by CP Haus
SHERLOCK HOLMES IN SILICON VALLEY:
The Curious Case of the Purloined Hard Drive
by CP Haus
I: John Watson, MD
It was a typical stormy day on a Friday in January 1976 as I gazed out the window of my second story office window. Lashing of rain occasionally spattered the window panes as the storm, which had started early that morning, progressed.
As my second patient for the day was late, it gave me occasion to contemplate my career and life. A successful psychiatrist, I had emigrated from London to Los Gatos, California, in pursuit of a more remunerative life and, ironically, to escape the typically poor weather that London tended to offer.
Building a practice in the United States had proved more difficult than I had expected before making my move. Coming from a long line of distinguished physicians, I had expected the name of John Watson, MD, to carry more influence than was to ultimately develop. After enduring the difficulties of transitioning my illustrious medical credentials to the California Board of Medical Examiners, I had set up my shingle in a delightful suburb of Northern California--the “Silicon Valley” of legend.
However, the patients had been scarce. In an area of vast wealth, little had come my way. My competence and prestige with my medical colleagues had led to a steady increase over time; indeed, I was now seeing up to three or four patients a day. I knew that such things took time to germinate and grow, but I was at a loss to determine the best way to expand my practice.
My transition to Silicon Valley had been a mixture of delight and melancholy. On the positive site, the Mediterranean climate and infinite possibilities that Silicon Valley offered were a delight. The balmy summers, with their lack of rain, was a difference from London that I reminded myself constantly not to forget. My professional practice, while modest, did provide the funds that my frugal lifestyle required. The most damming thing about Silicon Valley was that if you were not part of the high technology crowd, you quickly ran out of topics to discuss in social settings. Naturally, given the extremely confidential nature of my work, I was not able to discuss the problems of my patients at these social settings, so I was frequently the ‘odd man out’. What I missed most from London was the social network that one develops as one progresses through public school and university.
I had found some small solace in the company of fellow expatriate Brits and local enthusiasts at the weekly quiz nights conducted at the British-influenced Britannia Arms. The cheery company and chance to discuss matters related to home were a refreshing change from the typical ‘party scene’ at most area night clubs and bars. However, even here, the almost sinister and pervasive influence of Silicon Valley intruded: Frequently, questions at the quiz night dealt with topics of local knowledge of which I was poorly prepared. How was I to know, for example, how many bits were in a byte, and what the devil a ‘nibble’ was? (I discovered, to my amusement, that a ‘nibble’ was indeed half a byte!)
So my life had progressed in this desultory fashion. I had determined to stick it out for another year and, if I still found myself despondent, would either return to London or, perhaps adventure to another realm of the British Commonwealth: New Zealand, Australia or perhaps South Africa offered possibilities.
Catching myself in my musings, I glanced at my wristwatch to discover that I had been in my meditative revery for nearly half an hour. Mrs. Fitzgibbons was quite late.
Emerging from my office, I enquired of my receptionist, “Have we heard anything from my 10 am?” with a petulance borne of her frequent tardiness.
“Oh, I am sorry,” replied Mrs. O’Toule, my elderly receptionist. “She rang about an hour ago saying that her cat was sick and that she would not be able to keep to her appointment. I’m very sorry to have forgotten to tell you,” she said, with chagrin, as I notice her attempting to conceal the daily crossword puzzle.
Mrs. O’Toule was a treasure. Of an unknown age, she had won my heart with her simultaneous desire to work for minimum wage and her secret recipe for scones. Of a fiery Irish temperament, she was wonderful with patients, often offering them her own brand of psychiatric advice after I had consulted with them. Since her role was more of a listening capacity than a directive one, I permitted her the freedom to do so. Besides, the scones were always most welcome.
“Well, it’s pleasant to see that some of us have our priorities correct,” I said, with elaborate sarcasm. “After all, a sick cat is of such greater importance than one’s mental health.”
“Ach, now, sir,” replied Mrs. O’Toule, “I’ve told you before that many pet owners refer to their pets as ‘fur people’.” She continued, “You don’t have the right perspective on this matter. Why, my poor Sniffy....” she began, with a tear in her eye.
“Let’s not start on that,” I said, with a bit of stage professional sternness. Once Mrs. O’Toule began to lament the passing of her ancient Persian Sniffy...well, it was a bad place to go (as they said in Silicon Valley).
I said, “Since I don’t have any appointments until later this afternoon, I’m off to lunch in Campbell. Can I bring you anything?”
Mrs. O’Toule sighed, “Now, that would be very good of you. Can you bring me some cheese quesadillas? From Jalisco’s? They’re my favorite,” with a bit more cheer.
“Of course, I’d be delighted to get you lunch. No no, my treat,” I said hastily, and headed out of my offices.
II: Lunch with Professor William Wright, PhD
The rain of earlier had ceased for a moment and I quickly navigated the crowded parking lot to my car: a 1970 Morgan Plus 8 that I had acquired from Los Gatos Ferrari upon arriving in California. I loved the car however temperamental it might be, for it was a reminder of what I had left behind in England.
Arriving in good time at Jalisco, I ordered my usual carnitas burrito and an iced horchata--the Mexican bean or rice drink that one comes across in Spain and throughout Latin America. As I went to pay the cashier, a distinguished gentleman entered the restaurant.
“Why, it’s Dr. Watson!” he exclaimed. “Are you enjoying this bit of English weather we are having?” he enquired with a smile.
I replied, “Professor Wright--how delightful to see you. Yes, this is the weather I had sought to avoid, however one must take the bad with the good. Will you be dining here or are you taking out?”
“Since you’re here, I will dine in the commodious setting available,” said Professor Wright with a smile. Jalisco’s food was superb, but one would never consider the seating to be anything but plebeian.
I gathered my order and secured a seat near the window. As Professor Wright ordered his food, I reflected on the friendship that had grown between us. Wright was a regular at the Britannia Arms Tuesday quiz nights, and his broad scientific knowledge--with an emphasis on particle physics--helped ensure that scientific areas of the quizzes were covered by our team. Wright was the classic ‘absent minded professor’ in that, while a brilliant mind in his field, he frequently was caught out by the simplest of tasks. He was, for example, forever losing his car keys, spectacles and pens.
Wright was a professor in residence at the Stanford Linear Accelerator facility, called “SLAC” for short, in Palo Alto. Considering this, it was indeed curious that he would venture so far south for lunch, as I knew he was resident in the splendidly wooded hills above Cupertino.
As Wright joined me, he quickly surveyed the assembled fellow diners, as if to ensure that our conversation would not be overheard by anyone suspect. This was indeed to prove the be the case.
&n
bsp; “So, Professor, what brings you so far south today, especially in this dreadful weather?” I enquired.
“Well, I was in the mood for Mexican food, and happened to be in the area when I recalled that you had mentioned this establishment during one of our quiz nights. I do hope their food lives up to the high recommendation you have provided!” he added with a hesitant, worried look.
“Is something the matter Professor?” I enquired.
“Now, Doctor, I do wish that you would call me ‘Bill’. This ‘professor’ nonsense is much too formal, don’t you think?” he asked with a smile.
“Only if you would call me John,” I replied. With that, we both started on our lunches. Wright began to talk, and an interesting tale it was, for he had never told me much about his work at SLAC.
“Excellent. Now, as to your question, it’s nothing really serious. As you know, and my wife will attest, I keep misplacing things, and then they mysteriously turn up. I’ve tried all the nemonic approaches and tried to visualize where I leave things, but it’s no good! While there is nothing seriously amiss at SLAC, some, well, very strange things have been happening at the lab.
“Why, just the other day, after spending fifteen minutes searching for my glasses (which were in my shirt pocket), I discovered that something very strange had happened,” he said, with a more serious look.
“Nothing related to your work, I hope?” I asked.
“Indeed, directly related to my work. If you will permit me to bore you a bit, let me give you a brief background--would that be all right?” asked Wright. I nodded in agreement, and sat closer to him as he spoke.
“As you know, I’ve been doing research on a new field of physics that is related to the smallest of particles--some even smaller than the atom,” he said, conspiratorially.
“But I thought nothing could be smaller than an atom,” I said, with a creased brow.
“Well, that’s the current limit of physics as it is understood today. However, I have a theory--some call me mad--but I believe we can create a situation in the lab where we can create what are called subatomic particles. And I’m on the track of one category of them which I refer to as the Jigg-Figg particles, in honor of my two favorite professors at Cal Tech: Stanley D. Jigg and Mark J. Figg. Both were on the trail of the same subatomic particles when their lab exploded in that unfortunate accident some years ago.”
“Yes, I remember it well. There was an issue with the high density magnets, I recall,” I offered.
“My goodness, John, have you been a closet physicist all these years? Yes, it was a chance in a million, but it took out the entire lab, along with all their notes and years of research. Particle physics was set back a generation by that accident,” mused Wright.
He continued, “I and the rest of the Stanford team, of course, have taken all precautions necessary to ensure a similar accident does not happen at SLAC. No, the problem I have been having is related to our documentation of the research.
“As you can imagine, as we conduct our tests and experiments, an enormous amount of data needs to be collected. We record all the particle movements at an incredibly fast rate, which is needed, of course, because things happen so quickly. Indeed, many of my experiments happen in a blink of an eye, and I spend weeks studying the resultant data.
“The data is captured by our supercomputer and then written to Winchester hard drives, which can hold an amazing twenty megabytes of data. These hard drives are removable, and are the size of maybe thirty LP records stacked on top of each other, housed in a plastic form. The actual media are a series of aluminum platters coated with a magnetic substrate...but excuse me, I’m getting into too much detail,” he apologized as he noticed my eyes glazing over.
“Twenty megabytes,” I said with incredulity, “how can anyone need that much data in one place?”
“Yes,” Wright said with a smile, “I can appreciate your surprise. However, in particle physics, that’s what we need. And, luckily, the technology is available to support our work.”
“You mentioned a problem, Professor--er, sorry, Bill,” I said.
“Yes, let me get to that. Now, as you can imagine, these media hard drives are not cheap. So, as we conclude one project, we reuse the media to record new experiments. I use a simple labeling system to keep track of the current experimental data and those media that can be rewritten over.
“This is the nub of the curious situation I’m having: These media keep disappearing and then reappearing on me! It’s the most strange thing I have ever seen. Why, just the other day, I was searching for the latest hard drive and it was not where it was supposed to be. I went into the accelerator lab area, and, not finding it there, returned to my office. Lo and behold, the media was on a shelf in my office. I absolutely do not recall leaving it there, but there it was. Most curious and somewhat alarming,” mused Professor Wright.
I asked, “Why alarming?”
“There are two perspectives that make this alarming: first, it’s the quest to be the originator of a scientific breakthrough and, second, unfortunately, there are aspects of my work that are highly classified since they have the potential for application in weapons work. The Russians, Chinese and, I am told, the Israelis would all love to gain access to some of the work we do at SLAC. Oh, on the surface we are all brotherly scientists--we even have some visiting professors from all those countries currently at SLAC--but beneath the veneer of brotherly love for science is the mad rush to be the first to discover the next dimension of physics, and, as I said, sadly there are weapons aspects to the work.”
By this time, we had concluded our lunch, and I was a bit startled how the time had flown by. With the keen perception into the human mind that I had as a psychiatrist, I felt that Wright seemed to be much more at ease after having discussed this matter with me.
As I drained the last of my horchata, I asked, “So, all that is happening is that these hard drives seem to be mysteriously moving about your office and the lab?”
Wright replied, “Yes, and I hasten to say that nothing has gone missing. Otherwise, I’d have to report it to security and that escalates things to a level I don’t want to have: They shut down the research and cause all sorts of trouble. I would do almost anything before I got them involved.
“I do feel much better for having discussed this with you, John. I can see that you must be an excellent listener--no doubt a faculty you have developed for your work?” he said, with a smile, as he rose from our table.
“All part of the job, Bill. Yes, I find it does help to discuss situations and problems. By verbalizing them, I find it helps my patients--of which I hasten to add you are not one!--along the road to recovery,” I said with a smile and an extended hand.
Bill shook my had vigorously and said, “If only you could help me with my dreadful memory for where I put things, I and my wife would be eternally grateful.”
“It’s all a matter of focus, I find. Keep trying to use the visualization techniques you dismiss so easily. If you focus on where you leave things as you put them down, you will find that you no longer tend to lose things. Or so I’m told,” I said with a chuckle. “Will we see you at the Quiz Night this Tuesday?”
“Wild horse could not keep me away!” Wright exclaimed. “Those devils from the Atari team rubbed our noses last week, but they’ll not beat us this week!”
With that, he exited the restaurant as I returned to the counter to get Mrs. O’Toule’s cheese quesadillas. One of us was not going to be forgetful.
III: Mr. Sherlock Holmes
I reflected on my conversation with Wright as I returned to my office. Wright was, by appearance, only in his 50’s, and yet this condition of forgetting where he left things was a sign of senility. If one of these hard drives should truly get lost and in the wrong hands there might be serious consequences for both Wright and the country. It had been a most educational luncheon.
I opened the door to my reception area and noted with disappointment that it was em
pty save for Mrs. O’Toule.
“Here are your cheese quesadillas, Mrs. O’Toule. I hope I’m not too late getting them to you? I ran into Professor Wright and we had a very enjoyable conversation,” I said.
