The Truth Machine

by James L. Halperin

  Today he was working on a program to help invest his earnings in stocks, bonds, and derivatives. After all, whatever he decided to do with his life would require “seed money,” and Pete intended to have a nest egg commensurate with his ambitions. His consulting income was likely to decrease this year. BQC would be the only corporate client he would have time for, and as heir to the company, he couldn’t justify charging his going rate. And he would continue to collaborate with Tilly on programs she designed for worthy government projects, which took precedence over all other activities, for minimal payment or none at all.

  Some of the algorithms for this investment program were new, requiring full concentration. He bit gently on his tongue.

  If I can make my currency option software just .05 seconds faster than Solomon Brothers’ program, I can squeeze out an extra 20 to 30 arbitrage trades a day.

  With that goal, he immediately lost himself in his work. For the next few hours, he became a calculating machine, a cerebral entity without distracting physical or emotional sensations. Pete was back in the zone.

  Biographies were his means of rounding out his life. Searching for himself, he looked to others for clues. On a typical day he would spend half an hour reading about famous and accomplished people, usually enough time to read 250 pages. Speed-reading with full retention had not been an easy skill to develop even for Pete, so he’d pushed hard, practicing his speed-reading every day until it became second nature. Now his knowledge of the giants of politics, art, literature, science, business, philosophy, and religion was encyclopedic—and still growing.

  Abraham Lincoln was his favorite historical figure. Pete had read dozens of biographies about Lincoln. He found inspiration in the story of this troubled man with a difficult past facing a great challenge, willing to sacrifice everything necessary to achieve a greater good.

  Lincoln, like many other great figures of the past and present, gave him a benchmark for himself. Every person on earth responds differently to outside forces; therefore Pete constantly tested new approaches, many learned from reading these profiles, and applied them to the way he maintained his own body and mind. For example, after reading that Leonardo DaVinci took 15-minute naps every three hours instead of sleeping through the night, Pete had tried it himself, hoping to net an extra five or six hours of daily time awake. After a week of utter exhaustion, he’d reverted to his old sleeping habits, but made a mental note to try the experiment again when his body was older, stronger, and fully grown.

  Working diligently to keep his mind and body (he regarded them as synergetic) in good shape, Pete studied the latest theories on health and fitness. He tested combinations of diet and vitamins, and gradually developed a moderate exercise routine. The regimen began with a daily half-hour run with Skipper, a stray mutt Pete had recently found, adopted, and sneaked into his dormitory room against Harvard’s rules. He also devised a four-times-weekly routine of flexibility and strength training using machines and free weights.

  One day in the gymnasium he noticed a student with a muscular upper body. His legs and lower body were lean but only average in size and muscularity. Pete thought the guy looked ridiculous. Yet this fellow continued to spend most of his workout time on upper body movements. It made Pete wonder if he himself wasn’t the same way mentally. Am I spending too much time developing my strengths and ignoring my weaknesses?

  Years before, he had read an anecdote in a biography of Salvador Dali. An admirer asked the 20th-century surrealist whether he found it difficult to paint. The artist answered, “Painting’s never difficult. It’s either easy or impossible.” Pete had never quite understood what Dali meant until recently, when puberty hit him like a stray bullet.

  He had no friends his own age, and knew his own greatest weakness was a lack of people skills. He vowed to work on those abilities whenever possible, but making connections with his peers, especially his female peers, seemed utterly beyond him. Most of the great historical figures were fascinated by people, he thought, and attentively observant about them. Leonard would have had amazing instincts about people by now; he tested everyone fearlessly and habitually, even as a three-year-old. Why can’t I? Loneliness began to overwhelm him.

  Everything else is so easy for me. But forming relationships is impossible.

  CHAPTER 8

  GUT COURSE

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  January 28, 2003—The United States, Russia, and China sign a joint space exploration agreement, pledging to send an expedition of astronauts from each of the three nations to Mars by the year 2015.—Iran admits to having several dozen atomic weapons and worldwide missile delivery capability, but vows that the devices will only be used if Iran is attacked first. The Islamic republic also agrees to stop abetting terrorism and continues to deny any role in supplying nuclear devices to Moslem terrorists in Bosnia.—President Gore vetoes the popular Swift and Sure Anti-Crime Bill, citing personal conscience. Analysts term the move “political suicide,” and Senator Travis Hall immediately announces his candidacy for next year’s presidential election.

  Every morning when Professor Howard Gaddis awoke, he would mutter a short prayer. “Thank you, dear Lord, for tenure.” For Gaddis there could be nothing more priceless; it assured him a lucrative, prestigious job for life. He had been granted tenure in 1997 at age 46. No other Harvard professor had received it since then, and rumors abounded that Gaddis, now 52, was the sole reason for Harvard’s apparent abandonment of its tenure policy. The rumors weren’t true. The concept of tenure was withering away in colleges and universities throughout the nation due to the competitive marketplace and concurrent need to keep tuition and costs in line.

  Gaddis was 40 pounds overweight, which was common back then. Still, the clean-shaven professor looked young for a man his age in 2003, prior to the days of universal hormone therapy, not to mention genetic reengineering. He had a full head of dark brown hair, with barely a hint of gray; and although he wore eyeglasses like many of his contemporaries did, his weren’t particularly thick.

  Aside from his minimal duties as resident counselor at Stoughton Hall, Gaddis now taught a single course entitled “Theology as Social Science.” The students referred to it in the abbreviated form: Theo-Soc (pronounced theo-sowsh). It was known as a “gut,” which meant that anyone accepted into the class was virtually assured of receiving an “A” without working too hard. It was also engrossing, not because of Gaddis’s teaching, but rather the caliber of students enrolled in it. With only 22 seats available each semester, Gaddis, who refused to increase the size of the class, could be very selective. It was a waste of time to apply for Theo-Soc; one had to be recruited. Gaddis had a knack for convincing the most gifted and intriguing students that they needed to attend his class.

  “Pete, I’ve held a place for you in Theo-Soc next semester,” Gaddis had announced last November.

  “But professor, I, er, I’ve already signed up for a double course load. Um—can’t I take it next September?”

  “I suppose you could. But since you’re saving almost an hour a day by not commuting back to Concord, don’t you think you might reconsider? It would mean a lot to me.”

  Pete thought, What a charming way of reminding me that I owe him. He simply grinned and replied, “Uh—okay professor. Since you put it that way, I’ll be there.”

  It turned out to be a great experience for Pete Armstrong as well as Gaddis’s other conscripts. In fact, it could be argued that Theo-Soc that semester was a watershed, not only for its participants but for the entire planet.

  * * *

  Theo-Soc met every weekday afternoon at 3:00 in a large-windowed classroom on the second floor of Memorial Hall. The room contained a rectangular table surrounded by 23 chairs, a blackboard, and not much else. The class was scheduled to run one hour, but Gaddis and the students often prolonged their discussions, occasionally remaining until well into the evening.

  Unlike other professors, Gaddis never spoke to his class about wh
at was expected of them or how they would be graded. No reading lists were distributed. They were there to think and to converse.

  “There are only two things of which we, as human beings, can be certain,” Gaddis began his class. “We know we exist, and we know we’re going to die. Everything else is debatable. Some scholars define religion simply as our attempt to make logical sense of those two facts. Does anyone have anything to say about that?”

  A boy who appeared not much older than Pete raised his hand. “Professor, I’m afraid you’re wrong to state unequivocally that we all know we’re going to die.” Already a member of the senior class at 16, Charles Scoggins was about to complete his undergraduate studies at the end of this, his fifth semester at Harvard.

  The little shit could have said that more tactfully, Gaddis thought to himself, but answered politely, “I’m sure the class would be most intrigued to hear your reasoning, Charles.”

  Gaddis had learned long ago not to embarrass his Theo-Soc students; he wanted them to challenge conventional wisdom, not succumb to it. Besides, some of their most extreme ideas had led to revelations. His students were, after all, among the brightest teenagers in America, and Gaddis was careful never to undermine their self-confidence.

  Scoggins explained: “There is a finite chance some of us might live forever. Technology’s advancing at an exponential rate. For example, it’s possible we could be cryonically frozen and revived hundreds of years from now after the aging process has been medically reversed or at least halted.”

  “That’s very interesting, but don’t you think you’re stretching? I agree that cryonically freezing humans is feasible for preservation, but do you really think we’ll be able to revive people after they’ve been frozen?”

  “Why not? If ancient seeds have been made to germinate, couldn’t we learn how to bring human beings back to life? And given enough time, scientists may unlock the secrets of aging. We might even be able to keep the universe from crunching in on itself, since we’d have billions of years to figure out how. Of course humans developed religion before any of that was conceivable. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why people are becoming less religious these days.”

  “Interesting observation, Mr.Scoggins.”

  Pete finally realized who the student was. Charles Scoggins. Of course! I’ve read about him.

  Scoggins was constantly written about in the media and seemed to revel in the attention. One article in the Boston Courier Journal referred to him as “the mathematician most likely to become the next Albert Einstein,” an outrageous assertion, but fairly typical of early 21st-century press. According to the article, Scoggins could “calculate square roots to five decimal places or multiply four-digit numbers instantly in his head, and express advanced mathematical concepts in clear, understandable terms.” Thin and wiry, he looked young for his age, which added to his mystique. He was a natural showman without a hint of shyness; probably the reason he had chosen to enroll at Harvard rather than the more scientifically oriented Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT).

  Wishing he could express his own opinions so eloquently and without self-consciousness, Pete especially admired Scoggins’s social polish. What a coincidence his first name is Charles, Leonard’s middle name, Pete thought. He seems to have so many of Leonard’s qualities.

  Freshman David West was less impressed. He had met Scoggins and found him charming, entertaining, and friendly. Still, for some reason David didn’t trust him. Every time he heard Scoggins speak, the word “phony” popped into his head. David hated insincerity.

  After reading the Courier Journal article, he had wondered aloud to his roommate, Gerald Marek, “Do you think Scoggins has gone out and hired himself a publicist?”

  Several other students volunteered opinions. At first, many seemed opposed to the notion of living forever. One said he had no desire to live in such a world. “What’ll motivate people when their time on earth is no longer limited?”

  Pete thought it was a good point, although he was sure he would remain motivated and thoroughly ambitious no matter how long he could expect to live.

  Another said that immortality was “reserved for but one entity.” Pete just rolled his eyes.

  “Besides,” chimed in a pert blonde woman, “how would we control the population increase? If nobody ever died, there’d be too many people for this planet to support.”

  “I see what you mean,” said David West with a wry smile. “And what about all the out-of-work morticians, grave diggers, and obituary writers? Seriously, if halting—or better yet, reversing—the aging process were possible, we’d do it. We’d do it because we could, and because most of us would prefer not to die. The accompanying problems would simply need to be solved. It might be a scary concept, but dying is even scarier. I could get used to living forever, and I’m sure everyone else in this room could, too.”

  David spoke with easy charm. The former Texas allstate quarterback was always confident, always upbeat. Now 18 years old, he stood six feet, three inches tall and weighed 215 pounds, with lean, rippling muscles and a startlingly handsome face. In Dallas, a town where people cared about appearance and sex appeal, he’d been a magnet for debutantes and topless dancers alike. At Harvard he became more studious, more focused on his goals. The football coach had been after him to play quarterback for the freshman team and eventually for the Crimson, but David was no longer interested in organized athletics. They would be too time-consuming and, in the case of football, too dangerous, so now he exercised only about 45 minutes each day, his studies taking precedence. Yet in spite of his focus, David always had time for people.

  The class laughed at his remarks, and they also listened. David West had a way of making people feel good, not so much by what he said to them, but by how he said it. He always looked them in the eye, ever friendly and open. Even the blonde woman, who might normally have felt insulted by David’s challenge, couldn’t help but smile.

  Pete piped into the discussion. He was nervous and it showed. His rocking motion was intense, even for him, and the tongue appeared more than once between sentences. “Er, uh, not long ago I read an article by a mathematician named Corwin McCutcheon,6 debunking the—uh, existence of UFOs t-t-transporting extraterrestrial life forms to Earth. The author made an interesting point. He developed these, uh—computer models, using some assumptions that seemed pretty, er, r-reasonable.”

  Amazing! Pete thought. At Middlesex, where everybody’s looking for an excuse to pick you apart, somebody would have groaned or yawned or laughed by now. But here, every person in the class seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, rather than how he looked and sounded while he was saying it.

  With renewed confidence, he continued, “Uh, h-he calculated the l-likelihood that a civilization like ours could develop the technology to build a spaceship allowing travel to another solar system before that civilization destroyed itself. The probability he came up with was .00023 percent—virtually z-zero. I s-suspect halting the aging process is almost as complicated as interstellar travel. Frankly, uh, I can’t imagine the human race reaching the point of conquering old age before some lunatic blows up our planet or infects everyone on it with some fatal disease. Within 100 years, thousands of nations, religious sects, even individuals will probably have the capability to wipe out all human life on the planet. If by some m-miracle humanity actually exists long enough for science to halt the aging process, what would be the point? In its present form, the human race won’t survive long enough to enjoy it. What—what we need to work on first is a way to change our basic nature.”

  David West found Pete endearing. Maybe it was the intelligence behind his words combined with the awkwardness of his delivery. David suspected that Pete’s obviously quirky personality had been hobbled by tragedy, in contrast to his own, which had triumphed over it.

  “I can hardly believe it. Here we have the youngest and brightest person in this class . . .” David said, glancing to his side, curious
if Scoggins betrayed annoyance at the reference to Pete’s superior intellect. Hmm. Barely even a glare. Either his jealousy’s minimal or Scoggins is one smooth actor. The latter, I bet. “. . . forecasting doom for the human race. This doesn’t bode well for my New Year’s Eve plans in the year 3001.”

  “Don’t c-cancel your reservations yet,” Pete replied, smiling. “There may be hope. That is, if the human race can change. I suspect it’s possible under the right circumstances.”

  “How? We’ve been the same way for thousands of years. Not that we humans don’t have wonderful qualities, but we’re also self-centered, greedy, jealous, deceitful, and prone to madness. What’s going to wake us up now?”

  “Maybe the realization that if we don’t change soon, we’re all doomed. The good news is that we now have a common enemy. Unfortunately it may be more difficult to conquer an enemy within ourselves.” Pete found he enjoyed articulating his own thoughts. In his other classes, he simply cited facts and quoted other people’s concepts. Here it was different.

  Gaddis finally broke up the class at about 5:30. They would all return tomorrow. As Pete left Memorial Hall, several students including David West and Charles Scoggins introduced themselves. Scoggins was particularly friendly, and Pete responded with enthusiasm and an openness rare for him. He could hardly wait until they reconvened. The other courses were just so much more information for his data banks. But in Theo-Soc he got to interact and speculate about the essence and future of the human race with the brightest people he had known thus far. This course was exactly why Pete had come to Harvard.

  In spite of his amiable demeanor, Charles Scoggins had an appalling secret.

  After class, Scoggins returned to his room, where a printout was waiting for him. Three months earlier, he had hacked into the central computer of the Bank of Boston, and programmed his own computer to match each account against every obituary listed in local newspapers. Whenever an account of the deceased had been accessible only by that person, and that account-holder was neither married nor survived by children, and certain other criteria existed that minimized any chance of a shortfall being discovered, Scoggins would strike. Careful and patient, he never succumbed to reckless greed. He would transfer just a small percentage of the account balance into an offshore bank account in the Bahamas, back-dating the transaction so it appeared in the Bank of Boston’s records to have been authorized prior to the account-holder’s death.