"Yes indeed," Aub agreed, nodding. "But this communication system is unlike anything dreamed of before. It uses a transmission medium that is utterly undetectable by any means known to contemporary science. Also, there is no means known to contemporary science by which any disturbance can be impressed upon that transmission medium." He dropped the formal language that he had been using up to that point and put it another way: "Nobody else in the world has a way of listening in on it or a way of talking through it."
"Completely espionage-proof," Franz Mueller commented, nodding vigorously. "The perfect military communications vehicle . . . absolute security."
"And jam-proof," Perkoffski added. "That's what you were getting at, isn't it, Dr. Philipsz? There'd be no way anybody could jam it . . . or even interfere with it?"
"Just that," Aub confirmed.
"That's all I need to hear," Perkoffski remarked with a smile. "Just tell me where to sign for a system like that. I'm sold."
"But more than that," Aub resumed. "It also has zero transmission delay, remember. Now imagine what we could do if we could add control functions—feedback, that is—to the data-communications capability that we've been talking about. Now, I'm sure you can all see immediate possibilities for a feedback control technique that has zero time delay in the loop . . . . over any distance!" He paused again to let them think about it. After a second or two, low whistles of surprise came from the audience. Excited muttering broke out on one side.
"Long-range space probes!" a voice exclaimed suddenly. "Holy cow, we could monitor them and control them in real time from right here on Earth—interactively."
"That means that Earth-based computers could be used for all kinds of things involving fast-response processing in remote places," a second came in. "How about a Mars-Rover being driven directly by a PDP-64 sitting right here? I don't believe it!"
"Yes, that's the kind of thing I had in mind," Aub said when the buzzing had died down. "But why shouldn't we look a little further ahead than that as well . . . just for a second? Suppose I were to suggest that one day the arrival of the first robot starship might be witnessed and controlled from a mission-supervision center here on Earth . . . second by second, as it was actually happening, light-years away!" He surveyed the wide eyes around him. "Why not? The basic techniques to do it are already with us. You've seen them today."
Before they could recover, Aub used the large screen to bring up again the hi-wave image of Earth that they had seen that morning.
"And finally, think about this," he said. "That image was generated from a kind of wave that emanates from every object in the universe, large or small, to a greater or lesser degree. Visualize then what it might look like if we were to develop ways to refine the image, to resolve more detail—details of the surface, for instance. Suppose we could select any part of the surface and zoom in instantly on any place we chose . . . or any place above the surface . . . or below it . . . or maybe on the Moon. . . ." Aub reeled off the possibilities slowly, one at a time, dangling each for a few seconds tantalizingly. The expressions on their faces told him they were with him all the way.
"All that and more, from a single point somewhere, say, in the U.S.A.," he concluded. "What kind of impact would that have on the global strategic balance . . . ? Just imagine, gentlemen, a radar—if you wish to think of it that way—that can 'see' below the horizon, through a mountain . . . even right through a whole planet!"
When Aub was finished, Peter Hughes spent ten minutes summing up the major items of the day, then ended with a flash. "As you are all aware, the International Scientific Foundation chooses to conduct its affairs independent of government backing and involvement. In view of the extremely important nature of the things that my colleagues have described today, it is our considered opinion that an exception to this general rule is clearly called for. The potential that we have heard explained impinges directly on the future not only of this nation but of the whole of the Western world. To realize this potential, however, it is clear that a great amount of further development will be necessary. Time is not on our side, and to use effectively what little there is, it is imperative for this field of research to be supported and furthered vigorously and without delay. To progress we need backing on a scale that only the nation can provide."
After a muttered conversation with his aides, William Foreshaw, the Defense Secretary, looked up at where Hughes was still standing. "Thank you, gentlemen. I don't think we have any further questions at this point." He cast an inquiring eye round the faces from Washington just to be sure. "Before we commit ourselves to any kind of formal reply, we'd appreciate a half-hour or so to talk a few things over among ourselves. I wonder if your people would be kind enough to leave us alone in here for a while, please?"
"Certainly," Hughes replied. He gazed toward the Sudbury personnel at the back of the room and inclined his head in the direction of the door. They filed out and Hughes followed. Outside in the corridor they all found they had the same thought in mind and made their way toward the coffee lounge a few doors farther along for some badly needed refreshment. Forty-five minutes later, they were still sitting there, the conversation having degenerated to a few spasmodic syllables as their impatience began to make itself felt.
At last Aub got up and ambled over to join Clifford, who was staring morosely out of the window and who had not spoken since entering the room. "Cheer up, Brad. It all went pretty well. Don't you think so?"
"It went okay." Clifford's voice was neutral.
"So what's eating you, man? You look kinda bugged."
Clifford turned his back to the window and braced his arms along the sill, at the same time emitting an exasperated sigh.
"Just remind me, Aub, why are we doing all this? What are those people doing here anyway? Christ . . . didn't it cause us enough trouble trying to get ourselves away from all that? Now we're trying to set it all up again the way it was. It just doesn't make any sense."
"But it's not like it was, is it?" Aub answered. He obviously harbored few doubts. "Like Zim said, we're talking to the right people now. We couldn't have left things the way they were going—they weren't going anywhere at all. This way we look like we might end up back in business again. That can't be all bad."
"I just don't like it. I don't trust them, and I don't like being mixed up with people I don't trust. I've seen too much of how they work."
Aub clapped him encouragingly on the shoulder.
"Maybe you're looking at it the wrong way. We got out before, sure, but they weren't on our side then. Since then, we've come a long way all on our own. Now we've still got all that, but we've got them on our side too. That changes everything. That bunch next door could fund Mark II by pooling their salaries. That's what this is all about, don't forget."
"You're right, but I still don't like it. . . ." Clifford didn't seem cheered.
At that moment one of the police guards who had been posted outside the door of the Conference Theater came into the lounge and exchanged a few words quietly with Peter Hughes. Hughes nodded, stood up from the chair in which he had been sitting, fidgeting nervously, and spoke in a raised voice.
"Well, it looks as if this is it. The jury seems to have reached a verdict. I don't think it would be appropriate for all of us to go crowding in, so if you don't mind, I'll just take Al, Brad, and Aub. No doubt we'll see you all here when we come back out."
"Do you think they'll buy it?" Hughes muttered under his breath as they followed the burly figure of the guard back along the corridor.
"If they do, I'll know to apply to IBM for my next job," Aub replied cheerfully.
They went back into the Conference Theater and sat down facing the august gathering. William Foreshaw waited until the door had been closed before addressing them.
"First of all, I would like to express our appreciation for the efforts that you have made today. Any words I might choose to attempt to describe our impressions would be an understatement. Therefore I'll just settl
e for 'thank you all.' " A murmur of assent rippled round the rest of the delegation. Foreshaw continued. "Second, we'd like Mr. Hughes to convey our appreciation back to ISF headquarters in Geneva. We are gratified by this demonstration that an independent scientific organization will rise to meet its national obligations. And now, to business. First, I have one or two questions I'd like to ask. . . ." He paused and looked slowly from one to another of the four people sitting in front of him. There was a curious look in his eyes.
"Would it come as a surprise to you gentlemen," he said at last, "to learn that the same line of theoretical work is also being pursued elsewhere in this country? I should add that it has not progressed to anything near the things you have showed us today, but the basics are there."
Nobody spoke. The Sudbury group looked slightly uncomfortable.
"They ran into a problem," Warren Keele supplied, more to ease the silence. "Somebody who was key to the whole thing walked out on them. They're still trying to ungum the mess he left them with."
"You mean at ACRE," Clifford said quietly. He never could stand pretense in any form.
Foreshaw looked disturbed. "How do you know about ACRE?" he asked. Puzzled looks from around him punctuated the question.
"I used to work there. I was that person."
In the next fifteen minutes the story came out. Clifford and his colleagues had not intended to raise this issue, having determined to let the water that had flowed under the bridge go its way and to concentrate on the future. But the questions were insistent. As it became apparent just how much a key to the whole thing Clifford had been, and exactly how the mess had come about, the Defense Secretary's eyes hardened and his mouth compressed into a thin, humorless line.
* * *
"Looks like somebody goofed," General Fuller mused when the meeting was finally over. The menace in his voice hinted strongly that the somebody wouldn't do very much more goofing in future. Foreshaw completed the copious notes he had been making throughout, capped his pen, replaced it in his pocket, and closed the pad. He straightened up in his chair and regarded the scientists again, his change of posture signaling an end to that part of the proceedings.
"I think we've heard all we need to for now on that topic," he said. "What we do from here on is not a matter for this meeting. Let's get back to the point." He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the edge of the table.
"Gentlemen, you have asked for our support and backing. We are unanimous in voting our total commitment to expediting your work in any way we can. You tell us what needs to be done to get you moving at maximum possible speed. What is your biggest problem area right now?"
Morelli answered that one. "The main bottleneck with the system as it stands at present is computer power. Until we can come up with a better way of extracting meaningful information from the raw data, we're not going to move any faster than a snail's pace. The rate of progress of the past six months isn't the thing to go by; we're up against different requirements now. That's our biggest single problem."
"We had already gathered that," Foreshaw nodded. "It was one of the things we discussed while you were outside. We think we can help. For instance, what would you say if I were to offer to make a BIAC available?"
Morelli looked incredulous. Clifford and Aub gaped. Even Peter Hughes suffered a visible momentary loss of composure.
"A BIAC!" Morelli blinked as if trying to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming. "I guess that would be . . . just fine. . . ." His voice trailed away for lack of an appropriate continuation. Foreshaw's expression remained businesslike, but his eyes were twinkling.
"Very well," he said. "That's settled. It will be done. Now, Professor Morelli, are there any other things that look as if they could slow you down?"
"Well . . . there are one or two suppliers we seem to be experiencing difficulty with. I've got a hunch that one or two people whom you might have some influence over aren't being as cooperative toward us as they could be."
"Do you have details?"
Morelli slipped a wad of handwritten sheets of paper out of the folder he had brought in with him and began reciting the items in a monotone. He had gotten to number seven when Foreshaw stopped him, his face dark with anger.
"Wait," he said, taking his pen out again and opening his pad. "Now go back and start again would you please. I want the facts."
* * *
"There's a Mr. Johnson on the line from Weston-Carter Magnetic," Morelli's secretary called through from the outer office. "What d'you want me to do?"
"Put him through," Morelli shouted back. He turned away from the window through which he had been admiring the lake and, still humming softly to himself, returned to his desk and sat down facing the Infonet screen. Within seconds the features of Cliff Johnson, Sales Director of WCM, had materialized.
"Al," he said at once, beaming. "How are you? Hope I'm not calling at an awkward time. I've got some good news."
"I'll always listen to good news," Morelli said. "Shoot."
"Those special transformers you wanted wound—we can do 'em inside two weeks." He waited, looking slightly apprehensive as if he expected some embarrassing questions, but Morelli replied simply, "That's great. I'll have one of the guys get an order out today."
"No need, Al," Johnson said. "I'll get a salesman from our Boston office to call in and collect it. That way he can check over the technical specs too. I wouldn't want there to be any mistakes."
"As you say then," Morelli shrugged. "That's fine by me."
"Fine. If there are any problems at all, call me personally. Okay?"
"Okay. See ya around."
Morelli cleared down the call, got up, walked across to the window and resumed admiring the lake. That had been the third such call he had taken that morning and it wasn't even ten o'clock yet. Amazing, he thought.
* * *
"I got a letter from Sheila Massey today," Sarah remarked one evening about a week later as Clifford was eating his dinner.
"Sheila with the legs . . . how's she getting on?"
"Trust you to remember the legs. She's fine. I thought you'd be interested in what she had to say."
"Me?" Clifford stopped chewing for a second and looked puzzled. "Why should I be interested?"
"Listen to this," Sarah told him, unfolding the sheets of notepaper in her hand. She read aloud from part of the letter: " 'Walter has gotten himself a good promotion at last . . .' "
"Good for Walter," Clifford threw in.
"Shut up and listen. Where was I . . . ? 'Walter has gotten himself a good promotion at last. In fact, everybody seems to be moving around in ACRE because there has been the most almighty shakeup there you ever did see . . .' " Sarah glanced up and noticed that Clifford was looking at her with evident interest. She read on. " 'Walter isn't too sure what's behind it all, but he says there are all kinds of rumors about really big trouble behind the scenes. He thinks a lot of the top guys are getting hell from Washington about the way they've been handling something or other—all the usual secret stuff. Jarrit—he was the big boss there if you remember—has gone, but nobody is sure where. Prof Edwards has been moved up to take his job. That smart-aleck guy, Corrigan I think it was, has gone too. Walter thinks that Edwards got to Washington and demanded that they throw him out. Rumor has it he's been shifted to a missile test range or some such thing—somewhere on Baffin Island.' " Sarah lowered the letter and looked across at Clifford. He threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"That's all I needed to make this a perfect week," he managed at last. "Well, how about that? Wait till I tell Aub." He began laughing again.
"Zimmermann certainly wasn't kidding when he said he'd wheel in a few big guns," Sarah chuckled. "I think he's done rather well, don't you?"
"Big guns?" Clifford laughed. "Them minions haven't been gunned, baby. Zim's pals have carpetbombed the bastards!"
Chapter 16
Voice recognition by computer had begun in a crude way during the early 1970s.
Not long afterward, experiments conducted at the Stanford Research Institute demonstrated that parts of the electrical brain waves associated with the faculty of speech could be decoded and used to input information directly from the human brain to the machine. The method utilized mental concentration on a particular word to trigger the word's characteristic pattern of neural activity in the brain, without the word's actually being voiced; once a pattern had been detected, it could be matched against those stored in the computer's memory—each human operator having his own unique prerecorded set—and translated into machine language. The operation of the computer or whatever it was controlling was then determined by the machine-language command. By the early eighties, a sizable list of experimental machines of this type had appeared in research laboratories around the world, initially each with its own very restricted command vocabulary, typically: On, Off, Up, Down, Left, Right, and so on. But the vocabularies were growing. . . .
These early beginnings broke the trail for the developments that began appearing over the next thirty years. Other centers of the brain, such as those relating to visual perception, volition, and abstract imagination, were also harnessed as direct sources of data and command information for computer processing. Later on, techniques for accomplishing the reverse process—of enabling the brain to absorb data from the machine independent of the normal sensory channels—were added.
The result of all this was the Bio-Inter-Active Computer—the latest word in computer technology, offering perhaps the ultimate in man-machine communication. The BIAC eliminated the agonizingly slow traffic bottleneck that had always plagued the interface between the superfast human brain on the one hand, and the hyper-superfast electronics on the other. For example, a straightforward mathematical calculation could be formulated in the mind in seconds, and its execution, once inside the machine, would occupy microseconds; but the time needed to set the problem up by laboriously keying it in character by character and to read back the result off a display screen was, in relative terms, astronomical. It was rather like playing a game of chess by mail.
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