One from Without

by Jack Fuller

  one

  from

  without

  jack fuller

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are either the

  product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

  to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events,

  or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Unbridled Books

  Copyright © 2016 by Jack Fuller

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof,

  may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Fuller, Jack, author.

  One from without / Jack Fuller

  pages;cm

  ISBN 9781609531300 (softcover)

  PS3556.U44 O54 2016

  813/.54—dc23

  2015041595

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Book Design by SH • CV

  First Printing

  For Debby

  one

  THE

  THREE-BODY

  PROBLEM

  1

  On board mornings the Day and Domes senior staff gathered early. The unwritten rule was that the last one to arrive was late. Nothing broke the hush in the narrow, mahogany antechamber. Some looked over their scripts. Others checked and rechecked their BlackBerries. A few just stared at mirrors that weren’t there. Eventually the corporate secretary opened the door to the boardroom, and the presenters filed through and took their places along the walls, always the same places, like members of a choir. This soothed Tom Rosten, the way the columns and rows of numbers on an Excel spreadsheet did.

  Sam White had still been the CEO when Rosten attended his first meeting of the directors. It had been blowing that day too, and the brass chandelier hanging from the Tiffany dome above the long board table had swung as the building yielded to the wind, setting shadows to play over the sepia maps and lithographs that decorated the walls: Daniel Burnham’s grand, unfinished plan for the city, the Marquette Building, the Rookery, and of course, the portrait of the company’s Founder, his right hand resting on a stack of leather-bound ledgers, his left holding the lapel of his waistcoat.

  Not long after that, a new man took over—Brian Joyce, the first CEO from outside the company. One of his early moves was to hire a lighting consultant who bathed the room in a uniform glow that eliminated shadows. The historic maps and lithographs were replaced by geometric paintings chosen by a committee chaired by the VP of Human Resources. The Founder’s portrait moved to the hallway outside, where it gazed down from a distance greater than years. Though an element of charm was lost, Rosten was glad to have light in the corners.

  Joyce called the meeting to order and moved briskly through the approval of the agenda and minutes, riding comfortably in his chair. Like so many people who care about appearances, he was both more than he seemed and less. If you had asked those closest to him what kind of man he was, they probably would have answered, “The kind he needs to be.” Brian Brady Joyce: once the youngest commander of a destroyer in the Navy, now chairman, president, and chief executive officer of a publicly traded Fortune 1000 company. “Stars on my epaulets,” he joked, as if he did not care about them.

  Rosten rose from his chair when it was his turn to present. Open across his extended forearms rested a thick three-ring binder that contained the detail behind the financial summary it was his job as chief financial officer to discuss. Colleagues referred to the notebook as the Bible. Before he had gone back to school for a master’s degree in business administration, Rosten had known nothing about accounting, let alone financial theory. He had been on the rebound from a short, dark career in government service, and escape into the numbers’ clarifying light had been like being born again.

  As he went to the front of the room, he noticed several directors’ attention drifting upward to the hypnotic chandelier. He placed the Bible on the podium, adjusted the cant of the microphone, then clicked the remote to bring his first slide up on the enormous monitor over his left shoulder. Pausing a moment, he laid his right hand on the Bible. Let them gaze at the chandelier. Let them think about their upcoming week in Aspen. Have faith. Be not afraid.

  When he finished presenting his routine report, he paused a beat to give the directors a chance at him, hoping they would not take it. Watch the chandelier. The wind is at our back. All is well. He saw Joyce twirling his fingers in a tiny barrel roll, which signaled him to move on.

  Rosten touched the button on the remote. Behind him an animated slide was building.

  “What page are you on?” said Lou Leavitt, the papers in his board book snicking back and forth like scythes.

  “Just for fun, I had Tom prepare this technical analysis yesterday,” said Joyce. “There wasn’t time to get the presentation deck to you in advance.”

  “That’s what e-mail is for,” said Leavitt.

  The corporate secretary was moving around the table serving a deck from each director’s left, like a waiter with a side dish.

  “Forgive me,” said Joyce, “but I think you will like what you see.”

  At this point all eyes were on the screen. Rosten had warned Joyce that springing the long-term forecast on the board invited too much attention. The unexpected fixes the eye: A snake sliding from behind a rock. A lovely woman’s face in a crowd, petal on a wet, black bough. No, that was from the other life.

  Tempting as it was to turn to look at the screen, he kept his eyes on the directors, none of whom had eyes on him. Joyce had drilled this into all his senior managers: “Do not turn your back on the board.” His point was respect, but Rosten’s government service had taught him that behind respect was always the possibility of a snake.

  The most quantitative directors were growing restless. He clicked the remote again. “You can see from this graph,” he said, “that we have not even reached the first quartile on the upward growth trajectory.” There was a strong correlation between Day and Domes’s fortunes and the overall business cycle. Revenue growth tended to lag GDP by roughly six months both on the way up and coming down. Even though in building the graph Rosten had stuck to the conservative end of what economists were predicting for GDP, the picture on the screen of Day and Domes’s future was so bright that he expected the board would feel the need to put on dark glasses. He braced for questions.

  There were none. Even Sabad Chandrahary did not intervene. Rosten was not at all confident that the silence was assent, but at least it spared him from having to hide his concern that although history in general and the business cycle in particular tended to repeat, you could never be sure when circumstance would take you across a bridge with no return.

  Joyce nodded. Rosten closed the Bible and carried it, spine down, under his arm to his place along the back wall.

  “We should be able to get a little ahead of the agenda with the Audit Committee report, shouldn’t we, Teddy?” said Joyce.

  Teddy Diamond, committee chairman, was presenting out of order because he had to leave the meeting early. Trouble at home: a major embezzlement, which had caused a sell-off of the company’s stock, a Moody’s downgrade of its bonds, and today an emergency board meeting. Talk was that he was going to sacrifice a few sheep.

  “I would hate for the brevity of my comments to leave my fellow directors yearning for more,” Diamond said.

  Audit’s parched humor. Faint smiles all around.

  Diamond’s dark blue suit hardly stretched as he reached out for the pages Rosten had handed him at the boardroom door. His cuffs flashed in the light when he tapped the pages on the table. His suit fell on him as perfectly as if it were pinned to a mannequin. Not a vein stood out at his te
mples, not a single tremor passed through his fingers.

  Rosten felt a tightening in the muscles of his own hands when Diamond began to speak, a lifting of his shoulders. Rosten’s idea of the perfect report was 3D—direct, definitive, and done—because audit was a dark corner where you could not assume away the whiff of bad breath, the rumble of a troubled gut, the shifting eye, the lie-detector oscillations of the pulse. Rosten did everything in his power to make sure Day and Domes’s financial controls were tight, locked with a cipher and double keys like a nuclear missile switch. But still . . .

  He silently recited the words he had written as Diamond intoned them. “Clean audit . . . Unqualified opinion . . .” Diamond reported on the committee’s meeting with auditors alone: no issues. The meeting with Internal Audit: no issues. No issues. No issues. No issues. Then came the motion, the vote to release the audited financial statements, the offhand ayes.

  Diamond stood and gathered up his papers.

  “Safe travels, Teddy,” said Joyce.

  Years before, when Rosten had interviewed for the position of treasurer at D&D, it had been like setting foot inside Old Campus for the first time. The lobby was a museum, the elevators designed to look original, the heavy porcelain pedestal sinks in the men’s room mounted onto a granite floor with heavy brass fittings. This place had a history and wanted to show it.

  Lately this had begun to change. When Sandra Harms came on board as vice president of Investor Relations, she persuaded Joyce to take the founding narrative out of the annual report and replace it with this: “Day and Domes is a global leader in the empowerment of businesses and individuals through comprehensive and reliable credit and associated data. It uses the most advanced technology to deliver information that drives sound customer acquisition decisioning, targeted messaging, and the management of accounts receivable and other risks.”

  Rosten did manage to preserve the history on the company’s website:

  Day and Domes was founded in 1906 by Thomas Woods Peterson. Son of a department store salesman, he parlayed his prodigious mathematical ability into admission to Harvard College. After graduating he traveled to England, where, to his father’s dismay, he abandoned physics for a degree in history at Cambridge University.

  Applying the methods of hard science to the study of the past, he immersed himself in the Domesday Book. This massive data set collected in the 11th Century for William the Conqueror eventually recorded the name and financial position of every landowner in most of England and parts of Wales. Peterson produced several published monographs based on it, but in academic circles his quantitative approach was seen as radical, and no faculty appointment that he considered adequate was forthcoming.

  He turned away from the academy, returned home, and began applying his methods to contemporary needs like those of the department store where his father had worked. Success came quickly for the firm he named after its ancient inspiration. The building he built to house his creation he called the Dome.

  In Peterson’s time information was collected on paper and indexed in fat ledger books. Today, almost ten centuries after the Domesday Book and nearly a century after the company’s founding, Day and Domes collects on its state-of-the-art computers more information every minute than William the Conqueror did during his entire reign.

  Before joining D&D, Rosten had worked at one of the more go-go New York investment banks, which made its money by dancing along the brink of uncertainty. In contrast, Day and Domes was built on the solid ground of verified fact: John Doe lived at 2425 Ross Street and had a $175,000 mortgage on which he had always promptly paid the precise amount required. He had done this for seven years and five months. He had a MasterCard and Visa, on which he charged an aggregate average of $976 per month and had never had to pay a late fee or interest.

  At the bank Rosten was an analyst. At D&D he got a title and a small staff, but making the move meant surrendering a lot of upside opportunity. In good times, even an analyst at the bank could bring in a bonus in the six figures. Making partner would add another digit to that. At Day and Domes, his salary was comfortable and steady, but the potential for windfall gain simply was not there.

  “Why would you think of leaving your present position?” the interviewer from Human Resources had asked him.

  “I like the risk profile here,” Rosten had said.

  “Good answer for a treasurer,” said the interviewer.

  It was still a good answer. Joyce was pushing for aggressive innovation, but he was no radical. He did not want to tear down the Dome, only to remodel it. He had a blueprint, which was why he’d had Rosten present the long-term growth forecast to the directors. The strategy Joyce had in mind was going to cost a lot of money to execute, and he needed the board to believe that, like John Doe, D&D could spend it and still be living within its means.

  The discussion of Joyce’s plan was the last item on the agenda, but before he could get to it, he needed to power through a fair amount of the routine business of business.

  He asked the directors to turn to Tab 5, “Projects for Approval.” First up was Sam Gunderman, standing in for the vice president and chief information officer, who was recovering from prostate surgery. Rosten thought well of this odd little man, who had more pure wattage than anyone else in the Dome. So why did he struggle so much with the simple things? Just get this done, Sam. Head down. No eye contact. And for God’s sake, don’t elaborate.

  Gunderman stood, fumbling with his papers, and practically ran to the podium. Advance the slide, Sam. As if Gunderman had heard this, he touched the remote. No fumbling there. The device was like part of his body. In fact, he seemed surer of it than of his own mouth, which was so close to the microphone that the first words from his lips were gunshots. A couple of directors flinched.

  “What page are you on?” Leavitt demanded. Gunderman did not answer. “It’s a simple question.”

  “First page behind Tab 5,” said Joyce, who had taken out a nail clipper, the sure sign that he was approaching the limit of his patience.

  “Please . . . ,” Gunderman said.

  “Sam,” said Joyce, “you can move a couple inches back from the microphone to good effect.”

  Joyce could not have spoken in a more self-controlled tone, but to Gunderman it seemed to carry the jolt of a six-pack of Red Bull. Words began running out of his mouth and skittering around the room for somewhere to hide. Unfortunately, Gunderman found his own refuge in technical jargon and digression, made worse by phrases like “I know you must be thinking . . .” or “Of course, it is not as simple as that.” After several minutes of this, his first slide was still on the screen, untouched by explanation. Half the board was counting with the metronome of the chandelier.

  The project Gunderman was supposed to be presenting should have sold itself. Reduced to its essentials, it was insurance. In old economy terms, Day and Domes wasn’t much more than a landmark building and a lot of warehouses full of racks upon racks of digital equipment. This, however, was not what gave the company what the strategic planning consultants liked to call a distinctive competence that leads to a sustainable competitive advantage. Everyone had digital equipment, even kids in dorm rooms. What everyone did not have was unimpeachable data going back a long, long time, data that was righteous, purified with elaborate algorithms that spotted any foreign body and set in motion an elaborate immune response. Day and Domes not only knew its data; its data knew itself.

  Still, it lived in a contaminated world. Not only did ever-increasing amounts of information pour in each day, but the range was continuously widening: medical records, coupon redemptions, real-time purchase behavior from the Web. Customers deposited with Day and Domes the priceless information they collected because they trusted that it would be kept in sanitary conditions and protected from uninvited eyes. The more copious the data and the greater the multiplicity of sources, the more valuable it became to those to whom it did not belong. It was vital to D&D that it be able to secure the t
reasure. Terrorism, hacking, cyberwarfare—to Day and Domes these were cancer, stroke, and heart attack. Despite Gunderman’s obscurities, the argument for the project was simple: Day and Domes needed to be a leader in digital security because trust was what it sold.

  “I think the very complexity of what Sam is trying to lay out here,” Joyce said, interrupting him, “is evidence of the critical challenge the project is designed to meet.”

  Gunderman clicked to the next slide, which bore the heading “Chaos and Cryptology.” He began to speak of orbit diagrams, accumulation points, deterministic unknowables.

  Bill Tobin closed his eyes.

  “I get it that we have an issue,” he said when he opened them again. “But frankly I can’t follow a word you’re saying.”

  “Small differences in initial conditions change everything in the encrypted space,” Gunderman said. “The key is the nonasymptotic behavior of a nonlinear interactive process.”

  Sabby Chandrahary angled his index finger up from the surface of the table. Look his way, boss. Recognize him. He is the only one in the room who knows what Gunderman is trying to say.

  A few board members weighed in with variations on the theme of discomfort. Finally, Joyce noticed the finger.

  “It is a puzzlement,” Chandrahary said. Coming from a man in a turban, this might in other circumstances have seemed funny. But there was a challenge to management on the table, and humor had fled the room. “It is ever thus in the field of cryptology. Puzzles within puzzles.”

  Nobody was looking at the chandelier now, except perhaps for Gunderman, who seemed to be using it to remind himself to take breaths.

  “The advances in chaos theory have been thrilling,” Chandrahary went on. “And yet chaos-based cryptology is unproven. I don’t think it is safe for us to be on the bleeding edge when it comes to protecting our data.”