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Table of Contents
Title Page
Tor Copyright Notice
THE TURING TEST
1 - OCOTILLO WELLS, CALIFORNIA
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44 - LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA
ENVOI
Copyright Page
For Julie, Margaret and Henry: Moira and Todd—
A story of your tomorrow.
THE TURING TEST
In 1950, Alan M. Turing, one of the earliest pioneers of computer science, considered the question of whether a machine could ever think. But because it is so hard to define thinking he proposed to start with an ordinary digital computer and then asked whether, by increasing its memory and speed, and providing it with a suitable program, it might be made to play the part of a man? His answer:
“The question, ‘Can machines think?’ I believe to be too meaningless to deserve discussion. Nevertheless I believe that at the end of the century the use of words and general, educated opinion will have altered so much that one will be able to speak of machines thinking without expecting to be contradicted.”
Alan Turing, 1950
1
OCOTILLO WELLS, CALIFORNIA
February 8, 2023
J. J. Beckworth, the Chairman of Megalobe Industries, was disturbed, though years of control prevented any outward display of his inner concern. He was not worried, not afraid; just disturbed. He turned about in his chair to look at the spectacular desert sunset. The red sky behind the San Ysidro mountain range to the west threw russet light upon the Santa Rosa Mountains that stretched along the northern horizon. The evening shadows of the ocotillo and cactus painted long lines on the gray sands of the desert before him. Normally the stark beauty of this soothed and relaxed him; not today. The gentle ping of the intercom cut through his thoughts.
“What is it?” he said. The machine recognized his voice and turned itself on. His secretary spoke.
“Dr. McCrory is here and would like to speak with you.”
J. J. Beckworth hesitated, knowing what Bill McCrory wanted, and was tempted to keep him waiting. No, better to put him in the picture.
“Send him in.”
The door hummed and McCrory entered, strode the length of the big room, soundlessly, his footsteps muffled by the deep-pile, pure wool Youghal carpet. He was a wiry, angular man, looking thin as a rail beside the stocky, solid form of the Chairman. He did not wear a jacket and his tie was loose around his neck; there was a good deal of informality at the upper levels of Megalobe. But he was wearing a vest, the pockets filled with the pens and pencils so essential for any engineer.
“Sorry to bother you, J.J.” He twisted his fingers together nervously, not wanting to reprimand the Chairman of the company. “But the demonstration is ready.”
“I know, Bill, and I’m sorry to keep you waiting. But something has come up and I can’t get away for the moment.”
“Any delay will cause difficulties with security.”
“Of which I am well aware.” J. J. Beckworth let none of his irritation show; he never did with those below him in the corporate pecking order. Perhaps McCrory did not realize that the Chairman had personally supervised the design and construction of all the security arrangements of this establishment. He smoothed his silk Sulka tie for a moment, his cold silence a reprimand in itself. “But we will just have to wait. There has been a sudden and exceedingly large spurt of buying on the New York exchange. Just before it closed.”
“Our stock, sir?”
“Ours. Tokyo is still open, they have twenty-four-hour trading now, and the same thing seems to be happening there. It makes no financial sense at all. Five of the largest and most powerful electronic corporations in this country founded this company. They control Megalobe absolutely. By law a certain amount of stock must be traded, but there can be no possibility of a takeover bid.”
“Then what could be happening?”
“I wish I knew. Reports from our brokers will be coming in soon. We can get down to your lab then. What is it that you want me to see?”
Bill McCrory smiled nervously. “I think we had better let Brian explain it to you. He says it is the important breakthrough he has been waiting for. I’m afraid that I don’t understand what it is myself. A lot of this artificial intelligence stuff is beyond me. Communications is my field.”
J. J. Beckworth nodded understandingly. Many things were happening now in this research center that had not been allowed for in the original plan. Megalobe had originally been founded for a single purpose; to catch up and hopefully pass the Japanese with HDTV research. High-definition television, which started with a wider screen and well over a thousand scan lines. The United States had almost missed the boat on this one. Only the belated recognition of foreign dominance in the worldwide television market had brought the Megalobe founding corporations and the Pentagon together—but only after the Attorney General had looked the other way while Congress had changed the antitrust laws to make possible this new kind of industrial consortium. As early as the 1980s the Defense Department—or rather one of its very few technically competent departments, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—had identified HDTV not only as an important tool in future warfare but as being vital for industrial progress in future technologies. So even after the years of reduced budgets DARPA had managed to come up with the needed research money.
Once the funding decisions had been made, with utmost speed all the forces of modern technology had been assembled on a barren site in the California Desert. Where before there had only been arid sand—and a few small fruit farms irrigated by subsurface water—there was now a large and modern research center. A number of new and exciting projects had been undertaken, J. J. Beckworth knew, but he was vague about the details of some of them. As Chairman he had other, more urgent responsibilities—with six different bosses to answer to. The red blink of his telephone light cut through his thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Mr Mura, our Japanese broker, is on the line.”
“Put him on.” He turned to the image on the screen before him. “Good afternoon, Mura-san.”
“To you as well, Mr. J. J. Beckworth. I am sorry to disturb you at this late hour.”
“It is always my pleasure to hear from you.” Beckworth controlled his impatience. This was the only way to deal with the Japanese. The formalities had to be
covered first. “And surely you would not be calling me now if the matter was of no importance.”
“The importance must be assigned by your illustrious self. As a simple employee I can only report that the spate of buying of Megalobe shares has been reversed. The latest figures are on their way to me now. I expect them on my desk … momentarily.”
For the smallest instant the image on the screen stilled, the lips did not move. This was the first indication that Mura was actually speaking in Japanese, his words swiftly translated into English—while the movement of his face and lips were simulated by the computer to match the words. He turned and was handed a piece of paper, smiled as he read it.
“The news is very good. It indicates that the price has fallen back to its previous level.”
J. J. Beckworth rubbed his jaw. “Any idea of what it was all about?”
“I regretfully report complete ignorance. Other than the fact that the party or parties responsible have lost something close to a million dollars.”
“Interesting. My thanks for your help and I look forward to your report.”
J. J. Beckworth touched the phone disconnect button and the voxfax machine behind him instantly sprang to life, humming lightly as it disgorged the printed record of their conversation. His words were in black, while Mura’s were in red for instant identification. The translation system had been programmed well, and as he glanced through it he saw no more than the usual number of errors. His secretary would file this voxfax record for immediate use. The Megalobe staff translator would later verify the correctness of the translation the computer had made.
“What is it all about?” Bill McCrory asked, puzzled. He was a whiz at electronics, but found the arcane lore of the stock market a complete mystery.
J. J. Beckworth shrugged. “Don’t know—may never know. Perhaps it was some high-flying broker out for a quick profit, or a big bank changing its mind. In any case it is not important—now. I think we can see what your resident genius has come up with. Brian, you said his name was?”
“Brian Delaney, sir. But I’ll have to phone first, it’s getting late.” It was dark outside; the first stars were appearing and the office lights had automatically come on.
Beckworth nodded agreement and pointed to the telephone on the table across the room. While the engineer made his call, J. J. punched his appointment book up on the screen and cleared away his work for the day, then checked the engagements for tomorrow. It was going to be a busy one—just like every other day—and he pushed his memory watch against the terminal. The screen said WAIT and an instant later read FINISHED as it downloaded his next day’s appointments into the watch. That was that.
Every evening at this time, before he left, he usually had a fifteen-year-old Glenmorangie Scotch malt whisky. He glanced in the direction of the hidden bar and smiled slightly. Not quite yet. It would wait.
Bill McCrory pressed the mute button on the phone before he spoke. “Excuse me, J. J., but the labs are closed. It’s going to take a few minutes to set up our visit.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” Beckworth said—and meant it. There had been a number of good reasons for building the research center here in the desert. Lack of pollution and low humidity had been two considerations—but the sheer emptiness of the desert had been much more important. Security had been a primary consideration. As far back as the 1940s, when industrial espionage had been in its infancy, unscrupulous corporations had discovered that it was far easier to steal another company’s secrets than spend the time, energy—and money—developing something for oneself. With the growth of computer technology and electronic surveillance, industrial espionage had been one of the really big growth industries. The first and biggest problem that Megalobe had faced was the secure construction of this new facility. This meant that as soon as the few farms and empty desert had been purchased for the site, an impenetrable fence was built around the entire area. Not really a fence—and not really impenetrable, nothing could be. It was a series of fences and walls that were topped with razor wire and hung with detectors—detectors buried in the ground as well—and blanketed by holographic change detectors, the surface sprinkled with strain gauges, vibration sensors and other devices. It established a perimeter that said “No go!” Next to impossible to penetrate, but if any person or device did get through, why then lights, cameras, dogs—and armed guards were certain to be waiting.
Even after this had been completed, construction of the building had not begun until every existing wire, cable and drainpipe had been dug up, examined, then discarded. One surprising find was a prehistoric Yuman Indian burial site. Construction had been delayed while this had been carefully excavated by archaeologists and turned over to the Yuman and Shoshonean Indian museum in San Diego. Then, and only then, had the carefully supervised construction begun. Most of the buildings had been prefabricated on closely guarded and controlled locations. Sealed electronically, examined, then sealed again. After being trucked to the site in locked containers the entire inspection process had been done yet one more time. J. J. Beckworth had personally supervised this part of the construction. Without the absolutely best security the entire operation would have been rendered useless.
Bill McCrory looked up nervously from the phone. “I’m sorry, J.J., but the time locks have been activated. It’s going to take a half an hour at least to arrange a visit. We could put it off until tomorrow.”
“Not possible.” He punched up the next day’s appointments on his watch. “My schedule is full, including lunch in the office, and I have a flight out at four. It’s now or never. Get Toth. Tell him to arrange it.”
“He may be gone by now.”
“Not him. First in and last out.”
Arpad Toth was head of security. More than that, he had supervised the implementation of all the security measures; these seemed to be his only interest in life. While McCrory made the call J.J. decided that the time had come. He opened the drinks cabinet and poured out three fingers of the malt whisky. He added the same amount of uncarbonated Malvern water—no ice of course!—sipped and sighed gratefully.
“Help yourself, Bill. Toth was in, wasn’t he?”
“I will, thank you, just some Billygowan water. Not only was he in but he will be supervising the visit personally.”
“He has to do that. In fact, both he and I together have to encode an after-hours entry. And if either of us punches in a wrong number, accidentally or deliberately, all hell breaks loose.”
“I never realized that security was so tight.”
“That’s good. You’re not supposed to. Everyone who enters those labs is monitored ten ways from Sunday. Exactly at five o’clock the doors are sealed tighter than the bank vaults in Fort Knox. After that time it’s still easy to get out, since scientists are prone to work late, or even all night. You must have done that yourself. Now you are going to find out that it is next to impossible to get back in. You’ll see what I mean when Toth gets here.”
This would be a good chance to catch the satellite news. J.J. touched the controls on his desk. The wallpaper—and the painting—on the far wall disappeared to be replaced by the news service logo. The sixteen-thousand-line high-resolution TV that had been developed in the laboratories here was sensationally realistic and so successful that it had captured a large share of the world TV, Virtual Reality and computer workstation market.
This screen contained tens of millions of microscopic mechanical shutters, a product of the developing science of nanotechnology. The definition and color of Beckworth’s screen were so good that, to date, no one had noticed that the wallpaper and picture were just digital images—until he had turned them off. He sipped his drink and watched the news.
And that was all that he watched—and only those news items he was interested in. No sports, commercials, no cutesy animals or pop-singer scandals. The TV’s computer sought out and recorded, in order of priority, just those reports that he wanted. International finance, stock market report
, television shares, currency exchange rates, only news related to commercial relations. All of this done continuously, upgraded instantly, twenty-four hours a day.
When the head of security arrived the wallpaper and painting reappeared and they finished their drinks. Arpad Toth’s iron-gray hair was still as close-cropped as it had been during all the years he had been a marine D.I. On that traumatic day when he had finally been forcefully retired from the Marine Corps he had gone right over to the CIA—who had welcomed him with open arms. A number of years had passed after that, as well as a number of covert operations, before he had a major difference of opinion with his new employers. It had taken all of J.J.’s industrial clout, helped by the firm’s military connections, to find out what the ruckus had been about. The report had been destroyed as soon as J.J. had read it. But what had stuck in his memory was the fact that the CIA had felt that a plan presented to them by Toth was entirely too ruthless! And this was just before the operations arm of the CIA had been abandoned, when many of their activities had an air of desperation about them. Megalobe had quickly made him a most generous offer to head security for the planned project; he had been with them ever since. His face was wrinkled, his gray hair thinning—but he had not an ounce of fat on his hard-muscled body. It was unthinkable to ask his age or suggest retirement. He entered the office silently, then stood to attention. His face was set in a permanent scowl; no one had ever seen him smile.
“Ready when you are, sir.”
“Good. Let’s get started. I don’t want this to take all night.” J. J. Beckworth turned his back when he spoke—there was no need for anyone to know that he kept the security key in a special compartment in his belt buckle—then strode across the office to the steel panel set in the wall. It opened when he turned the key and a red light began blinking inside. He had five seconds to punch in his code. Only when the light had turned green did he wave Toth over. J.J. replaced the key in its hiding place while the security chief entered his own code, his fingers moving unseen inside the electronic control box. As soon as he had done this, and closed the panel again, the telephone rang.
The Turing Option Page 1