The Truth Machine

by James L. Halperin

  (Note: To illustrate the value of LottoPick, on November 8, 2008, a typical $2 Texas lottery ticket had a theoretical value of $1.04, a ticket with completely random numbers was worth $1.41, and a LottoPick ticket rated to win $1.89 on average. These calculations assume a 12-percent discount rate on the winner’s share of a $28.8 million prize paid in 20 annual installments.—22g CP)

  The 7-Eleven convenience store chain had test-marketed LottoPick in Texas. It was a major success. The LottoPick concept was difficult to grasp, but once ticket buyers “got it,” they became repeat customers. With only a $2 million advertising budget, 7-Eleven’s market share of all lottery ticket sales statewide climbed from 19 percent to 27 percent in the first 60 days, thanks to the appeal of LottoPick. Educated customers realized that with LottoPick, their expected dollar winnings were at least 30 percent higher than with the totally random numbers supplied by the state’s machines (and nearly twice as high as when selecting their kids’ birthdays or some other group of non-random “lucky” numbers). Also, as LottoPick’s market share increased, the viability of any competing systems disappeared. After all, unless the program eliminated a lot of duplicated numbers, what good was it? LottoPick became another ATI “software monopoly.”

  ATI had put up the entire $2 million advertising budget and paid for the ticketing machines. They received only 20 percent of 7-Eleven’s profit from lottery ticket sales, and the stores benefited from increased traffic.

  ATI and 7-Eleven soon rolled out the program into each of the 46 states offering lotteries.

  It seemed like a high-potential, risk-free deal for 7-Eleven. In fact, their top executives thought the contract had been too tough on ATI. But they quickly discovered that Scoggins and Thacker had negotiated with exceptional shrewdness. 7-Eleven’s exclusive in each state would last only two years (or less if 7-Eleven declined to do a national roll-out), after which ATI could raise its price at will and market the product to other chains. Then LottoPick would become a cash cow for ATI, conservatively projected to earn $1 billion annually.

  Description of TrueDose, as mentioned in Chapter 19, dated August 15, 2009

  Before the early 21st century, drug companies manufactured and distributed most of the medicines they developed. In 2005, the Wal-Mart organization convinced several major drug companies to license their products for a royalty, roughly the wholesale price of the drug minus manufacturing and distribution costs.

  The arrangement was revenue-neutral to the drug companies. But the advantages to Wal-Mart were enormous. The giant retailer saved money through efficient manufacturing and distribution, enabling it to offer prescription drugs at lower prices. Wal-Mart’s increased market share also created windfall profits on generic drugs it manufactured. But far more significantly, they could now custom-mix for each consumer. For example, instead of having to remember to take three different pills twice a day, each Wal-Mart customer received all medications in one daily time-release pill or monthly arm-patch.

  Pharmacies soon followed Wal-Mart’s lead or were driven out of business. By 2010, no drug company still manufactured products for the United States market. Instead, they sold their manufacturing facilities to the pharmacy chains and collected royalties on their patents.

  TrueDose was designed so pharmacies could interface with HealthFile, ensuring that patients would never receive drugs to which they were allergic or that mixed badly with other drugs prescribed to them.

  It was a great product, but it flopped. The problem was that any software company could design a similar program and any pharmacy could interface with HealthFile just by asking customers for their ID numbers. ATI had no previous link to the pharmacies and therefore no competitive advantage. TrueDose never captured more than 20 percent of the market, even with free trial periods and aggressive cost cutting.

  Legal Alternatives for Cryonic Suspendees, see Chapter 23, June 15, 2015

  To avoid depositing funds with the government, you could assign money to relatives or friends, who’d pay taxes on such gifts and who might not be around when you were ultimately revived. Or you could deposit the money in a government-insured bank account, but all interest earned would be assessed at up to a 40-percent maximum tax rate. You could also lend money interest-free to a tax-exempt charity, but if the loan was ever repaid, it would retain a fraction of its original purchasing power. Or, perhaps the best alternative, if you had art, antiques, jewelry, rare stamps or coins, or other valuables, you could lend them to a non-profit museum to be returned if and when you were revived.

  Text of Rev. Dr. Asia Jonas’s January 20, 2037 sermon, noted in Chapter 39

  There is an old joke about three statisticians who go hunting for deer with bows and arrows. They spot an old buck. The first one shoots. His arrow misses by two yards to the left. The second statistician’s arrow misses by two yards to the right. The third statistician excitedly shouts, “We got him!”

  To grasp the nature of the world, you’d have to put yourself in God’s place, which is of course impossible. But in light of all the suffering that has occurred and continues to occur, I have always assumed God cannot control every individual event. For a long time now, I have considered that maybe God is a statistician.

  When I was a young girl, America was a land of both optimism and fear. We all anticipated longer, healthier, and more prosperous lives than our parents enjoyed. But this was during the cold war and every child also knew about the bomb. With dread, I envisioned World War Three, wondering whether human madness or miscalculation might end all life on earth.

  As I grew into young adulthood, I watched the AIDS epidemic take many friends and acquaintances, their lives untimely robbed of such promise. I watched the news in horror as wars, and the famines and epidemics brought on by them, claimed millions of innocent human lives in Ethiopia, Somalia, Rwanda, Bosnia, Serbia, Holland, Iraq, Ghana, Ivory Coast, Columbia, Spain, and many other nations. How I mourned for those fellow human beings with families and work and goals I knew were just as important to them as mine were to me.

  Around the turn of the millennium, I feared for my own life during America’s war against crime. And I watched reports of religious cults and political terrorists murdering hundreds, even thousands of innocent people at once, in nearly every country including the United States.

  Yet throughout those years, the statisticians assured us that things were improving. People all around the globe were living longer every year—on average. Technology improved our lives and prosperity every year—on average. The world was becoming less politically repressed every year—on average. All true—but it would hardly seem that way to anyone who happened to be dying of AIDS or who lived in Baghdad during that terrible October barely 30 years ago.

  Today the nature of humankind is different. We can tell that things have improved, even without statisticians proving it to us. A machine and a united world have appeared almost simultaneously and these two miracles have finally lifted us above the rest of the animal kingdom. We have been compelled—literally forced, as though at gunpoint—to think in terms of community. For the first time in history, every human being is held accountable for his or her intentions.

  We are subject to the forces of nature and we still die from accidents, natural disasters, disease, and old age. We often disagree. But we no longer start wars or thoughtlessly infect others with our diseases.

  Still, many of us, those of my generation especially, mourn a loss of privacy and self-determination. We can no longer keep secrets or have them kept from us, even things we do not wish to disclose or know. Our families and friends and perfect strangers know almost as much about us as we know ourselves. And we have discovered too much of the darker side of human nature, our emotions, thoughts, and motivations—our natural tendency toward hypocrisy and greed, jealousy and spite. In a way, we’ve had truth shoved down our throats, and not all of us like it.

  But if I put myself in God’s place for a moment, I like the idea a lot. Statistically speaking,
being forced to confront the truth about ourselves has improved our lives in countless measurable ways. It’s not comfortable to deal with the truth, but for all it’s given us in return, discomfort has been a small price to pay.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  While writing the outline for this novel, I polled many of my smartest friends, relatives, and colleagues for their visions of the future, asking questions like: What year do you think they’ll invent an AIDS vaccine? When will cryogenic freezing become legal? When will they introduce commercial supersonic airline flights across the United States? When will we colonize the moon? I sent these same people (and others) copies of the manuscript in various stages. Q. David Bowers and Jason Carter were particularly helpful, each contributing hundreds of editorial suggestions. I also received great feedback, editing, and/or research assistance from the following “Friends of The Truth Machine:” Ellie Baker, Tom Becker, Jean-Louis Brindamour, Ph.D., Marc Emory, Sam Foose, Sondra Horton Fraleigh, Jonathan Fritz, Ronald Guth, David Hall, Rev. Dr. Laurel Hallman, Hugh Hixon, Bill Holter, Steve Ivy, Davar Khossravi, Ph.D., David Munro Jackson, Penn Jillette, Steve Mayer, David McLane, Cherri Melamed, Ruth Minshull, Dr. Edgar Phillips, Dr. and Mrs. Dan and Patty Pickard, Greg Rohan, Mr. and Dr. Hugh and Sima Sconyers, Gayle Scroggs, Ph.D., Lynde Selden III, Michael Sherman, Dr. Robert Sternberg, Carlton Stowers, Andrew Tobias, Scott Travess, Gary B. Walls, Ph.D., Douglas Winter, and James R. Zimmerman, MD.

  This being my first attempt at fiction, I was fortunate to happen upon Jennifer Miller, a talented and successful screenwriter from Seattle. To prevent me from becoming discouraged, she coached me by telephone and insisted I fax her my pages every morning; she corrected them (always with restraint and tact), occasionally rewriting entire passages. Without her, I doubt I would have finished The Truth Machine.

  I also received writing and editing help from Donnell Brown, Joyce Engelson, Jerry Gross, Richard Marek, Tom Stephenson, and James O. Wade. Unlike Jennifer, these people did not refuse payment for their work. They were worth the money though, and I would recommend any of them.

  I am forever grateful to the following friends and experts, who either suggested ideas for the story, read the manuscript and made suggestions and corrections, or both: Don Bagert, Stephen Bridge, Richard Brodie, Thomas Donaldson, William Dye, Marc Emory, Robert Ettinger, Abigail Halperin, Edward Halperin, Gayle Ziaks-Halperin, Marjorie Halperin, Penn Jillette, Steve Mayer, Ralph Merkle, Jennifer Miller, Max More, Mike Perry, Will Rossman, Roderick A. Carter-Russell, Brian Shock, Jeffrey Soreff, Andrew Tobias, Paul Wakfer, Brian Wowk, and especially Edward C. Root.

  I would also like to acknowledge the following professionals associated with the publishing industry who have been instrumental in developing my skills and furthering my newfound career: Ellen Archer, Shannon Atlas, Joyce Engelson, Jean Fenton, Joel Gotler, Ellen Key Harris, Teri Henry, Timothy Kochuba, Kuo-yu Liang, Richard Marek, Gilbert Perlman, Shelly Shapiro, Heather Smith, Pamela Dean Strickler, and Scott Travers.

  My parents, Ed and Audrey Halperin, and sisters, Dr. Abigail Halperin-Swenson, Marjorie Halperin-Rosenfield, and Sharon Halperin-Peureux, patiently read several drafts of The Truth Machine, and made gratefully accepted corrections and suggestions. My beautiful wife, Gayle Ziaks, a professional dancer and choreographer, provided similar help as well as a sounding board for my ideas. She overlooked the unpleasant side effects of the creative process and, along with the rest of my family, provided constant encouragement. Which any writer will tell you is more important than food, shelter, or air.

  = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

  The World Future Society offers memberships for $35 per year. Benefits include an absorbing bimonthly magazine, The Futurist. For more information, call 301-656-8274, or write to WFS, 7910 Woodmont Avenue, Suite 450, Bethesda, MD 20814

  For fascinating literature on cryonics, contact the Alcor Life Extension Foundation, 7895 E. Acoma Drive, #110, Scottsdale, AZ 85260-6916. Telephone 1-800-367-2228

  = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

  The First Immortal

  A Novel of Endless Possibility

  by James L. Halperin

  COMING SOON FROM DEL REY BOOKS

  June 2, 1988—Echoes tumbled through the ambulance. Squeals, rattles, and torsion-bar sways came at him in waves, magnified and ominous. The attendants standing over him seemed blurry, even extraneous. What mattered was the beeping monitor and all-too-familiar stench of emergency medicine. And every single sensation blended with the mundane smell of the rain-soaked streets beneath him.

  Benjamin Franklin Smith, my great-grandfather, knew he was about to die.

  The morning had delivered Ben’s third heart attack in six years—worse than either of its predecessors. This time his chest felt vise-tight, more constricted than he’d imagined possible. His blood-starved muscles sagged like spent rubber, so weak he could barely feel them twitch, while a cold Novocain-like river prickled his left arm from shoulder blade to fingertips: numb but so heavy.

  Oh, Christ! he thought, remembering his first seizure on that flight to Phoenix in 1982. I should have known better. If I hadn’t stayed on the damn airplane, they could’ve given me treatment; minimized the damage. Now I’m going to die. Me, of all people. Ben snorted. Absent his pain and fear, it might have been a laugh. Well, why in hell not me? I am sixty-three years old. God, just sixty-three? Is that all I get? Please, Jesus, spare me this. Not yet . . .

  Two ambulance attendants wheeled Ben through the hospital emergency entrance, past check-in and dozens of less critical cases, sprinting straight for intensive care. All ignored them except one nurse who, recognizing the too-familiar patient, merely gaped. One of the attendants whispered to her, “Looks like myocardial infarction. Probably massive.”

  Still half conscious, Ben wondered if they realized he could hear them, of if they cared. He wondered whether these professionals tasted the same empathy for him that he had so often experienced with his own dying patients.

  He also questioned his own rationality.

  His preparations over the previous half decade had included an oath to himself that he would betray no ambivalence about the unusual instructions he’d left. This despite understanding that his chances of staving off death remained slight.

  And if he succeeded, he might end up envying the dead.

  Before surrendering consciousness, Dr. Benjamin Smith managed to whisper: “Call Toby Fiske.” These words would set in motion all his plans—irrevocably changing the very nature of his death. Then the rush of unreality gathered speed, and as his awareness faded, his subconscious mind began to play back the most important moments of life, as if by giving these experiences a new orderliness he might somehow absolve himself of, or at least comprehend, his mistakes.

  Images assaulted him of his parents, his children, and the first time he ever made love to his wife, Marge. She was just a teenager then. How fiery and resilient she was. They were. Then he remembered sitting at her bedside when she was dying. For six weeks he had fed and bathed her, consoled her with stories and recollections, held her hand, and watched helplessly as the cancer consumed her body and mind.

  Now would he finally rejoin her?

  Ben Smith also knew the world would keep turning without him. So at the end of things, he pleaded to his God, praying that once he was dead, his only son might finally forgive him.

  My great-grandfather was an only child. And despite his birth into near poverty, genetics and early environment favored him with certain critical advantages. But timing was not among these: He was born in 1925.

  His attempt to become immortal is a tale of character, luck, and daring. Benjamin Franklin Smith’s story might have befallen any person of his time—that era when death seemed inevitable to every human being on earth. Inevitable, and drawing ever closer.

  THE FIRST IMMORTAL

  by James L. Halperin

  Coming in 1998 from Del Rey Books.

  Notes

  Few
people today are aware that the word “scip” was officially added to our standard lexicon only 24 years ago. First conceived in 2010 by the ACIP development team as an acronym for Scan Cerebral Image Patterns (SCIP), it was adopted into our daily discourse as a noun, adjective, or verb. Scip is currently the 612th most commonly used word in the English language.

  I assume you want documented facts, and won’t waste your time with excessive speculation. Carter confirmed these thoughts and his personal feelings about 20th-century racism in America during a scip interview for the Boston Globe on February 16, 2033. I have access to the digital record of the original interview transcript. I also have, in my central memory, data-cubes derived from the original audio tapes of the entire conversation cited here (and many others) between Reece and Carter. Additionally my owner, Tom Mosely, has interviewed both men under ACIP scrutiny and I have full access to other scip interviews of them as well.

  You should find it reassuring that I’ve corroborated virtually all descriptions and conversations throughout this entire chronicle with authenticated digital records, a minimum of two human witnesses, or scip interviews of at least one participant. I’ve verified each human thought I describe (including this one), through authenticated digital recordings of scip interviews with the subject.

  In case your parents screened out cartoon broadcasts during your childhood, Foghorn Leghorn was (and still remains) a popular character from Warner Brothers, who also created Roadrunner, Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig, and Daffy Duck, among others. Foghorn Leghorn is a giant rooster with the demeanor of a gruff southern sheriff. Sometimes he is relentlessly hunted by a baby chicken-hawk about one fiftieth his size, whom he treats with bemused affection.

  Landscaping robots did not exist in 1995; nearly three decades would pass before we machines would largely replace humans as professional gardeners.