Lord of All Things

by Andreas Eschbach

  “Not at all,” Hiroshi said. “I want to expand it.”

  Bowers stopped in his tracks and looked at him, his light gray eyes filled with interest. “You amaze me. Well, this might just turn out to be an interesting week.” He turned the key and opened his office door. “Come on in.”

  The office was a patchwork of furniture, shelves about to collapse under the weight of books, files, and technical equipment, and houseplants parched for lack of watering. In other words, it was a typical MIT prof’s office. Bowers gestured curtly toward a chair, dropped his briefcase onto one of the piles of papers heaped up by his desk, and sank into his seat on the other side. Hiroshi handed him the new project proposal, which he had spent last night working on. He had still been writing and revising it at three thirty in the morning and had barely slept afterward, and he felt as though he might fall out of his chair at any moment. But it had to be done this way—there was no time to lose.

  Prof. Bowers took the folder without comment, glanced over the text, and then said, “Hmm.” He turned back to the beginning and read it closely all the way through. Hiroshi waited patiently.

  “So instead of simulating your construction in a computer model, you want to move straight on to building it, is that right?” Bowers asked at last, peering at him over his glasses.

  “Exactly,” Hiroshi said. “That’s the long and the short of it.”

  “But why? Have you lost your trust in computers?”

  “Not at all. But building the apparatus for real would be the next step anyway.”

  “You want to take two steps at once.”

  “I want to make real headway, not just take baby steps.”

  The project was a new kind of robotic position-finding system that would work on the swarm principle—and reading through his old notebook the day before, he had found to his astonishment that he already had the idea when he was thirteen years old. He just hadn’t remembered it. The basic idea was to build not a single complex robot that used some sort of signaling system to identify its location, but a whole group of simpler machines that would work together by using one another as reference points. Some robots in the group would take up fixed positions and cling tight to one another; other robots would then use those as a sort of scaffolding to do the actual work. Once the job was done, the workbots would climb back down, the scaffolding elements let go of one another, and then the whole swarm would move on to its next task. For the moment there was no way of knowing what practical applications this technology might have. That, however, was not the point. For MIT to support and finance a research project, the most important consideration was whether it would lead to new insights.

  Hiroshi cleared his throat and told the prof what he had just been reading on paper. “A computer simulation would serve to demonstrate the basic working principles of a swarm like this. It could show us how it works, or how the scaffold and the manipulators work together. But it couldn’t begin to show us the effects of measurement tolerances, gravity, torque, stress, or any of that. None of those variables would register in a simple computer simulation. If I tell element X to take up position Y, then all that happens is a couple of lines of code do exactly that. But in reality an arm might bend as it reaches out to take hold, or tiny measurement errors might compound as the distances grow, or the cogwheels may not mesh exactly, that sort of thing. None of that would register in a simulation at the level I originally planned to write. If we want to model all these factors, we would have to code it in considerably more detail, describing each and every one of the robots as a finite element model. I estimate that would actually be much more expensive than simply building the machine for a lab test. You can find my figures in Appendix B.”

  “I see, I see.” Prof. Bowers took off his glasses and chewed on one of the ends while he studied a page of formulas in Hiroshi’s proposal. “You know, you’re probably right. But the problem is a lab test still costs more than the current simulation. I can’t just go ahead and approve it, especially since the approval is still pending for your original project.”

  Hiroshi sat there motionless. “Last time we spoke you said it was just a formality.”

  “Well sure, but once we increase the budget tenfold, it stops being a formality.” Prof. Bowers put his glasses back on, set Hiroshi’s proposal down on the desk in front of him, and folded his hands across it. He said, “I’ll pass this up the chain. You’ll be hearing from me.”

  “Miss Malroux?” It was Tuesday, after Dr. Thomas Wickersham’s seminar. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

  Charlotte stopped. Somehow she managed not to heave a sigh. So it was happening just as she had feared. She waited while the others filed out of the seminar room. Some of them glanced at her knowingly, one or two even mockingly. They knew whatever happened next was bound to be fairly embarrassing.

  Dr. Wickersham had a cheerful gaze and a funny little goatee beard. He seemed not the least bit bothered by the fact that even at his early age his hairline was receding rapidly. He had an excellent reputation as a paleoanthropologist and had done a great deal of fieldwork in the Near East, where he spoke several of the local languages. He published in the most prestigious journals, and his seminars were always fascinating, thanks to his gift for presenting the material clearly and memorably without ever cutting corners. But recently the students had all noticed Dr. Wickersham had a soft spot for Charlotte.

  “I’d like to ask you something,” he began once they had all left. The door to the hallway was still open. “I’ve realized I could never forgive myself if I didn’t ask, so really, best get it over and done with. And of course I hardly need mention that whatever answer you give will have no effect at all on your grade or on any other aspect of this seminar, or on your time here at Harvard.”

  Charlotte looked at him unhappily. “Yes?”

  “Would you do me the great favor of agreeing to a date?” Then he added hastily, as though he had just now realized how rashly he had acted, “I know very little about you, Miss Malroux—far too little. All I know is that your father is a French diplomat and that you have traveled the word a great deal, even as a child…I should imagine you must have an unusual life story. I’d like to hear a little more about it. If possible over a good meal.”

  He was standing on the other side of the lecturer’s desk, several yards away, but even so he was taking a considerable risk. Relationships between faculty and students were regarded with deep suspicion at Harvard; indeed, they were basically banned. There were very strict rules against sexual harassment, which Charlotte thought were paranoid. As a result, the male faculty always took great care never to be alone with a female student. If Charlotte chose to run out screaming into the hallway and claim Dr. Wickersham had made a pass at her, there would be no helping him; it would be the end of his career.

  “Dr. Wickersham,” Charlotte said carefully, “that’s a very kind offer, but as it happens I am about to announce my engagement, so I don’t know—”

  He swallowed and shook his head hastily. “Oh, that makes it all the more urgent, then! Please believe me, I am only proposing a…conversation, a pleasant evening between friends…” He took a deep breath. “I could book a table at Cloud Eight on Saturday—it’s not the haute cuisine you’re used to in France, of course, but even so it’s the best Boston has to offer. What do you say?”

  Charlotte knew the restaurant; James had taken her there a couple of times. At least twenty dollars for an appetizer, and a wine list that would impress even her father.

  Now she could sigh. “On Saturday,” she said, “I’m helping a friend move. I’m afraid I’ll be in no fit state for conversation by the evening. I really don’t know. Please don’t think that I don’t appreciate your invitation, but—”

  Dr. Wickersham looked at her attentively. “Would it be shameless of me to invite myself?”

  “I’m sorry? Where?”

  �
��To help your friend move house. In my experience another pair of helping hands is always useful.”

  For a moment Charlotte felt she was dreaming. “Oh, of course,” she said without thinking. “That would be wonderful. As it happens, someone’s just had to drop out.” Was this really happening? Was her paleoanthropology professor actually offering to come and heave crates so that her best friend could move?

  “Well then,” Wickersham said happily, taking out his appointment book, “you just tell me the time and the address, and I’ll be there.” He looked up and seemed to notice her astonishment. “I moved nineteen times while I was a student,” he explained with a grin. “So many people helped me out back then that I figure I’m still in debt. If nothing else it’s a good workout, and you usually meet some interesting people.” He raised his eyebrows. “And if we don’t sit down afterward to eat a pizza or some such, that would be a first in my experience.”

  Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s fine,” she said. “It seems a little odd, but…of course. Happy to have your help.” As she gave him Brenda’s address and watched him write it down, she suddenly found herself wondering how it would feel to be clasped in those slender hands, what it would be like if he did take hold of her, caress her, full of desire. She felt herself blushing. What on earth was wrong with her?

  On Wednesday morning James caught his hand in the car door—not badly, but nonetheless annoying. At lunch he splatted his shirt with ketchup, and then he made a fool of himself in the History of Ceramics class, since he’d forgotten they were supposed to read an article on the Yangshao culture. The Chinese had already been firing ceramics eight thousand years before Christ, for crying out loud, and when Dr. Urban showed them those pots, he, James, had declared that they were Greek. For whatever reason, it didn’t seem to be his day.

  But then, as he was headed over to the library, resolved to catch up on his reading, things took a turn for the better. He spotted a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye: Terry Miller, standing in front of the bulletin board, jotting something down from a flyer. Terry with her ponytail. What could be absorbing her attention so? James strolled up behind her. The flyer had been put up by someone called Kenny Higgins, who was offering students golf lessons at discount prices.

  You’ve walked right into my trap, little mouse, James thought happily. He stepped up beside her and made sure she noticed him before he spoke. “Hi, Terry. How’s it going?”

  “Hi, JB,” she said, still writing.

  “You play golf? Am I going to have to watch my back in the next cup?”

  She laughed. “I think you can rest easy for a couple of months yet.”

  He pointed at the flyer. “I hope you’re not thinking of giving your money to that guy.”

  “It looks like,” Terry said, shutting her notebook. She snapped the elastic band around it and stuffed it back into her bag. Today she was carrying a giant sunflower. “He has to make a living.”

  “Well sure, but he could find some other line of work than teaching beginners how not to play golf.” He crossed his arms and looked at her with deep concern in his eyes. “I mean, sure, nothing against Kenny—he’s a nice guy and all—but the way he plays golf…I just wonder how he thinks he can teach a beginner anything when he never even knows which club to use. That’s not to mention his swing. Let’s just say it…leaves a lot to be desired.”

  All of which was sheer bluff, of course. He’d never even heard of the guy. Although actually that was a point against him, since James knew most of the really good golfers by name. And it was having the desired effect. Terry was visibly put off. Little mouse.

  “That’s not really true, is it?” she asked, frowning prettily.

  Time to spring his trap. He spread his hands, shrugged, and said, “I can’t in good faith let Kenny spoil your game before you even get started. I’ll make you a friendly offer: let’s meet on the course, and I’ll teach you some of the basics. Then you can at least think about it—you’ll have something to judge him by.”

  She opened her eyes wide, incredulous. “You’d do that for me?”

  “I have to,” he answered earnestly. “Golf is far too fine a sport for me to let some half-assed instructor give you the wrong ideas.” And, of course, it was an ideal opportunity for them to get to know each other better. Just how much better she would find out soon.

  “Okay then, I won’t say no.” She smiled, little knowing what was to come.

  “Okay then. When would you have time? Tomorrow?” Strike while the iron is hot. He heartily approved of the proverb. Chances like this didn’t come twice.

  “Sure, if you have time.”

  He gave her a cheerful smile. “You’re looking at a free man, my dear. I decide when I have time. So listen: come to the Silverway Golf Course at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and ask at reception for Charles Hauser. He’s a friend of mine, and I’ll tell him to fit you out with everything you’ll need. And then we’ll set out and see whether we can’t score a hole in one.”

  “Do I have to wear anything special?”

  Something that comes off quickly, my little mouse, James thought, but he said, “Not really. Short skirt or shorts, a T-shirt, sneakers, and maybe a baseball cap. Something with a brim, for the sun.”

  “Okay.” Now she was grinning as though she were the cat who’d got the cream. “Tomorrow then, nine o’clock.”

  He watched her go, unable to get enough of the way her ponytail swayed back and forth as she walked. Once she was out of sight, he took out his phone and called Charles to put him in the picture. And then, goddamn it all, he remembered he was already booked on Thursday morning. That meeting at Altair to talk about the engagement party. Damn it to hell and back. He’d just have to cancel. It wasn’t that urgent, not yet. Although he could already imagine how his mother would cuss him out. Better to call Charlotte first, then. He played with the phone, trying to think up some convincing excuse. Well, in any case, the library clearly wasn’t going to happen today.

  It turned out to be harder than Hiroshi had thought to reach Charlotte. After talking to Prof. Bowers on Monday morning, he went back home, went back to bed, and slept until evening. Then he tried calling her. “The person you wish to speak to is unavailable,” the computerized voice told him and invited him to leave a message. He didn’t; instead, he called three more times, always with the same result.

  On Tuesday afternoon he gave up and left her a voice mail—nothing special, just saying he’d like to see her again, and could she call him. On Wednesday afternoon, after the last seminar, his voice-mail box showed he had a message. When he called it up, full of anticipation, it turned out not to be Charlotte at all; instead, it was a man’s voice, deep and calm, someone called Jens Rasmussen. He was an investor, he said, and a few days ago he had bought out Sollo Electronics. He believed Hiroshi Kato had a contract with them. He’d like to meet and talk.

  Sollo Electronics had been bought out? That was news to Hiroshi. On the other hand, he didn’t really follow corporate dealings much, so it came as no great surprise. But who in the world was Jens Rasmussen?

  Back home Hiroshi sat down at his computer and looked him up. There was indeed a Jens Rasmussen on a list of US billionaires. He had studied forestry and gotten an MBA. He wrote columns, liked to read history books in his spare time, and sponsored studies of the coastal redwoods. And he ran an investment fund. One of the financial magazines had an article that said he was well-known for taking a strong interest in the contracts of firms he had bought up. Okay. It sounded as though it would be worth calling the guy back. A secretary answered, assuring him in a grandmotherly voice his call was expected and she would put him through immediately.

  It was about his invention, of course. “You sold yourself way too cheap there,” the man told him levelly. “That’s not good for business. Now that I’ve taken over the company, the contract is between you
and me, and I’d like to renegotiate.”

  Hiroshi frowned. “If I sold myself too cheap, surely that’s good for you. Or have I misunderstood?”

  “Well, that would be the usual way of looking at it, but it’s shortsighted. I’m sorry to say that this kind of thinking is far too common in business. I have a different philosophy, and since I’ve been implementing it quite successfully for the past thirty years, I have to believe that I’m not entirely wrong. The way I see it, business is an exchange of goods and services, and it’s just like any biological exchange. Think of it as a kind of circulation. Give and take. You give something so that you get something in return, sure, but you also give to get so that you can go on giving. If all you do is keep on giving, you’re acting in accordance with a particular cultural virtue—you’re being selfless—but you’ll just use yourself up. And where does that lead? Sooner or later you have nothing left to give. And then you’re no good to the world at large, and everything else you might have given is lost. Self-sacrifice is a net loss for everybody, at least in this context. Obviously wars and natural disasters are something else entirely.”

  Hiroshi cleared his throat. It was no mean feat to get a word in edgewise. “Well, I always intended to make money with the Wizard’s Wand,” he said. “I never thought of it as self-sacrifice, believe me.”

  “Good, that’s certainly a start. But you still weren’t paying attention to the right balance of give-and-take.”

  “I had the MIT intellectual property department look over the contract—”

  “The contract is fine. Listen, Mr. Kato, let’s keep this simple. I happen to be in Boston on Saturday. If it suits you, I’d like to meet and talk all this over.”

  Hiroshi thought for a moment. He wasn’t doing anything on Saturday he couldn’t put off. And it sounded as though what this man had to say was worth listening to. “Saturday would be fine. Where and when?”