The Infinity Program

by Richard H Hardy

  “Minsky,” said Jon. “Isn’t he the guy who’s trying to develop artificial intelligence?”

  “Among others. But Doug Sanderson was ahead of all of them. I learned more from him than anyone, except my father. I wonder where things would be now if he were still around. Man, I miss that guy! He’s the only friend I ever had at HTPS.”

  “What happened to him?” Jon asked.

  “He died of pancreatic cancer nearly ten years ago.”

  They drove on a ways without talking. Jon studied Harry out of the corner of his eye. He seemed remote and withdrawn, but Jon couldn’t resist one more question.

  “Do you think it’s possible to ever make a computer that’s truly conscious?” he asked.

  Harry thought about it for a moment. “It won’t be happening anytime soon—not without Doug Sanderson around.”

  When they arrived in front of Harry’s condominium, Harry smiled at Jon. It was a broad, genuine smile and his eyes sparkled at some secret joke. “Thanks,” he said, “I’ll see you around.”

  Shortly after he arrived home, Jon looked with disgust at the two packing boxes still stacked in his living room. He had meant to unpack them the night before but he had been too tired.

  Deciding they had been sitting there long enough, Jon lifted one of the boxes onto the living room table and pulled the flaps apart. He immediately regretted it. On top was a framed photograph of his family home in York, Maine. The photo had been taken last year, just before his father sold the house.

  Jon stared at the photo for nearly a minute, feeling an ache of loneliness. He dropped it back into the box; it was just too painful to look at now. The house held too many painful memories: his mother, who had died during his senior year in high school; his father, who he hadn’t seen since the time the photo was taken.

  “I spent nearly a quarter of a million dollars on your Dartmouth education,” his father had said. “That’s my legacy to you, Jon. Don’t count on any more.”

  His father, a CPA and controller for a large financial company, had said this in his typical, matter-of-fact voice. It was almost as though he were cutting ties with his only son. He had sold the house and was moving to Arizona. He and his new wife—nearly the same age as Jon—seemed to live in a world of their own. Jon had the distinct feeling that he was part of a past they no longer wished to acknowledge.

  After dinner he felt more relaxed, the task of cooking an omelet helping him to clear his head. He sat in an easy chair and put his feet up on the coffee table before glancing through the Washington Post. But his concentration was broken when he started to think about Harry again. He put the newspaper aside and recalled their entire encounter.

  What a character! he thought. He’s definitely an original.

  He was sure he would be seeing a lot more of Harry.

  Chapter Two

  Over the next six months, Jon Graeme secured a reputation as a person who had a knack for working with difficult programmers. After it became known that he was a friend of Harry Sale’s, other usually tight-lipped programmers opened up to him about program features that had previously been missing in the system documentation. His friendship with Harry Sale conferred instant status among the programming staff.

  It was odd that Jon and Harry got on so well. In most ways, they were complete opposites. Jon was self-effacing while Harry’s confidence, at least in most things, bordered on arrogance. Where Jon was cautious and diplomatic with people, Harry was blunt and outspoken, often to the point of rudeness.

  They were also contrasting physical types. Harry was tall and loose-jointed, almost a caricature of the programmer type—skinny, pale and unkempt. Jon, on the other hand, was meticulous in his appearance. He had been told he looked like he belonged on the cover of L.L. Bean’s outdoor catalogue because of his rugged, athletic looks, with straight blond hair and even features. He looked solid and reliable; the type of person you could depend on.

  The general backgrounds of Harry and Jon also formed an interesting contrast. Jon came from a wealthy family in New England and had a degree in computer science from Dartmouth College. Harry had grown up in trailer parks in South Florida and had earned a GED while serving a two-year hitch in the Army after dropping out of high school. Amazingly enough, his incredible programming skills were entirely self-taught. People at HTPS Industries joked that Harry could pick up a new programming language faster than most people could catch a cold.

  The basis of their friendship was common core values. Harry valued frankness, honesty, and lack of pretense. Jon was the most unassuming person he had ever met. His humility was so pronounced that it seemed as if he had no ego at all. Harry realized this about him almost immediately.

  “How is it that a guy with a computer science degree from Dartmouth ends up as a technical writer?” Harry had once asked him.

  “Because I was no damned good as a programmer,” Jon answered.

  Harry had roared with laughter until there were tears in his eyes. But Jon had only been making a joke at his own expense. He had actually been a reasonably good programmer, but dropped out because he hated the hours. After suffering through four years of it, he had decided that he wanted a career that gave him more time for a personal life. He never felt as alive as he did when he walked in the woods, or hiked on a nature trail, or trudged for miles on a sandy beach. The cycle of endless work hours followed by useless, unproductive downtime was more than he could bear. His father had been the one to push him into programming. As he had gotten older and started to know himself better, he realized programming wasn’t for him.

  Harry and Jon had begun to hang out together after hours. They would sometimes stop off at Miller’s Tavern, which was a small bar not far from where they worked. After a beer or two, they went their separate ways, but the camaraderie grew, as did their ease with each other.

  One morning, Harry entered the break room on the second floor of Building C and saw Jon poring over a road atlas.

  “Taking a trip?” he asked.

  Jon looked up and nodded to his friend. “Yup. Got a long weekend coming up. I’m going to climb Tartan’s Crag in West Virginia.”

  “Is it a hard climb?”

  “Not really. But there’re some spectacular views, I hear.”

  “Well, you can count me out on that one. Putting my ass on the line for an adrenaline rush is not my idea of fun. How about trout fishing? Anything up that-away?”

  “As a matter of fact, I hear there are creeks up there with some of the best trout fishing in the Northeast.”

  Jon hesitated. While he liked Harry, he was somehow intimidated by the prospect of a long weekend in his company. But he took the plunge anyway.

  “Hey, I’d love to have you come along. I’ve got plenty of room.”

  Harry smiled like a kid at Christmas. “That sounds great! I’ve been saving some time off for serious fly fishing.”

  Plans were quickly made, and the two of them arranged their trip up into the mountains of West Virginia. They both worked until noon on a Friday then left for the mountains. Harry had asked to be the driver and Jon was glad to oblige. With Harry at the wheel, he could sit back and enjoy the fall colors.

  They were heading in a northwest direction, just past Harrisonburg, Virginia, when Harry slowed abruptly and pulled off to the side of the road.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Didn’t you see across the road back there?” said Harry, as he swung open his door and got out of the car. Jon craned his neck around to see what he had missed.

  A beat-up old Nissan Sentra was parked at an angle on the shoulder of the road across the street. The rear left tire was completely flat and the young woman in the driver’s seat was slumped forward at the wheel.

  Jon got out of the car and followed Harry. As he approached the car, he saw that the woman was crying. There was a four-year-old boy in the seat next to her and he was clearly frightened. His eyes were wide and his face was pale and drawn. The backseat was loaded up
with bags and suitcases. Probably all her worldly possessions, Jon thought.

  “What can we do to help?” Harry asked.

  Harry’s voice startled the woman. She turned her head quickly toward him, and Jon was taken aback when he saw the left side of her face. There was a massive bruise running from her left eye down to her jawline.

  The young woman tried to talk but her words were strangled by sobs.

  “Do you have a spare tire?” Harry asked.

  She nodded.

  “Do you have a jack?”

  She shook her head.

  Harry crossed the road again to his own car and removed a jack from the trunk. It was not a standard jack, but sleek and well made—specifically designed for a car enthusiast.

  Twenty minutes later, the Nissan’s spare tire was firmly in place and the car was ready to roll.

  Harry walked around to the driver’s side.

  “It’s not a permanent tire,” he told her. “It’s a spare, designed for about fifty or sixty miles, tops. If you’re traveling any distance, you’ll have to get a new one. That flat looks like it’s pretty well shot. No tread left at all.”

  She replied, but Jon could make no sense of it. Apparently Harry could, even though he did not answer. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Before the woman could say anything, he peeled off several bills and dropped the money in her lap before he started to walk away. The woman called after him, and for the first time Jon could understand her words.

  “How can I thank you?” she shouted out at Harry.

  Harry smiled back at her. “You just did,” he called back.

  When Harry pulled back onto the road and they resumed their journey, Jon noticed a sea change in his mood. Before they had stopped, he had been light-hearted, enjoying the beginning of his short vacation. Now his lips were drawn tight and the twinkle was gone from his eyes.

  “How come you stopped?” Jon asked. “She was on the other side of the road.”

  Harry didn’t answer for a minute or two. He silently chewed on his lower lip. “Do unto others,” he finally said, his voice rough, “unless, of course, they are on the other side of the road or maybe from the wrong side of the tracks. Too much of a bother, then. Like the Good Samaritan: ‘I’d like to help you, brother, but you’re on the wrong side of the road.’ ”

  Jon was puzzled by the bitterness in his voice. “How much money did you give her?” he asked.

  “I guess about $500, most of what I was carrying. I can go to plastic, if needs be.”

  “Five hundred dollars! She just had a flat.”

  For a moment, Jon felt that he had said the wrong thing. Harry’s knuckles turned white against the wheel and his lower lip quivered.

  After several minutes of silence, he said, “You know, Jon, you think you can get away from some stuff and then it bounces right back at you. About twenty years ago, at roughly this same time of year, I was fifteen years old. I got a flat tire driving my mother to the hospital. Her boyfriend had just walked out on her. When I got home to the trailer park, she was lying unconscious on the kitchen floor. Her jaw was broken. When I put a cold cloth on her face, she came to but she couldn’t talk. I knew I would have to get her to the hospital, and I barely knew how to drive. Then I got a flat tire about halfway there. An older guy came along, stopped, and helped me change the tire. You don’t forget a kindness like that.”

  Later in the morning, they stopped at a roadside diner for coffee and sandwiches. Jon tried to cheer his friend by turning the conversation to a topic he knew would interest Harry. “I hear there’s a lot of skill involved in fly fishing. How did you happen to pick that up?”

  No luck. That haunted look was back on his friend’s face.

  “My father taught me. We used to go fishing in Colorado, up in the mountains, when I was a kid. A little place called Oak Creek. Dad had a Cessna; we’d fly to Denver and then drive up to the mountains.”

  Jon hesitated a moment, wondering if he should ask any more questions. Harry’s father owning a Cessna did not jibe with the picture he had formed of Harry’s childhood.

  “What did your father do for a living?” Jon asked.

  “He was a software engineer at NASA.”

  “You’re a second generation programmer?”

  Harry smiled. “I learned hexadecimals before most kids learn simple arithmetic.”

  Jon decided to throw caution to the wind. “You know, Harry, you’ve never mentioned your dad before.”

  Harry stared down into his coffee. “That was another lifetime ago. I was a different person then and so was my mother.”

  “What happened to your dad?”

  “He was killed by a drunk who didn’t bother to break for a stop sign. And then my mother turned into a drunk. Go figure the logic of that one.”

  A hard look came to Harry’s eyes and he covered his face in his hands. “Hey, can we talk about something else?”

  They finished their lunch in a silence that lasted the rest of the trip north.

  Jon and Harry set up camp near the foot of Tartan’s Crag. Jon was glad to see that his friend was in a more agreeable frame of mind. Harry’s sudden mood swings always amazed him. He was by far the most volatile person he had ever known.

  After they relaxed for a while, Jon strapped on the backpack he had prepared for his three-day hike.

  “Oh, by the way,” said Jon, “The guide book I read said that those caves are supposed to be dangerous.” He pointed to an area just beyond their camp. The rocky slope was riddled with oddly shaped caves of various sizes. As Jon explained about the deadfalls, he wondered if Harry was even listening. You never knew with Harry.

  A few minutes later, Jon was ready to start. He smiled at his friend. “Good luck with your fishing, Harry, I hope you catch a big one!”

  “The small ones taste better,” said Harry.

  Jon turned toward the mountain trail, which passed through a stand of pine. “I’ll see you back here in three days.”

  “Stay away from the slippery slopes,” Harry called after him.

  Chapter Three

  Harry stared up at the mountain. He could just make out Jon as he climbed the steep slope. From the distance, Jon appeared to be only a couple of inches high. Harry waved once just before Jon disappeared behind a stand of pines, but Jon did not wave back.

  What if something happens to the guy? Harry thought. He felt a sharp edge of guilt. Jon has been nothing but a friend and here I go spoiling the trip with a bunch of neurotic shit out of my past. Then he shrugged the feeling aside. Somehow he knew Jon wouldn’t hold it against him.

  After unloading his fishing equipment, he walked toward a plateau about five hundred feet below the peak of the crag. He folded his arms and looked down on the small town of Tartan’s Crag. Jon had told him that the locals called it Tartan’s Rag—a nickname intended to mock the small, shabby, poverty-stricken mountain town.

  Harry could see it all in a glance. The clean, white steeple of the local Presbyterian Church gave a feeling of hope to the skyline, drawing the eye away from the bleak shanties that pocked the residential section of the town.

  Glancing to the west, Harry could see the main complex of an industrial site. It was a huge, monolithic structure that dwarfed everything else: seven stories of steel gray concrete occupying six square acres of land. Five huge smokestacks lined its roof, belching out chemical fumes into the mountain air.

  No matter where you go, Harry thought, you can’t get away from it.

  Harry walked toward the mountain stream and turned his mind toward fishing. It had been too long.

  Just before he made his first cast, he held the fly in his hand and admired it. It was one of the few flies he had left that were made by his father and he was impressed with how cunningly the hook was disguised. For a moment, he wondered about using it. But the stream was shallow, so if the fly hit a snag, he could probably recover it.

  Harry’s cast was perfect: a lazy arc through
the sunlight, landing perfectly in the deepest part of the stream. He watched the bright, ginger-colored feather float downstream.

  Before he was even ready, he felt a sudden strike and the rod nearly jumped out of his hand. On instinct he started to let out more line, but couldn’t do it fast enough. There was an incredible tug on the pole and, for an instant, Harry thought the rod would break. But then it snapped back and the line went slack. The fish had broken the line and gotten away.

  “How stupid can you get?” Harry shouted out at himself as he dropped the rod to the ground. He spun about, stalking away from the stream. He couldn’t believe he had just lost one of his father’s flies. He only had about a half a dozen left.

  It took nearly ten minutes before he started to calm down. I can’t let this ruin the day, he said to himself. In an effort to relax, he took several deep breaths. He realized he had walked nearly fifty yards away from the trout stream, and the caves, which lined the lower portion of the crag, were directly in front of him. One large cave in particular caught his eye. I’ll check that out for ten minutes and then get back to fishing. It’ll break my mood, he thought.

  Harry smiled. I’ll be careful, he said to himself as he approached the cave. When he reached it, he ducked his head and entered warily. Taking out a small penlight attached to his key chain, he aimed it toward the back of the cave. Squinting his eyes, he stared into the darkness and was almost sure he saw something on the floor of the cave, though it looked suspiciously like a shadow. He shuffled forward, testing the ground with his left foot while his right foot was safely back, bearing most of the weight of his body. Finally he found it. His left foot came down on nothingness. He smiled and pulled away from the edge.

  Although his eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness, he could only just make out the edge of the pit. Where does it go? he thought. What could lie at the bottom of it?

  A shadow moved beneath his feet. His eyes widened and they followed the object as it rubbed up against his leg. It was the biggest rat he had ever seen. Instinctively, with no thought, he jumped away from it, but his jump brought him precariously close to the edge of the pit. He waved his arms desperately from side to side in a vain effort to catch his balance, but his momentum pushed him over the edge and into the hole. As he fell, he could hear his own terrified voice, a hysterical shriek echoing from the walls of the narrowing pit.