Cyber Rogues

by James P. Hogan

  They caught an early-morning flight up to La Guardia a week or so later. Having prepared himself for worse, Corrigan found Glinberg to be lively and alert, personable and appealing—the kind of salesman who made people feel important by listening, even when nothing they said was the slightest bit interesting. He didn’t contradict, disagree, or antagonize with unasked-for opinions—preferring to win sales rather than arguments. And he dressed and groomed himself well but not flashily: enough to make a person feel respected by being worth the effort; not so much as to make them feel cheap. His company came as a stimulating change from the tech-intellectual surroundings that Corrigan had grown used to, and after an hour Corrigan could cheerfully have bought a lifetime’s insurance, a new car, or anything else from him—and then done all his friends a favor by recommending their names too. It seemed to be generally considered a social virtue for somebody to be “easy to talk to”; “easy to be around”; “easy to get along with.” Corrigan could recall countless occasions, from buying an airline ticket to making a hotel reservation, when he’d practically had to battle with a company’s employees to be allowed to spend his money with them. Why, he wondered, was it so difficult to be “easy to buy from”?

  From the airport they caught a cab to CLC’s Manhattan branch office near Lincoln Center, where they met up with Mat Hamils, sales manager for the New York City area. Feller & Faber was his customer, and he would be taking them there—Glinberg was a Pittsburgh-based ESG specialist who supported customers throughout the Northeast. Before leaving to go crosstown, they reviewed the situation over coffee in a meeting room adjacent to Hamils’s office.

  “So in terms of spectaculars, you’re saying that EVIE will bring everything together sooner—touch, vision, talk, the works,” Hamils concluded. Clearly, he was thinking ahead and had customer demonstrations in mind.

  “Yes,” Corrigan said.

  “But it’s hybrid, not full direct-neural,” Glinberg reminded Hamils. He looked back at Corrigan. “Pinocchio Two will be all-neural, though—right, Joe?”

  “Sounds better,” Hamils commented, nodding.

  “But it just adds speech and hearing to the existing motor I/O,” Corrigan said. “Vision won’t be until later.”

  Glinberg frowned. “I thought you said something on the plane about a new section being organized to move the interfacing up from the medulla to the pons.”

  “Yes, but for vision you have to go in at the thalamus. That’s another level higher yet.”

  “Oh.” Hamils nodded that that was something they’d just have to accept. “Okay. So when will it happen?”

  “It isn’t scheduled at present,” Corrigan replied, conscious as he said it of sounding negative. Hamils shot Glinberg a glance that said he couldn’t see this as a star attraction for getting prospective customers excited.

  There was a short silence. Then Glinberg clapped Corrigan lightly on the shoulder. “But doing it right takes time, eh, Joe? P-Two will be better in the end.”

  Corrigan acknowledged with a faint grin. “Right,” he agreed.

  Hamils looked at his watch. “We’d better be moving,” he announced. They drank up, collected briefcases and things, and headed for the elevator.

  “Do you get to see many customers, Joe?” Hamils inquired casually as they got in.

  “Not really.”

  “The main person we’re going to see today is a guy called Victor Borth. He’s general manager of F and F’s New York office, and a working director of the firm. A very influential person.”

  “I see.”

  “Sometimes there’s politics involved in these situations,” Hamils went on. “Just stick to answering questions, and keep it technical. We’ll let you know when. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Corrigan said.

  It was only when they were in the car and heading toward the East Side that it dawned on him that people who knew too much were considered a potential menace—he had been tactfully told where his place was.

  The offices of Feller & Faber occupied four floors of a soaring face of copper-tinted glass in midtown. The visitors were conducted from the elevators through a reception lobby of rust-gold velour furnishings, ceramic and chrome, and art nouveau prints, into corridors flanked by designer-decor office spaces and computer displays glowing in glass-partitioned rooms.

  They had arrived early to let Hamils take care of some routine matters before the main meeting, and Corrigan found himself tagging along on a quick tour. Somebody from F & F was due to attend a trade exhibition in Russia, and there was talk about a joint promotional effort involving CLC marketing people from Pittsburgh. A man called Gary had a problem with a service invoice. Pat wanted advance information from CLC engineering on a new line of image analyzers not in production yet. Could Sandra in the Manhattan office get two more sets of manuals on the stock-forecasting package? The proposal to Mercantile Bankers in London was looking good, and there should be a decision next week.

  After the racks and cubicles, scratched metal desks, and tiled vinyl floors of the environment that Corrigan was used to, it all seemed very glamorous and exciting—a glimpse of the real world, where the events that shaped the news were made to happen. In comparison, the world that he was from looked woefully pedestrian and academic—a behind-the-scenes support facility to serve this, the stage.

  Finally, they came to a sumptuous corner office looking out over Manhattan in two directions. It had deep russet pile, integral mahogany shelves and fittings, and framed travelogue scenes looking down over a conference area set off around a circular, glass-topped table. From the immense desks with computer side-tables and recessed consoles, the office was evidently shared by two people. One of the desks was unoccupied. From the other, a man of about Corrigan’s age rose to greet them, smiling genially. He had a trim, athletic build with collar-length yellow hair, and looked aristocratically debonair in a tan jacket and maroon cord shirt worn open with a silk cravat in place of necktie.

  “Nigel, how are things?” Hamils pumped his hand. “Is the world still taking good care of you?”

  “Never better.”

  “You know Henry Glinberg, up from Pittsburgh again to see us.”

  “Of course. Hello again, Henry. Did you fly up this morning?”

  “Hi, Nigel. Yes. Can’t afford the time to stay over every time. You customers keep us too busy.”

  Nigel’s smile broadened, easily, unrepentantly. “How would you pay the rent without us?”

  Hamils indicated Corrigan. “And this is Joe Corrigan, from the DNC group at Blawnox. He’s the guy that Jason sent up after Therese Loel talked to Victor.”

  Nigel shook hands with Corrigan, languidly yet firmly, without undue assertiveness. “Very pleased to meet you, Joe,” he said. Just a simple business introduction, and yet he conveyed the impression that he really meant it. Style, Corrigan thought to himself. The art of gentility and charm. Something that didn’t come very easily from talking to machines all day.

  “Me too,” he responded.

  “Nigel Korven,” Hamils supplied. “He’s one of the senior consultants who take care of F and F’s key clients.” Corrigan took that to mean what the sufficiently sophisticated were called, in place of “salesman.”

  “So you’re the expert from afar, who’s going to tell us about Direct Neural Coupling and where it’s leading,” Korven said. “It sounds absolutely fascinating. Some people here are extremely eager to meet you.”

  “As long as they understand that it’s just for information,” Corrigan said. He was about to explain that the research was still in an early stage, but caught a faint shake of the head from Hamils.

  “Do I detect an Irishman?” Korven said, changing subjects smoothly. “Over here permanently, I hope?”

  “As far as I know,” Corrigan said.

  “Good. That’s something we could use more of.” Korven turned to Hamils. “Well, I think the others are just about ready for us next door. We can go straight on in.” He picked up a fold
er from his desk and selected a few other papers. “Did you get that house in the end, Mat—the one you wanted?”

  “The one up near the bridge, right. Got it for eight grand off the asking, too.”

  “Splendid. Your wife must be very happy about it.”

  “She’s delighted. First thing is a warming party. You’ll have to come along.”

  “I’d love to, Mat. I’ll have to see if I can find somebody pretty to bring along.”

  “Somehow I can’t see you without a woman around, Nigel,” Glinberg said as they moved out of the room.

  “Oh, but I don’t keep them,” Korven answered. “It’s better to have new ones frequently. They’re so much more pleasant to be around when they’re on their best behavior and trying to make an impression.” He winked reassuringly at Corrigan. “Right, Joe?”

  Hamils drew Corrigan aside as they were about to follow the other two out into the corridor. “Let CLC decide what its policy is,” he murmured. “We want these people to feel that we can help them solve their problems. They won’t connect if you make it sound too remote.”

  Corrigan nodded. “I’ll remember.”

  They went into a room a few doors away, where two more people were waiting at a large central table. Korven introduced Walter Moleno, fortyish, dark-haired and tanned, with a thin mustache: “Our man in Southeast Asia, back on one of his rare visits home.”

  Moleno shook his head. “It’s not a place, I keep telling you, Nigel. It’s a computer. They don’t need VR out there. They all live in computers already. I come back for the reality experience.”

  “In New York? My God! A bit like going to Kansas for the views, isn’t it?”

  The other person was a woman called Amanda Ramussienne: probably in her mid-thirties, with high, angular features, wavy ginger hair, and alluring, green, feline eyes that caught the light in a way that made it seem to be coming from inside. Her makeup was generous but professional, and the image completed by a beige dress and gold jewelry that blended impeccably and had not come from the neighborhood mall. She spoke animatedly, with lots of expression and gestures, and in some other setting Corrigan would have guessed her background to be theatrical. Korven introduced her vaguely as an “analyst”; from the preamble after they sat down, Corrigan gathered that her work involved contact with the media.

  “I had lunch with that awful creature from Time-Life again yesterday,” she told Korven. He smiled a mixture of amusement at her feigned indignation and despair that she should have known better.

  “You mean the fat one who smokes buffalo shit?”

  “Of course the one who smokes buffalo shit. He definitely wants me to go to bed with him. He even had the nerve to say so. . . .” She waved imploringly at the ceiling. “What is so special about this job that I should put up with this? I mean, when is the harassment thing going to be extended to apply to customers too?”

  “Why not try seeing it not as harassment but as opportunity?” Korven suggested sagely. “Most men would.”

  “If it were the sexy, good-looking ones who came on, I might,” Amanda agreed with a sigh. “But why does it always have to be exactly the opposite kind?”

  “Who are we waiting for?” Hamils cut in. “Victor?”

  “He’ll be in when he’s finished a call he’s on,” Moleno said, nodding. “We thought half an hour here to get to know each other. Then we’ll collect a couple of others and go for lunch.”

  “Have we picked a place?” Korven asked.

  “Just downstairs.” Moleno looked at the three from CLC. “It’s one of those weeks, I’m afraid. Everyone’s flying with both feet off the ground.”

  Hamils nodded. “What kind of mood is Victor in today?” he asked.

  Korven turned his head toward Amanda. “Oh, I don’t know. What would you say? Is the beast human today?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I’d say so. He wasn’t devouring anyone the last time I saw him.”

  “We think he’s human,” Korven told Hamils.

  Corrigan looked at Hamils inquiringly. “Victor’s okay,” Hamils said. “But at times he can be a bit . . .” He looked diplomatically to the three F & F people before choosing a word. “What would you call it? Temperamental? . . .”

  “Obstinate. Opinionated. Bombastic,” Korven supplied, with the candid air of somebody saying what everyone else knew perfectly well anyway. “But we all love him, just the same.”

  “Just don’t argue with him,” Hamils translated. “If he gets something wrong, let it keep and tell us afterward. We’ll straighten it out later.”

  There were a few seconds of silence, seeming to say that nothing more could make things any clearer after that. Then Amanda treated Corrigan to one of the smiles that talk-show hostesses use to get the show going again after an awkward hiatus. “How much do you know about the kind of business we do here, Joe?” she inquired.

  “Not a great deal, to be honest. Something to do with marketing and forecasting, isn’t it?”

  “Those terms are a little obsolete now,” Korven said. “You can charge more for ‘econodynamic trend analysis.’”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  At that moment the door opened as if on a spring, and a short, stockily built figure marched in and stumped to the end of the table, where he deposited some sheets of printed figures and a notepad. He had a smooth, tanned head fringed by dark locks that reflected a sheen, heavy eyebrows, and a solid, rounded face with pugnacious jaw and chin. His fingers were thick and stubby, with tufts of hair on the backs between the joints, but the nails were well manicured. He was wearing a dark three-piece with hairline stripe and—a rare sight for the day and age—a white carnation pinned in his left lapel. Mat Hamils knew Borth, of course, but Glinberg apparently had not dealt with him directly in previous visits. Korven completed the introductions.

  “So you work for Therese Loel,” Borth said, taking in Glinberg with an unblinking stare that gave away nothing. His voice was blunt, direct, straight to the point.

  “That’s right,” Glinberg confirmed.

  “Harry’s the ESG specialist, based out of Blawnox,” Hamils filled in. “We call him in as needed.”

  Borth’s gaze shifted to Corrigan. “But you’re the guy Therese said they’d send up, who knows about the computers that let you play Ping-Pong in your head.”

  “Joe’s from the main corporate R and D facility, also at Blawnox,” Hamils supplied.

  Corrigan frowned. There was some confusion already in what Borth had said. DNC coupled direct into the nervous system. The simulated Ping-Pong was something different: a demonstration that the SDC people used to show off their VIV helmet, which utilized the regular senses. But before Corrigan could frame a reply, Borth changed tack:

  “Have they told you much about the kind of business we’re in here?”

  “We were just about to when you came in,” Amanda said. Her manner had changed with Borth in the room. She was all seriousness and attention now—no longer a vivacious artiste, but suddenly the business professional.

  Borth remained standing, and spoke moving back and forth at the end of the table. Presenting to a group seemed to be his natural style.

  “We live in a complicated world. All the time, it gets more complicated. Everywhere you look, where people are dealing in long-term plans—in business, in industry, in technology, in politics—more money is having to be put down up-front, the lead times are stretching farther into the future, and what happens at the end of it is anybody’s guess. Bigger stakes; less certain outcomes. In other words, it’s all getting to be more of a gamble.” He paused, looked from side to side, and showed his empty palms, as if inviting anyone who could to dispute that.

  “Guess wrong, and you can be wiped out even though nothing was your fault: the bottom drops out of a market that everyone said couldn’t fail; a trend turns around; the public loses interest in some fad that was going to be the rage for the rest of time . . . and nobody knows why.” Borth held up a fan of stubby fingers and
began ticking off examples. “How many of you remember the savings-and-loan mess years back, when they poured billions into stacking up downtowns with high-rise office space that nobody wanted? Before that there was the synthetic-fuel thing. Eight billion they blew on it—because the world was about to run out of oil. Then we’re drowning in oil, and the whole thing’s a fiasco. Screenpad Corporation spent eleven years making plans and tooling up, saying they were going to make paper obsolete. There’s still plenty of paper around today, but they’re not.”

  He raised an emphatic finger. “But . . . if you call the shots right, you can be made for life. Not that many years ago, all the pros laughed when a couple of guys in a garage said everyone could have a computer. Amspace in Texas came up with a cheap, clunky, surface-to-orbit pickup, instead of the Ferraris and mobile homes that the Air Force and NASA had been making, and they created a global space-trucking industry.

  “Now look at the things that some people are telling us will be next.” Borth looked around again, appealingly this time. “Nanomachines? Adaptive fiction? Bioregenerative materials? Talking houses? Where do I put my money for the big paybacks ten years down the line?” His gaze came back to rest on the three people from CLC. “You can see the problem—and believe me, it is a problem. That’s where we make our business: helping people out there to make those decisions. And naturally there are other outfits who do the same thing. Sometimes we’re right more often than they are. Sometimes they get the edge on us. Frankly, there isn’t a lot of difference: we all hit at around the same percentage. But I can tell you this: there’s lots of money out there, big money, just waiting for the first outfit that can come up with a way of doing it better. We happen to think that smarter computers is the way to go. That’s why we’re interested in anything new that CLC has got coming down the pike.”