“It’s not simple to explain, not unless you know a lot about this country and how things work here. What it comes down to is that it is all a matter of politics. We have laws in the United States about research money, research projects at the universities, who can and cannot invest. A lot of our big corporations felt we were falling behind Japan, where government and industry cooperate, share money and research. They couldn’t change the laws—so they bent them a little bit. Here, outside the continental three-mile limit, we are theoretically exempt from state and federal law. This university, built on old oil rigs and dredged land, is ruthlessly product-orientated. They have spared no expense at headhunting teachers and students.”
“Headhunters live in New Guinea and kill people and cut off their heads and smoke them and shrink them. You got them here too?”
Paddy smiled at the boy’s worried look and reached out to ruffle his hair; Brian pulled away.
“Different kind of headhunters. That’s slang for offering someone a lot of money to leave their old job. Or giving big grants to get the best students.”
Brian digested this new information, squinting out at the glare of the sun upon the water. “Then if you was headhunted here, then you must be something special?”
Paddy smiled, liking the way Brian’s brain worked. “Well, yes, I suppose I must be if I am here.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a mathematician.”
“Twelve and seven is nineteen like in school?”
“You start there and then it gets more complicated and more interesting.”
“Like what f’rinstance?”
“Like after arithmetic there’s geometry. And after that comes algebra—and then calculus. There is also number theory, which is sort of out of the mainstream of mathematics.”
“What’s number theory?”
Paddy smiled at the serious expression on the little boy’s face and started to dismiss the question. Then thought twice about it. Brian seemed to be always surprising him with odd bits of information. He appeared to be a bright lad who believed that everything could be understood if you asked the right questions. But how could he possibly begin to explain higher mathematics to an eight-year-old? Well, one step at a time.
“Do you know about multiplying?”
“Sure—it’s fun. Like 14 times 15 is 210 because so is 6 times 35 and 5 times 42.”
“Are you positive?”
“Ain’t no mistake. Because they’re both as 2 times 3 times 5 times 7. I like 210 because it’s made up of four different chunky numbers.”
“Chunky numbers? Is that an Irish term?”
“Nope. Made it up myself,” the boy said proudly.
“Chunkies are numbers with no parts. Like 5 and 7. And big ones like 821 and 823. Or 1721 and 1723. A lot of the big ones come in pairs like that.”
Chunky numbers was Brian’s term for prime numbers, Paddy realized. Should eight-year-olds know about primes? Were they taught at this age?—He couldn’t remember.
It was after eleven that night when Dolly turned off the television. She found Paddy in the kitchen. His pipe had gone out and he was staring, unseeing, out into the darkness.
“I’m going to bed,” she said.
“Do you now what Brian seems to have done? All by himself. At the age of eight. He has discovered prime numbers. Not only that—he seems to have worked out some pretty efficient ways to find primes.”
“He’s a very serious little boy. Never smiles.”
“You’re not listening. He’s very bright. More than that—he has a basic understanding of mathematics, something almost all of my students are lacking.”
“If you think so then have them do an I.Q. test in school. I’m tired. We can talk about it in the morning.”
“I.Q. tests are too culturally orientated. Later maybe, when he has been here a while. I’ll talk to his teachers about it when I take him to school.”
“Not the very first day you won’t! He has to get used to things first, settle in. And it’s about time you thought about your own classes, research. I’ll take him to school tomorrow. You’ll see, it’s going to work out fine.”
Brian hated the school. From the very first moment he arrived. Hated the big fat black headmaster. He was called a principal here. Everything was different. Strange. And they laughed at him, from the very beginning. It was the teacher who started it.
“That will be your class seat,” she said, pointing not too precisely at the row of desks.
“The terd one?”
“The third one, yes. But you must say it correctly. Third.” She waited, smiling insincerely at his silence. “Say third, Brian.”
“Terd.”
“Not turd, that is a different word. Third.”
That was when the children laughed, whispered “Turd!” at him as soon as the teacher’s back was turned. When the bell rang and the class ended he went into the hall with the others, but kept going right out of the school, away from them all.
“And that was the very first day in school,” Dolly said. “Ran away after his very first class. The principal phoned and I was worried sick. It was after dark before the police found him and brought him home.”
“Did he tell you why?” Snaresbrook asked.
“Never, not him. Either closemouthed or asking too many questions, nothing in between. Not sociable either. You might say that the only friend he had was his computer. You would think he would have had enough of that during school hours. All computerized now, you know. But no. As soon as he was home he would be right at it again. Not just games, but writing programs in LOGO, the language he had learned in school. Very good programs too, that’s what Paddy said. The boy was writing learning programs that wrote their own programs. There was always something special between Brian and computers.”
5
February 18, 2023
Benicoff was waiting when Snaresbrook came out of the operating room.
“Do you have a moment to spare, Doctor?”
“Yes, of course. You can tell me what is happening at your end …”
“Can we continue this in your office?”
“Good idea. I have a new coffee machine that I want to try out. It just arrived and was installed this morning.”
Benicoff closed the office door, then turned and raised his eyebrows at the brass machine. “I thought you said new?”
“New to me, that is. This gorgeous device must be ninety years old if it is a day. They just don’t make them this way anymore.”
“With good reason!”
It was six feet high, an impressive gleaming array of valves, pipes, riveted plates, cylinders—all of which was crowned by a bronze eagle with wide-spread wings. Steam hissed loudly from a protruding pipe when Dr. Snaresbrook twisted a knob. “Espresso or cappuccino?” she asked, loading fragrant black coffee into the black-handled holder.
“Espresso—with a twist of lemon.”
“I can see that you have been around. That’s the only way to drink it. Is there any news on the thieves?”
“Negative—but a hard-worked negative. The FBI, the police and a dozen agencies have kept this investigation going night and day. Every possible lead has been followed, every detail of that night’s events investigated exhaustively. Yet there’s not a thing discovered worth mentioning since I talked to you last. That’s good coffee.” He sipped again and waited until Snaresbrook had made one of her own. “And that, I am sorry to say, is all that I have to report. I hope you have better news about Brian.”
Erin Snaresbrook stared into the steaming dark liquid; stirred in another spoonful of sugar. “Basically the good news is that he is still alive. But the severed nerves deteriorate more every day. I’m racing against time—and I don’t know yet if I am winning or losing. As you know, after a nerve fiber dies, a sort of empty tube remains. That was why I have implanted fetal brain cells to grow and replace those fibers. The manipulating machine will also inject tiny amounts of the nerve growth
drug gamma-NGF to induce the fetal cells’ axons to grow down those tubes. This technique was discovered in the 1990s by researchers looking for a way to repair spinal-cord injuries—they used to always result in permanent paralysis. Now we repair brain injuries by using this and another drug, SRS, that overcomes the tendency of mature brain cells to resist invasion by other nerve fibers trying to make new connections.”
Benicoff frowned. “Why would brains do such a thing, if it keeps them from repairing themselves?”
“An interesting question. Most other body tissues are very good at making repairs, or admitting other cells that offer help. But think for a moment about the nature of a memory. It is based on the precise relations of unbelievably tiny fiber connections. Once those connections are made, they have to persist, with almost no change, for twenty, or fifty, or even ninety years! Therefore the brain has evolved many peculiar defenses of its own, defenses found in no other tissue, to prevent most normal kinds of change. It appears that the advantage of having better memory outweighs the advantage of being able to repair injury.
“Brian’s recovery is going to take some time. The slowest part of the process will be regrowing the severed nerve fibers. That will require at least a few months, even using NGF, since we don’t dare to use it in large doses. NGF causes uninjured brain cells to grow as well—which if not monitored closely will disrupt the parts of the brain that still work! To say nothing of the risk of cancer. Because of this, Brian’s progress will be very slow.”
“Will you be proceeding with this process now?”
“Not at once, not until the new nerve fibers have grown. When that has happened we will have to find out what the brain cells do on each side of the injury. When we have sorted that out, we can think about reconnecting the correct pairs.”
“But there must be millions of them!”
“There are—but I won’t have to untangle them all. I’ll start by finding the easiest ones. Bunches of nerve fibers that correspond to the most common ideas, ones that every child has. We’ll display pictures of dogs, cats, chairs, windows, a thousand objects like that. And look for fibers that are active for each one.” For the first time she forgot her chronic exhaustion, buoyed up by enthusiasm.
“Then we’ll go on to words. The average educated person normally uses about twenty thousand. That’s really not very many when you think about it. We can play a tape of them in less than a day—then go on to word relationships, groups, sentences.”
“Excuse my stupidity, Doctor, but I don’t see the sense of this. You’ve been trying to talk to Brian for days now—with absolutely no sign of response. He doesn’t seem to hear anything.”
“It looks like that—but Brian is not a him right now. He is only a shattered brain, a collection of nonconnecting parts. What we must discover is what these parts, these agencies are—and reconnect them. That is the entire point of what we are doing. If we are ever to rebuild his mind, we must first go back and retrieve its parts, so that we can integrate them and bridge between his memories. And this was a good day as far as input. About Brian’s early school years, the important, formative time that shaped his life to come. It was fortunate that your people located his school psychiatrist, he’s teaching now in Oregon, and flew in. Man by the name of Rene Gimelle. He met Brian the first day the boy arrived in the school, saw him regularly after that. In addition he had many interviews with the boy’s father. He gave us some excellent input.”
“Is there anything wrong, Dr. Gimelle?” Paddy asked, trying to keep the concern from his voice and failing badly. “I came as soon as I got your message.” Gimelle smiled and shook his head.
“Quite the opposite, very good news. When I talked to you and your wife last I remember telling you to be patient, that Brian was going to need time to adjust to this totally new life. Any child who is plucked from a small town—in a different country—and sent around the world is going to need time to get accustomed to all the changes. When I did my evaluation I was sure that Brian would have his troubles and I was prepared for the worst. It didn’t take long to find out that he had been bullied and rejected by his peer group in Ireland, laughed at—if you will excuse the word—for being a bastard. Even worse, he felt rejected by all of his close relatives after his mother died. I have been seeing him once a week and doing what I can to help him to cope. The good news is that he seems to need less and less help. Admittedly, he’s not very social with his classmates, but this should get better in time. As far as his classwork goes—it would be hard to improve upon it. With very little persuasion by his teachers he has gone from failing grades to straight A’s in every subject.”
“Persuasion sounds ominous. What do you mean?”
“Perhaps that was the wrong word to use in this context. I think rewards-for-effort might express it better. As you well know, experienced teachers will make sure that good behavior, good classwork, is noticed and complimented. It is really a matter of positive reinforcement, a technique with proven efficacy. Doing the direct opposite, pointing out failures, accomplishes very little—other than instilling a sense of guilt, which is almost always counterproductive. In Brian’s case the computer proved to be the key to any learning problems he had. I’ve seen the recordings—you can look at them as well if you wish-of just what he has accomplished in a very few weeks—”
“Recordings? I am afraid that I don’t understand.”
Gimelle looked uncomfortable, arranging and rearranging paper clips on the desk before him. “There is nothing unusual or illegal in this. It is common practice in most schools—in fact it is required here at UFE. You must have seen it in your employment contract when you signed it.”
“Hardly. There were over fifty pages of fine print in the thing.”
“What did your lawyer say about it?”
“Nothing—since I didn’t consult one. At the time life for me was, shall we say, rather stressful. What you are saying is that all of the students in this school have taps on their computers, that everything they enter can be seen and recorded?”
“A common and accepted practice, a very useful diagnostic and educational tool. After all, in the days of written notebooks they were turned in to be graded. You might say that accessing a student’s computer is very much the same thing.”
“I don’t think it is. We grade notebooks—but not personal diaries. All of which is beside the point. I’ll consider the morality of this dubious practice some other time. Now we are thinking about Brian. What did these clandestine recordings reveal?”
“An exceedingly unusual and original mind. LOGO, as you know, is more than a first computer language that children learn. It is very flexible when implemented correctly. I was delighted to see that Brian not only solved the problems of the class assignments, but when he had a solution he tried to write a meta-program that incorporated all of his solutions. He invented data bases of IF-THEN rules for his own programming. For example if an answer was needed then he would insert some lines of code. And edit later. Very easy to do in LOGO—if you know how—because all the tools are there. For example, while other students were learning to draw pictures, graphics programs, using LOGO, Brian was way ahead of them. He saved and indexed each useful drawing fragment with changeable parameters, along with geometric constraints on where to draw it. His programs now draw recognizable caricatures of the other students, and myself as well. They can even change expression. That was last week—and he has improved the programs already. Now the figures can walk, and solve simple problems, right on the screen.”
Paddy had a good deal to think about when he went home that night.
Benicoff and the surgeon both looked up, startled, when the door slammed open and General Schorcht stamped in, the pinned-up empty sleeve of his jacket swinging as he stabbed the index finger of his left hand at Snaresbrook.
“You. If you are Dr. Snaresbrook you’re coming with me.”
The surgeon turned about slowly to face the intruder. She had to lean back to look up at
the tall General’s face. She appeared not to be impressed.
“Who are you?” she said coldly.
“Tell her,” Schorcht snapped at Benicoff.
“This is General Schorcht who is with …”
“That’s identification enough. This is a military emergency and I need your help. There is a patient here in intensive care, Brian Delaney, who is in great danger.”
“I am well aware of that.”
“Not medical danger—physical attack.” Benicoff started to speak but the General waved him to silence. “Later. We have very little time now. The hospital authorities inform me that the patient is too ill to be moved at this time.”
“That is correct.”
“Then the records must be altered. You will come with me to do this.”
Snaresbrook’s skin grew livid; she was not used to being spoken to in this manner. Before she could explode Benicoff quickly intervened.
“Doctor, let me fill you in very quickly. We have firm reason to believe that when Brian was shot, that others were killed as well. There must be national security involved or the General would not be here. I am sure that explanations will be forthcoming—but for the moment would you please be of assistance?”
Brain surgeons are well used to instant, life-and-death decisions. Snaresbrook put down her coffee cup, turned at once and started toward the door.
“Yes, of course. Come with me to the nurse’s station.”
The General had certainly made no friends since he had entered the hospital. The angry head nurse was reluctantly pacified by Snaresbrook and finally convinced of the urgency of the matter. She dismissed the other nurses while Snaresbrook managed to do the same with the staff doctor. Only when they were gone did the General turn to the gray-haired head nurse, who matched him glare for glare.
“Where is the patient now?” he asked.
She turned to the indicator board and touched a lit number. “Here. Intensive care. Room 314.”
The Turing Option Page 7
