. Mainly out of curiosity to see where this was leading, he replied neutrally, "Has somebody been complaining?"

  Pinder made a sucking noise through his teeth. "Not in so many words. But I've seen the looks and glances. And it's something that stands to affect you personally as well, Joe. I think you owe it to yourself to give some thought to a side of things that you might not have considered very closely."

  "Oh?"

  "Look at it this way. Eric has done some first-rate work in the past, I know—and I wouldn't want to belittle any of that. But I have to ask, is he really suited to a senior position in the new style of organization that's taking shape? You said it yourself—it's a streamlined product of the times. And running it is going to require a management team who all share a common level of enthusiasm, personal ambition, and a conviction that the job can be done. One dissenting note could create discord throughout. Your own future hinges on the success of this in a big way, as I'm sure I don't have to spell out. . . . So give me your opinion, straight. It's not a time to let notions of personal loyalty obscure sound judgment."

  Corrigan stared fixedly out at the rear facade of the Executive Building opposite. Pinder had said it—all the things that had been swirling around in Corrigan's mind, but which he hadn't been able to bring himself to admit consciously. Even so, now that the opportunity was not only there but being pressed, a deeper-rooted reluctance to wield the knife prevented him from being blunt. "I don't know," was all he could muster. "As you said, it's something that I'd probably have to think over."

  Pinder waited a few seconds longer, then sighed. "All right, I'll come out with it straight. Borth has seen it too, and he isn't happy. He's told Ken Endelmyer that he doesn't want Shipley in the venture. Management's view is that his former DINS work is part of the past now, and largely irrelevant, and they have concurred."

  So there never had been anything for Corrigan to give an opinion on. Pinder had simply been casting for a way to make him feel implicated. But if Corrigan had any protest to make, this was the moment to do it.

  He turned and looked around the place where they had worked together, remembering feet propped on untidy desks; solder guns and birds'-nest tangles of makeshift racking; grubby diagrams tacked to pressboard; scratched keyboards and gray metal shelving. He thought of the future and Xylog: of glass-paneled corridors, deep-pile executive suites, and gleaming machine-halls. And he said nothing.

  Pinder heard the silence and went on. "There is a core group from the DINS section that I'd like us to retain. Frank Tyron agrees that they're good and wants them transferred to COSMOS, but I think there's an equal case for integrating them into your side of the operation. I'm giving you first choice. What do you say?"

  An offer of alliance, wrapped around the handle of the knife. He couldn't do anything to change the verdict now, Corrigan told himself. Only Tyron would benefit if he refused. It was a time for realism.

  "Sure, I'll take them," he said.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The sign in gold indented lettering on a polished wood ground facing the elevators read:

  * * *

  Floor Six

  OZ PROJECT SOFTWARE SYSTEMS DIVISION

  ANIMATIONS ENGINEERING

  ADAPTIVE ENVIRONMENTS GROUP

  DATABASE MANAGEMENT

  SUPPORT SERVICES

  * * *

  "Good morning, Mr. Corrigan," one of the two clerks waiting with bundles of files greeted as Corrigan emerged carrying a black Samsonite.

  "Hello, girls," he returned, nodding, and headed toward the double doors leading through a glass divider to the sixth-floor reception foyer.

  "Good morning, Mr. Corrigan," the receptionist said from her desk as he passed.

  " 'Morning, Betty. You're looking very smart today."

  "Why, thank you."

  "We've got some important people coming today. Keep it up."

  "Good morning, Mr. Corrigan," the young man in a charcoal suit going the other way said, halfway across the open-plan floor of work spaces and conference areas leading to Corrigan's office.

  "Hello, Chris. Did we get those specs integrated for Bolger?"

  "Completed yesterday. Run and checked out last night."

  "Good lad."

  Judy Klein was already at her desk in the partitioned outer area in front of his office. It looked like part of a set for the flight deck in a space-fiction movie, with its curvy furnishings and multiscreened computer side-table.

  "Hi, Judy. 'Tis a grand day for living, to be sure, to be sure. What have we got?"

  "Hello, Joe. Let's see. The arrangements for those people from Chase that Borth is bringing are confirmed. And there's a message from Amanda Ramussienne at F and F saying that she'll be coming too."

  "Fine. And where have we fixed for lunch?"

  "Delio's for twelve-thirty."

  "That's great."

  "Roger said to let you know we've signed off on the two new TMCs. There's a list of calls to be returned on your desk. And Pinder has put the meeting with Quell back to ten-thirty instead of ten. I said it would be fine. It doesn't clash with anything."

  "Okay. Anything from Tom Hatcher yet on those referent transfer patches?"

  "Yes. You're due to see him in half an hour with Charlie Wade and Jorrecks. He said he'll have the information then."

  "Fine. I'll clear the calls first. If anything comes up while I'm down there, just put it through."

  "Will do."

  Corrigan went through to his own of
fice and set the briefcase down on one corner of the broad sweep of curved, walnut-topped desk with its terminal, onyx pen-holders and neatly arranged piles of papers and reminders. The floor-to-ceiling windows formed a corner of the building, presenting fine views of the downtown Pittsburgh vista along the opposite shore on one side, and the meeting of the three rivers with the Ohio Valley beyond on the other.

  The last few months had seen an intensification of the realscaping program for capturing every facet of visual imagery over the entire Pittsburgh area. Camera teams had been out every day, touring and recording all the streets, expressways, parks, and trails; from vehicles and on foot, from helicopters overflying the city, from boats out on the rivers. Back in Xylog the machines were running day and night, reducing and compiling the encoded scenes into crosslinked hierarchies of field definitions in the huge database that took up half a floor of high-density crystal-array recirculator memory cubicles. Hatcher had told Corrigan that they could reproduce any aspect of any scene out there, from any viewpoint, in any direction. Corrigan had studied the figures and experimented with some samples, and he believed it. The results of the similar but smaller-scale program that Himomatsu had carried out in Tokyo were now incorporated into the main Oz database, as was a part of the Inglewood area of California and a few other places, following experiments by SDC.

  Having reviewed his priorities for the day and disposed of the calls, Corrigan went through the mail with Judy and gave her a list of follow-up actions for the morning. Then he went back out to the elevators and down past the Primary Operations Level, where the main banks of massively parallel processing lattices took up almost the entire floor, past the Interface Level with galleries of COSMOS coupling hardware for up to fifty real-world surrogates, past the Monitoring & Control Center, from where the whole operation was directed, and came out on the second floor. Finally he came to a door marked FINAL EVALUATION & TEST, which was where Tom Hatcher's group ran newly completed system modules prior to operational integration.